#but anything nice/new enough not to be fucked up stays on the drying rack

[eyrieofsynapses]

gentle reminder to air-dry your fleece clothing and wash it in cold water if you want it to stay nice and soft <3

(fleece is made out of synthetic fibers that will quite literally deform/melt in the heat of a dryer! and no you can't really see it but it's one of the things that makes it pill and get rough and scratchy.

"no dryer" also goes for most items of clothing with graphics. tbh I don't know the exact reason behind that one, I think it depends on how it was printed on, but both my and friends' experience has proven dryers will fuck graphics up, and manufacturers will tell you the same)

[angry-geese]

Can I request nsfw+fluff gojo x fem!reader? (established relationships) Just gojo being horny and needy after weeks not seeing reader due to work. (Uuuu and may I add breeding kink too <3 ) Lmaooo what's wrong with me✋🏻😔 I love your works btw and just take your time💕💕 here *slides a cookie 🍪 *

YESSSS gojo + breeding kink is top tier. i got a little carried away with this one lol

When We Meet Again

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Warnings: shameless smut. oral (fem receiving), creampies, mating press, unprotected sex, fingering, fluff and smut. slight somnophilia (kinda??) fem!reader

Word Count: 3.7k

jjk masterlist

It's well past midnight by the time he gets home.

Save for a single light in the kitchen, the apartment is dark. Leftover pastries sit out on the counter, covered with a bowl to keep bugs from getting to them, alongside your keys, and an empty mug of tea. A grocery list has been stuck to the fridge. A rack of dishes sits beside the sink, drying.

You're not in your usual spot on the couch. He's not surprised. It's late. And though you don't have work in the morning, you were never one to stay up so long. You must have gone to bed already. You might have stayed up had he bothered to tell you he was coming home. But he didn't. His plans changed at the last moment, and not even he knew he'd be back so soon.

He hates being gone this long. He misses sleeping in his own bed. Sometimes he forgets just how cold a bed can be without someone else in it.

The door to your shared room is open. Though it's dark. There's a faint green glow from the alarm clock on the side table. The moon is full enough tonight to provide a bit of light; a pale silver glow fills the room. And there you are, curled up on his side of the bed. In one of his shirts. A black button up that’s a bit too big for you, with sleeves that hang well past your fingertips.

It's not like he can refuse. If he’s getting called out to help, then there's probably not someone who can go in his place. The strongest doesn't really have time to take a vacation. He’s on call 24/7. Between his teaching job at Jujutsu Tech, and the major clans of Jujutsu society constantly demanding his attention, he’s rather short on free time.

It was a tedious job. Not worth his time. Not particularly tough, albeit time consuming. But the previous two sorcerers came back with nothing. And so he was sent out. Cleaning up someone else's mess.

The first week he called every day. The job wasn’t supposed to take any longer than that. Or so you both assumed. As the second rolled through, your calls grew shorter, and less frequent. He found himself frustrated with the lack of contact. It wasn't either of your faults. Your work called for you to be out during the little free time he had. Overtime. When you did have time to call each other, you were often exhausted, and short with him. The distance was putting a strain on your relationship.

The worst part of it all; he couldn't fuck you. And for a man that could go multiple rounds in a day, that was miserable. His love language is touch. Not being able to hold you was… well, miserable.

You don't really know the extent of the effect you have on him.

He's too tired to change, and he showered before he left, so he strips to his boxers and pulls his side of the blankets aside. Tomorrow is laundry day anyway. You always choose Sundays for laundry day, because that's the day before you have to go back to work. There's just enough room between you and the edge of the bed for him to slip in.

When something makes him stop dead in his tracks.

It's your voice. You’re calling out his name. You aren't awake, and though you do sometimes talk in your sleep, tonight is different. When it does happen, it's usually nonsense. Soft, endearing babble that he can't help but listen to. He says your name, softly, but you don't respond. Enough moonlight streams in through the window to see your face. Your brows are knit in concentration—possibly frustration—and sweat beads in your hairline.

Are you having a nightmare?

The bed dips under his weight as he sits, resting a hand on your thigh. Your skin is rather warm, he notes. You roll over onto your side, burying your face in his pillow. He pulls the blankets up, tucking them around your shoulders, as you’ve kicked them down by your feet in your sleep.

There it is again. You say his name, but there's a level of desperation behind it.

There's no denying the wetness between your thighs. You squeeze your thighs together in an unconscious attempt to get some relief. Your breathing is labored.

It's only a moment later that the realization kicks in.

The grin that splits his face can only be described as malicious in nature.

His hand creeps higher on your thigh, nudging the hem of your—his—shirt up. You’re not wearing anything underneath. The sight of your slick cunt is nearly enough to make his cock stand to attention.

His gaze falls to the curve of your hips, just barely illuminated by the moonlight. He likes the light of you in his shirt a little more than he likes to admit. Though he’s never been quiet about how much he appreciates your body.

Your body freezes the moment his thumb grazes across your slit. So does he. You’re so wet. Must be a real nice dream. You roll onto your back, your legs parted slightly. The soft gasps and moans that leave you are like music to his ears. Gojo takes this as an invitation to continue, his hand moving further up your thigh, lazily tracing circles into it.

You must've missed him more than he expected.

Your body registers that someone is touching you before it registers just who is doing such. In your sleepy, dream-ridden state you don't recognize the figure in front of you. In the dim light of the room, you can make out a mess of white hair, and the reflection of dark, round glasses shoved up into his hairline. Gojo’s eyes practically reflect in the dark.

You jolt awake, sitting up. “Jesus christ-”

“‘S just me, Mochi,” he says, though it does little to settle your nerves.

If you weren't awake before, you certainly are now.

“What? You watch people in their sleep now?!” You scold. “‘Toru- you scared the hell out of me!”

You flop back on the bed. The blankets pool around your hips. You reach to pull them back up, finding your bed colder than usual.

"You were calling out my name." He says.

"Oh," you say, and though there's little light in the room, he watches your face flush, "must have been dreaming about you."

“Wanna recreate what you were dreaming?” He asks. Rather smugly, might you add.

You roll your eyes. “Go to sleep.”

"Scoot over then. I'm gonna fall off the bed."

This prompts an evil sounding giggle from you, followed by a: "fall then."

"Alright," he says, rolling over to lay on you, throwing his arm around your waist. You’re effectively pinned under him, as the awkward angle won't allow you any leverage to throw him off. He attacks the exposed part of your neck with kisses, sucking hickeys into the flesh of your neck and shoulders. His hair tickles your skin.

“‘Toru- stop!” You squeal. “Let me go-”

“Not until you apologize,” he says, planting a wet kiss on your jaw.

“Never!”

“Then I guess I won't let you go.”

His arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you flush to his chest. One of his hands finds your own, his fingers lacing with yours. His legs tangle with yours in a way that holds them in place. Worming out of his grip in this position would be a near impossible task.

You suppose there’s worse fates than this.

It would be easier to stay awake if he wasn't so warm. Or if he didn't smell so nice. Or if he wasn't softly rocking your body with each breath he takes. His thumb traces soft circles around your knuckles. Gojo’s breath is warm against your neck, making goosebumps rise along the soft flesh. The steady sound of it is almost enough to lull you to sleep.

"I missed you." You say. Your voice is almost too soft to hear.

“I know.” He says. His arms give your midsection a reaffirming squeeze. “I missed you too.”

“How was work?”

“A shitshow,” he says, leaning to nip at your earlobe, “but I get to come home to you, so it’s not all bad. How’s everything been around here?”

“Quiet.” You say. “Kinda boring without you. I wish you told me you’d be home tonight. I would have done something special.”

“It was a spur of the moment decision.” He says. “I didn't expect to be home so soon either.”

“We should do something tomorrow, then,” you say, “a new ramen place opened up down the street. You know where the old bakery used to be? They leased the place out.”

Gojo hums in response. Ramen sounds nice. Especially now. But he’s too tired and too horny to worry about food. Why have ramen when he has a meal right in front of him? Or a snack, as he often likes to call you. To which you roll your eyes, but there's no denying how he makes you blush.

You take back what you said about finding it easy to sleep. He’s moving around a bit too much for that. Gojo isn't subtle about it either. Nothing about the man is. He foregos subtly in favor of announcing nearly everything he does. Loudly. Who would dare stop him?

But you guess it's part of his charm. His dorky, sappy charm. You’ve kind of signed up for it, so you’re not complaining.

You scoot away from the edge of the bed a bit, thinking he needs more room. Gojo pulls you back to his chest, thinking you’re trying to run away from him.

“Quit squirming.” You hiss.

“Sorry Mochi,” he says, “just tryna get comfortable.”

And he really does mean it. But he’s been gone from you for so long that he's forgotten how nice your body feels against his. A little too nice, he’ll admit. Phone sex is nice, but it's not the same as the real thing. It gets old after a while. His hand doesn't quite compare to yours. Or the real thing. Something hard presses against your thigh from behind.

That's when it clicks. You just smell so nice. Your body is so warm against his. You look so nice in his shirt. Can you really blame him for getting hard?

You aren't sure he knows that you know. You shift a bit. It appears you’re only trying to get comfortable. His grip around your waist loosens, allowing you to settle a bit closer to him. You can't help it if your shirt rides up a bit, exposing the perfect curve of your ass. He prefers you in nothing at all, though the sight of you wearing his clothes is certainly a nice one. Any sight of you is. Gojo is shameless in the way he adores your body.

Once settled, his arms return to your waist. His head falls into the crook of your neck. He’s doing little to hide the tent he sports in his boxers. Maybe he thinks you don't notice. Or maybe he’s trying to ignore it.

“Stop that,” he says.

“I'm not doing anything,” you say, with the same evil giggle as before.

“Why do I not believe you?”

His lips find your neck, sucking a dark mark into your pulsepoint. The sudden sensation of lips on your neck makes you squeal. In your ear he coos every sappy nickname in the book that makes you blush.

You hardly notice as his hand trails lower. Your legs part just enough for him to slip his hand between them. He does nothing but seek out your warmth. Yet.

A familiar tension returns to your stomach. It's not unpleasant.

So that's what he was doing. Not that you’re complaining.

“Missed you, Mochi,” he says, gasping at the wet feeling of your cunt, “missed you so much. You have any clue what it's like being around all those weird old men all day? For days on end, no end in sight?”

It always surprises you just how bad the man can be with words, yet how good he is with his mouth.

His fingers find your clit, drawing lazy circles around the bundle of nerves. Your breath catches in your throat. You can't deny how nice his long fingers feel inside of you.

“Seems like you’ve missed me too.” He says, his breath warm against your ear.

“Whatever you want to think, old man,” you say. Though you have missed him. You always do. But there's some fun to be had by teasing him.

“Old man?!” He sounds genuinely hurt. “Don't be like that. I know you like having me around.”

“Oh really? What makes you think that?”

His fingers move to press into the tight entrance of your cunt, his thumb brushing across your clit. The soft gasp that leaves you is practically music to his ears. To give him credit, he is good with his hands.

“Did you think about me while I was gone,” he coos, “did you touch yourself while you did it? I did. Couldn't keep my mind off this sweet cunt of yours. I think I want a taste.”

Your only response is a soft moan. Heat pools low in your stomach, growing in intensity with each skilled movement of his hand. He moves so you can lay on your back. Your hands find the sheets, holding them in a death grip. Gojo nudges your legs further apart with one of his knees.

The kiss he pulls you into is uncharacteristically soft, and needy. He moans nearly as loud as you when you nibble on his bottom lip, hips lips parting, allowing the strong muscle of your tongue to explore his mouth.

Your hands work to undo the top few buttons of your shirt, exposing your breasts. His free hand comes up to grope appreciatively at your tits. Gojo has never been shy about how much he adores them. Or shy ever, to his credit. You’re his, and he would show you off to the world if you’d let him.

But sometimes he prefers to steal you into his domain, and hold you there. Close. Where you’ll always be at his side. The one place in this universe he can truly promise you’ll be safe.

You hardly notice as his kisses trail down your neck. Down the valley between your breasts. Working the last few buttons of your shirt open with his long fingers. What you do notice is the sudden absence of his hand.

Your legs part to give him room to settle between them. His head rests on your stomach. His warm breath tickles your skin.

"You gonna let me have a taste?" He asks, nipping at your thigh.

You swallow hard, eyes locked on him. Slowly, you nod.

You gasp at the feeling of his warm tongue, licking a stripe from your bellybutton to your mound. He's not touching you where you need him most. And that frustrates you. You buck your hips up towards his mouth, eliciting a soft laugh from him. He can't tease you too long. His cock is painfully hard, leaking against his thigh in his boxers. He can only hold himself back for so long.

You freeze at the feeling of a hot tongue against your clit.

Gojo eats pussy like a starving man, presented with his favorite meal. He does nothing short of savoring you. How you smell, how you taste, how you sound. He's shameless in how he adores this. Gojo moans nearly as loud as you at the taste of your cunt. Sweeter than his favorite dish. Meant to be savored.

You can't deny that he's good with his mouth. His tongue works circles around your clit, drawing gasps and moans from you.

Heat builds in your stomach, drawing you closer to your impending orgasm. One that comes upon you far sooner than expected.

Maybe you’re more pent up than you thought.

Your thighs clench around his head as you cum hard. He lets you ride out your orgasm on his tongue, working you through it with his skilled mouth. He’d stay with his head between your legs forever if you’d let him. Which you don't, as overstimulation soon registers in your lust addled mind, and you shove his head away.

The lower half of his face glistens in the dim light, wet with saliva, and your own slick. He’s far from subtle in the way he licks his lips, or groans at your taste. He may have gotten a bit too excited. It's not unlike him to get carried away. How can he resist a fertile cunt like yours?

“I think you should taste yourself,” he says. His hands move to cup your face as he pulls you into a kiss. You taste yourself on his lips. His hardened cock grinds against his thigh.

“‘Toru-” you whine.

“What's the matter baby?” He coos. “Use your words.”

“Fuck me.” You say. “I need you, ‘Toru. I need your cock in me.”

“Why didn't you say so?” He says, though the desperation in his voice is palpable.

He wastes no time in shoving his boxers down his hips, freeing his cock.

He’s not the most intimidating in size, but his cock is nice, and fairly thick, with a slight upward curve. The patch of hairs towards the base are soft, and white. Generally you don't need a whole lot of prep to take him. Which is helpful when he can't keep his hands to himself, and insists on fucking you in the bathroom during dinner. As much as he likes to take his time with you, he’ll take you anywhere you’ll let him. At work, or over every flat surface of your apartment. Not a single room of your home was spared. Not that either of you mind.

“Gotta work you open first,” he says, “don't want you to be too tight, do we?”

Between his saliva, and your own slick, you put up little resistance. He’s able to slide one finger in. Then a second, with no issue. His fingers curve, stroking your g-spot. His thumb works soft circles around your sensitive clit as he works you open with his fingers. Really, this is unnecessary. Your cunt is practically dripping with your own arousal.

He makes a show of licking his fingers, groaning at the taste of you. Gojo really has no shame.

The moan he lets out as he sheathes himself is truly sinful.

It's another moment before he starts thrusting.

Gojo needs a moment to collect himself. He’s been working himself up for hours if not days. All the nights he spent, thinking of what he’d do to you once he got home. He’s gone over this day in his head about a hundred times.

The sound of his hips slapping against yours fills the room. His taunts turn into senseless babble. Strands of praise mixed with Gojo’s overall dorky remarks. Pleas of your name, calling you mochi, baby, honey, and every other sappy nickname he can think of. His head falls into the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at the soft skin. He’s not going to let you leave this bed until you’re thoroughly marked up.

Tension grows in your stomach like a rubber band being stretched tight. Your previous orgasm has left you overly sensitive, and leaves another orgasm creeping up on you sooner than expected. His hand falls to your stomach, working lower until his thumb finds your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub.

He presses your legs further back, shoving them almost to your chest. The stretch leaves a pleasant burn in your hips. Your body isn't really meant to bend this way, though it’s not completely uncomfortable. It's not long before he has you into a full mating press, rutting against you desperately, fucking you into the mattress. The bed frame groans in protest with each of his thrusts. Deep, and unrelenting. Gojo’s cock curves in such a way that hits your sweet spots just right, leaving you writing under him.

“Gonna put a baby in you, Mochi,” he says, “gonna breed this pretty cunt of yours.”

You nod along desperately. You want nothing more than for him to cum inside, filling you completely.

He silences your moan with a kiss, his teeth clashing against yours. His tongue presses past your lips, exploring the wet cavern of your mouth. You can still taste yourself on him.

A line of saliva connects your lips as he pulls away.

“Not gonna ask you to take all of it,” he says, “but take everything I got.”

And with that, he can't hold back any longer, painting your womb white. Gojo’s cum is normally thick, and there's normally a lot of it. Today even moreso. Two weeks away hasn't helped with that. Cum runs down your thighs in streams, ruining your sheets.

The elders aren't going to be happy that he’s so reckless with his precious seed, but Gojo couldn't give a damn. The elders can talk all they want. That's all they're good for. He gets to cum in a warm place, and that's more than any of the others can say.

He practically collapses on top of you.

Gojo shifts so less of his body weight is on top of you. And though the room is rather warm, you find yourself nuzzling into his body, seeking out his warmth. His arms have always given you a sense of security, especially when wrapped up in them. They find your waist, pulling your back flush to his chest.

For a moment the two of you lay there, basking in each other's warmth.

You’ll have to get up in a bit anyway. To clean yourself up, and change the sheets. And get a new shirt. Probably another one of Gojo’s. He’s never been against seeing you wear his clothes. They never stay on you for long, though.

You pry his arms off, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, but he notices, and tightens his grip.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks, sounding rather offended.

“To get a drink,” you say, “I'm thirsty. Why? Do you want one too?”

“You think I’d let you go after just one round?” He asks. “You’re not leaving this bed until I’ve fucked you full of my cum.”

You're in for a long night.

[cqsuanla]

fury shakes the rafters

pairing: dark!nat/f!reader

summary:

Aside from the cannibalism, Nat is mostly the same. Still ridiculously strong and stupidly hardheaded. And that face — flinty, cold, mean. Nat’s always been mean. 

(inspired by jennifer’s body)

additional notes: mommy kink, dom/sub, bloodplay(?), dacryphilia, uhh pussy spanking, choking, unhealthy relationship, terrible aftercare

title from a song suggested by an anon: nobody by the crane wives

(ao3)

The light in the stairwell flickers, but it doesn’t make a difference, dim and dirty as it is. It buzzes distantly in your ears. You’re too focused on taking the steps two at a time to notice. You hold your groceries to your chest and fish your keys out of your pocket. If you were strong like Nat, you might just have knocked the door clean of its hinges with the force of your body. Instead, it crashes loudly into your wall, and you nearly fall on your face from the momentum. 

In a bid to gain purchase on your wall, you sweep your coat rack over, and you stumble over it. The clatter makes you wince — you hope she’s in a good mood. It’s hard for her to process stimuli when she’s weak. You scramble onto your hands and knees, shoving scattered boxes and cans into the grocery bag. 

Then, the rhythmic thud-thud of footsteps. You pause, exhaling as your eyes close. 

“Drink?” in a monotone. 

Yikes. You open your eyes, biting your lip. Steel-toed boots. You’ve told Nat a million times that this is a shoes-off apartment. She never listens, and you never argue more. Nat stays; she’s the only one who’ll stay. You can’t drive her away. 

Her right boot rises, scraping against the floor, and you flinch. It just kicks a cereal box away so it can nudge at the shopping bag. The way she says your name, evenly, firmly, has you blinking rapidly, has your hands automatically shooting to the bag, following her prompt. Thank god the bottles are fine. You don’t know what you’d do if they had shattered. 

You wiggle a beer out of the pack, and only then do you dare to make eye contact. 

“Hi,” you murmur. 

She gives you a brief glance, impassive, before snatching the bottle from your hand and returning to her spot on the armchair. “That fucking coat rack.” She flicks the cap off your side table, grungy and scratched up for this very reason. The cap bounces off the wall and disappears under the couch. “Just move it further in. You never listen.” 

You did, weeks ago. You don’t say so. 

The coat rack came with the place, and it was nice, so you refused to get rid of it. Nat hated it, hated that it was so close to the door in your already bite-sized entryway, but never enough to throw it out herself. But you did move it because her complaints were valid, and you wanted her to like being here with you, living here with you. Anyway, she stopped complaining afterwards. Not that you think she noticed — you supposed it was a minor inconvenience to her, the way a fly was, annoying when it was in your face but non-existent once it stopped bothering you. 

Quietly, you move your groceries to the kitchen island, putting everything but your new medical supplies away. There are dirty plates in the sink, which you’ll wash after you make yourself dinner. You wonder what she’s eaten – you’d just bought two new steaks, but Nat likes a bowl of strawberry ice cream now and then.

The TV channel switches in the background. Nat snorts, and you peek around the wall to catch a report on the gruesome series of murders that have been happening lately. People in the neighbourhood hardly went out anymore, too afraid of the dark now. It would scare you too if you weren’t well aware you’d never fall victim. Nat was with you, after all, and you were with her. 

You would be with her for as long as she’d let you. So, what if she was the monster in the dark? So what? It was Nat. Your Nat. She came back to you, talked to you, fucked you. It’s not like she was disembowelling you in some grimy alleyway. She kept most of the violence away from you because she cared. Anyway, like everyone else, she had to eat. You couldn’t fault her for that. 

You’re pulling the gauze out of its packaging when Nat scoffs loudly at the news. They must’ve insulted her because she clicks the TV shut, practically inhales half her bottle and flings the remote onto the couch. 

Then, she sets her sights on you, meek behind the counter, and raises an eyebrow. “Honey, the hall’s a mess. Clean it up.” 

You frown. “You’re still hurt.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll eat tomorrow, and it’ll be fine.” 

You don’t think so. The longer Nat doesn’t eat, the worse it gets. It’s how she’s in this mess in the first place. Nat’s ethereal after a feeding, next to omnipotent. But the guy she picked to eat last week turned out to be some sort of track star because he had booked it at the first sign of trouble, and she’d been forced to retreat when the sirens started blaring. The day after that, she picked a local thug as her next meal, and she’d been caught off guard by the switchblade. So, here she is: slumped on your couch and stitched up sloppily. 

Her hair is limp, skin wane and dry, and in a bad enough mood that you can basically feel it every time you’re within a two-meter radius of her. 

Her physical weakness emboldens you a little, makes you think you can get away with a bit of stubbornness. You pick up the gauze and tape and round the corner. A car speeds by, high beam making Nat’s eyes glint a deep green in the dark. The green follows you the whole way until she has to crane her head around to watch you slip her tank top off a shoulder. 

Those eyes weren’t like that before when you first started dating. You don’t mind the changes, though. Aside from the cannibalism, Nat is mostly the same. Still ridiculously strong and stupidly hardheaded. 

“You don’t want to listen?” she asks, almost conversationally. 

You know better. You clench and unclench your fist. Shakily, you lift it and tuck a hair behind Nat’s ear, hoping foolishly that it will placate her. 

“Baby,” says she, like a gentle mother to a misbehaving child, “you should really listen.” 

You trace the bumps of her stitches, staring hard at her shoulder so you won’t have to see that face — flinty, cold, mean. Nat’s always been mean. 

“At least answer me.” 

“No, Nat,” you mutter, undoing the bandages on her bicep. “I don’t want to listen.”

To her credit, she lets you fix her up. Methodically, silently, you clean her wounds and rewrap them in new bandages. She doesn’t get in the way unless it’s to take a swig of her drink. 

When you’re done with her arms and back, you move to her front. She’s got an ugly gash on her calf, bruised midway from where the man had kicked her bleeding leg. You imagine this is causing her the most pain, not just physically. Nat’s not great with sitting still. She’s independent to a fault, enjoying control to the point that it’s probably some sort of diagnosable complex, and this restriction on her mobility has her restless and irritated. 

Looking down at her, at the space between her knees, you wonder if she’ll cooperate with you. The last time you tried to clean her leg, she’d torn your duvet in half and has since refused to let you look at it. But Nat tilts her head, coy, and gestures toward the space in front of her with her bottle. 

“Scared?” she whispers.

You glance at her face just in time to catch her tongue tracing the jagged end of a canine. Mutely, you shake your head. She smiles wide.

“Liar.”

Of course. You’re always scared of her. For her, too. But you don’t think it matters; it doesn’t change anything. You just want to help her, be good for her. Anyway, she’s trying to get a reaction out of you. You refuse to take the bait, raising your eyebrows and wiggling the bandages in your hand.

“Fine.” With a roll of her eyes, she parts her legs. 

As if dealing with a feral animal, you move slowly, cautiously, afraid to make sudden movements lest she starts getting violent. You squat down and reach for the cuff of her sweatpants. 

“Ah, ah.” She slides the leg back, staring down her nose at you. You pause. “Kneel, baby.” 

Her eyes — did the ring of green get thinner? Your lips part, anticipation beginning to seep into your body, and you comply. Once you’re settled, looking up at her, she makes that same careless gesture with her bottle. A go-ahead. 

As you work, she shifts to put her beer on the table and then combs a hand into your hair. You tense, eyeing her nervously, but she only watches you, imperious, intense, and remains silent. Nevertheless, you pick up the pace, tossing the antiseptic aside and winding the gauze around her pale calf. 

She’s startlingly warm under your hands. Ever since… whatever happened to her — she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details — she’s run hotter than ever. You can’t sleep under a blanket with her anymore unless you’re shirtless; the heat would be unbearable. Not that Nat has any complaints about that. 

“All done,” you murmur. 

The lack of reaction from Nat gives you the courage to lean forward and press a sweet kiss to the top of her knee. The hand in your hair rewards you with a gentle scratch, and you can’t help melting into a smile. She’s still got that air of arrogance about her when you look up at her, but she’s not glaring. Which is why it comes entirely as a surprise when she clenches a fistful of hair in her hand, yanking your head back, and slaps you clean across the face with her other hand. 

You take the full brunt of her palm with a cry, almost toppling over were it not for the grip on your hair. Your cheek burns, and so does your eyes. Mostly from pain, partly from the shock of it, maybe a little from shame when you realize you’re getting wet from the rough treatment. 

Nat tuts. “Crying already?” 

You imagine you look pretty pathetic on your knees for her, eyes glassy.

“Don’t give me those eyes, baby; you know I can’t help myself.” 

“I just wanted to help.” 

“I know,” Nat says gently, tipping your head back again so you can see the false sincerity on her face. “You can fix this, you know?” 

Your eyebrows furrow, thoughts racing a mile a minute to puzzle out what she means. 

“Don’t think so hard. You’ll hurt yourself. I’ll show you how, dumb baby,” she coos as she nudges your chin with the knuckle of her finger, and you can’t help flushing deeply at that. Then, she offers a hand, and you take it, and she tugs you up into a straddle on her lap. “Come here.” 

You instinctively wind your arms around her neck, clinging on. Beneath you, she tenses and lets out a low rumbling sound that resonates deep in her chest. You inhale sharply. 

Teeth. Sharpened to deadly points. Poised over your neck. Nat’s breath comes short and hot against your skin, and her tongue, when it peeks out, drags wetly across your skin. 

This has happened once before; the first night she’d come back changed. Like before, she noses at your flushed skin, teasing you with the possibility of damage, and trails her teeth down to your traps. Back then, she hadn’t bitten you. She won’t now, you think, you hope. 

She sighs again, hovering over the meat of your shoulder and prodding her teeth against you. Doesn’t break the skin. 

“Don’t make it worse for yourself. Are you scared?” 

This time, you nod. Nat’s lips curve into a smile, and her hold on your thighs tighten enough to bruise. 

“You should listen, sweetheart,” she says against you. The front of her teeth scrapes over you when she speaks, leaving red marks behind. “I hurt you less when you’re good. Don’t you know?”

“How can you be in the mood?” you wonder, burying your face into the crook of her neck. “You’re half dead.”

“Barely.”

It would take a lot more to kill Nat like this. Anyway, how could you be in the mood when your girlfriend’s cut up like this? 

Nat stands abruptly, ignorant to your yelps and complaints, and dumps you back onto the couch in quick succession. Before you can even register what’s happened, she’s yanked your bottoms down to your ankles and has climbed between your legs. 

Even after that, you don’t get the chance to speak. She wraps her hand around your throat and pins you to the cushions. You grab onto her wrist.

Her body bears down, and you break into a sweat, in small part due to nerves, some part because she’s shoving her hand up your shirt to grab roughly at your bra, but mostly because she’s near scalding. You’re convinced her blood runs at a constant boil now. You’ve grown to love the heat, though. With her, pleasure comes white-hot, and you’d want it no other way. 

“Nat-”

“No,” she growls, and you get an eyeful of her monstrous teeth. She flexes both hands, cutting off your airway and squeezing your breast painfully. You whimper, wound tight as a coil. “Listen to me, baby.”

You look at her through hazy eyes. 

“Those eyes again. God, I love you like this.” Foolishly, your heart clenches at those words. She rucks your shirt up and claws her nails down your front. Beads of blood bloom from the thin scratches she leaves behind. “You’re beautiful when I hurt you.”

Her hand nearly crushes your throat closed, but then she releases you, and you suck air in desperately. Your hands, shaken off her arm, reach for the sides of her head. “Nat,” you croak, tasting the salt from your tears on your lips. “Nat.”

She shakes her head, descending on your chest. It hurts – badly. “Be good for mommy.”

“Mommy,” you gasp out, arching into her mouth. She ignores your pert nipples, electing instead to lick and suck at the burn between your breasts. “Please, please.”

“Shut up,” she hisses. Oh, her teeth are still out. “Hands above your head.”

You obey, another sad sound crawling out of your abused throat. 

The dark pits of her eyes drink in the sight of you, face crumpled in pain and need. A thumb wipes up the last of your blood, and she delights in smearing it across your cheek. 

“Messy baby, clean up after yourself. It’s basic,” she chides, thumb still rubbing at your face as if she were fixing up some runny mascara. “Be good now.”

You don’t dare to speak, just nod and look pleadingly up at her. Your core aches from neglect. 

She makes quick work of that, reaching down to feel the slick between your thighs. Humming, she smirks and very deliberately rubs her middle finger over your clit. You jerk up into her, mouth falling open even as you strangle your moan. 

“I could do anything to you, and you’d still want me.” 

Again, you nod. 

“Where did my little liar go?” she baits. You shake your head. “Say ‘thank you, mommy, for letting me breathe.’”

It takes you a moment to gather the brain cells and say: “Thank you, mommy.”

Her smile widens, teeth back to normal. “Again, for the lesson.”

“Thank you, mommy.”

She brings her hand down on your cunt, full strength. You scream, jolting away from her. Well, you would have if she hadn’t pressed you down by the chest, entirely uncaring about the wound she’d left there. Tears leak out the sides of your eyes, trickling into your hairline. 

“Thank me for that too,” she demands.

“Thank you,” you cry around a hiccup. 

One more spank, and another, and another. Your legs kick uselessly against the cushions, body twisting after every awful smack.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Your hole clenches around nothing, slick leaking onto the couch. Then, two fingers dip into you, and Nat thrusts them up hard and fast. She’d shoved them in on a contraction, and it hurts for a second before she’s curling her fingers into the velvet of your walls. 

She makes a pleased sound. “Tight as always. Makes me want to tear you in half, baby.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “Th-” She starts up a fast pace, digging her fingertips into your front wall. “Thank you!”

Her cheek rests on your chest, listening to the thunder of your heart. “We should try that big one.” Impossibly, your heart rate quickens at the thought, and you manage to shake your head. She laughs, the sound sharp and cruel, and music to your ears. “Maybe another time then.”

She sits up then, still working her fingers into your cunt, and moves her other hand to your mons. She pets gently over your labia, a sharp contrast to the vicious pace she’s keeping up. Your head spins. 

“My baby,” she breathes, “good enough to fucking eat.”

But she parts your folds to press her fingers into your clit, circling them once, twice, thrice, and you’re so close. So desperately close. 

She leans down, near delicate in her movements, and licks into your mouth. You taste copper and beer and the faintest sweetness. Urgently, you try to kiss back. 

If she’s mean, she’d pull back and deny you the chance to come with her mouth on yours. 

She must think that you’ve suffered enough, though, because she rubs her thumb at your clit and drives her fingers deeper into you, and you push up as far as you can into her body with a scream. You’re swallowed in molten heat, pleasure stripping away at you until you’re just bones on the couch. 

When you come to, Nat’s pulling out some bandages for your chest. You’re too tired to do or say anything, forced into silence by her dominance. 

She smiles at you, still not kind, but it doesn’t look bestial like before. Maybe just self-satisfied. She strokes your sweaty hair as she fixes you up, shushing you if you moan quietly from aftershocks or pain. You are in a lot of pain, bruised and scratched up as you are.

“Good girl,” she says when she’s done. 

Finally, you muster the energy to grab her hand and say, “Thank you.”

She lets you hold on for a few seconds before pulling away. “Sure.”

You wish she’d hold you for a bit, but you don’t vocalize it. She’s been through too much in the last few days; you shouldn’t burden her—

“Don’t be fucking needy,” she says, suddenly and harshly. Your face must have given you away. 

“I don’t mean to be,” you mutter, bringing your arm up to cover your eyes. Feeling stupid, feeling mad that you feel stupid, you say: “It would just be nice if you’d stay for a bit.”

A hand grabs your arm, yanking it away from your head, and you’re treated to a view of her scowl. “Where would I go?”

You didn’t mean it that way, but you don’t know how to get out of this hole you’ve dug yourself. “I-I don’t know.”

Out of nowhere, her hand slaps your cunt again, overstimulated, sore, puffy. You groan, curling in on yourself and hugging your knees to your chest. 

“Fuck, Nat.”

She takes the opportunity to sit down on the end of the couch, where your legs once were. The TV turns back on, and you hear her take a sip from her can of beer. “Clean up the hall later.”

At least she stayed.

[disgruntledspacedad]

The Rules of Engagement (4/5)

part of the The Better Love Series

pairing: Javier Peña x fem!reader/ofc (Ears)

summary: (slow-burn, sexual tension, angst, a little bit of h/c in later chapters) He’s a DEA agent. You work for Centra Spike. Peña’s not your boss, exactly, but you’ve been fwb long enough that certain people are starting to think of you as An Item, and that just won’t do. 

words: 3.7k

warnings: 18+ for alcohol, language, smut, violence, general trauma. 

a/n: unbeta’d. Yeah, I know - I can’t count. This is gonna be five chapters. 

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

MASTERLIST

Murphy nearly bowls you over on his way down stairs, pulling up short when he sees you. 

“Shit!”

You glance down at yourself. Your clothes are rumpled and covered in ash and bile. You don’t even want to know what your face looks like. There’s rubble in your hair.

Murphy is still staring open-mouthed.

“The pharmacy below my apartment got bombed,” you explain hollowly. “I’m fine, I just need a shower.”

“You look like you need a hospital,” Murphy counters, eyeballing you with something akin to worry. “Fucking Christ, Ears, if Javi -”

You snap your eyes up at the mention of Javi. “Have you heard anything?”

For the first time since you’ve met him, Steve Murphy cracks a grin at you. “On his way home now.” He looks as relieved as you feel. “We got him.”

You manage to smirk back. “Good.”

“Congratulations, by the way. This one’s on you as much as anybody.”

“Thanks.” You sag against the side rail, trying to be subtle about it. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, your legs are shaking, and you think it’s only a matter of time before you fall over.

Murphy notices, because he reaches for your shoulder to steady you. “I really think-”

��No.” You cut him off forcefully, glaring at him with all the energy you have left. “No, Steve. I’m tired, that’s all.”

He sighs. Narrows his eyes. Frowns. “You’re bleeding.”

What?

Murphy gesturers to your temple with a finger that you have to stop yourself from flinching away from. “You’re bleeding, Ears,” he repeats, as if he’s expending a great amount of patience by pointing it out to you.

You reach up, wincing as you notice for the first time that your head hurts. When you draw your fingers back, they are coated in blood.

Murphy moves closer to get a better look.

“It’s just a scratch, Murph,” you tell him wearily. As far as you can tell, that’s true. There’s no gaping hole or giant gash, just a stinging little cut right at your hairline. “You know how head wounds are.”

He’s still glaring suspiciously at you, and you let him, meeting his gaze in silent challenge.

Eventually he sighs. “Okay, your funeral, I guess. Gimme a minute.”

Before you can retort, he ducks back inside, leaving you standing awkwardly on the front step. The walls are thin - you can hear him rummaging around in the kitchen. He’s back seconds later, key in one hand, a slip of paper in the other.

He hands you the paper first. “This is my pager number. Javi’ll be back soon, but I want you to contact me if anything crazy happens.” He motions to your head with his thumb.

“Okay,” you promise.

“And here’s this.” He presses the key into your hand.

You look up at him wide-eyed. “Murphy, you can’t just give me Peña’s key.”

“What, you think it would be any different if I stepped across the landing and did the honors for you? I’m already late.” He runs a hand through his hair with a huff. “Besides, he’d want you to have it.”

Somehow, you seriously doubt that.

Murphy fixes you with a stare. “Trust me.”

“Hardly,” you mutter, taking the key from his hand anyway. You hold it up for emphasis. “But you’re taking the fall for this one, alright?”

Murphy rolls his eyes. “I think I can live with that. Stay safe, Ears, and page me if you need anything.”

♠

You resist the urge to flop down on Javi’s sofa and sleep for a thousand years, instead making your way to the shower. Peeling away your dusty clothes feels so incredibly good. So does the hot water. You take your time, exploring the lingering aches and pains in your body as you scrub them with Javi’s little sliver of Irish Spring. Aside from a few bruises and that one little slice on your temple that won’t quit oozing, you’re not injured anywhere. You think you might be a little sore from being thrown backward tomorrow, and your lungs still feel funny and raw from having the air knocked from them, but otherwise, the bombing of your apartment is more inconvenient than anything.

You try very, very hard not to think about Emilio.

You step out of the shower only when the water runs tepid, the cold jarring you awake. Javi only has two towels, it seems - one left out to dry on the towel rack, the other crumpled in the corner with a pair of boxers. Nice. You opt for the one that’s on the rack, wiping yourself down then wrapping up your dripping hair.

There’s something deliciously deviant about sneaking naked through Javier Peña’s apartment when he’s not home. You shake away your guilt, trying hard not to be too weirded out or too turned on as you rifle through his dresser drawers. You’ve got to wear something.

Eventually, you come away with the green t-shirt and the only pair of sweats the man owns. You eye yourself in the mirror, considering. Javi’s clothes are ridiculous on you - you have to roll the sweats three times at the waist just to keep from tripping - but hell, at least you aren’t naked. Looks like that cut finally stopped bleeding, too.

Carefully, you pull your hair into a sloppy braid and gather your dirty clothes, doing a cursory sweep of the apartment to see if Javi has anything else that needs washing. Other than the little pile in the bathroom, you find a t-shirt and a pair of mis-matched socks in the corner by the nightstand. Not bad for a single guy living alone, you decide.

You make the trip downstairs to the communal laundry room quickly, noting the time on the kitchen clock when you return. You don’t feel like waiting beside the machine today. Flopping on the sofa has lost it’s appeal - you’re bone weary, but every time you close your eyes, you see fireballs and charred bodies.

Sleep is not on the agenda.

Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, glancing at the clock for the umpteenth time. 9:42. You put the water on, then shuffle downstairs to switch the laundry to the dryer. 40 more minutes, and then you can get out of here.

And then what?

You examine your options and find that the list is short. You aren’t going to stay here any longer than necessary - you’ve intruded on Javi’s privacy enough. Your only friend in Colombia is Ana, and that’s off the table for obvious reasons. Murphy isn’t at home, and Connie had left for the States just weeks after you’d arrived. Back to work, then.

You decide that’s best anyway. Somebody fucking bombed your apartment. Well, the mark was probably Emilio’s drug store, but still. Bombings don’t happen in Bogotá - that’s a Medellín thing. Especially a civilian target.

The rush of anger that consumes you is staggering. Who did this, and why?  Bombing a business is a very Pablo Escobar thing to do, but a small pharmacy? In Bogotá?

Ana and her father are good people. You know deep in your bones that they aren’t involved in the drug trade. You also have major doubts that this was an accident. So, what the fuck?

The injustice of it all makes you feel small and cold and helpless.

You’re missing something big.

Javi doesn’t have a television in his apartment. Even if you did have access the news, the information that you’re seeking is hardly going to be broadcast on live television, and certainly not so soon.

Work really is the best option, then. Between the bombing and Verdugo’s arrest, the sicarios must be on red alert. Maybe you can pick up on some chatter. 

Besides, you probably need to let Stechner know about your situation as soon as possible.

You glance at the clock. 10:07.

Ugh. You rise up on your tiptoes, bouncing in frustration. Caffeine and adrenaline have made you jittery. There’s something really cringe-worthy, too, about being alone in Javi’s apartment without his knowledge, especially given the way things ended between you.

The memory chafes, and you shake your head hard enough that it throbs.

Goddamn this day.

A shrill beeping jerks you from your thoughts, and you barely manage to stifle a shriek. Your pager!  You’d forgotten all about it. Your stomach swoops as you pick it up.

The number that flits across the screen belongs to Javi.

You take a breath. Weird. Aside from that one brief conversation yesterday, you haven’t spoken to him in weeks. It probably has something to do with Verdugo, you decide. Maybe he wants to inform you personally. That would be nice of him. After all, this was a pretty big arrest for you, too.

You locate the phone in the kitchen, dialing the number with trembling fingers. Damned coffee.

“Peña.” His voice is terse, clipped.

“Got your page,” you say warily. He sounds like he’s in a mood. “Is there -”

“Where are you?” he demands, cutting you off harshly.

You blink, startled. Forget ‘a mood,’ Javi sounds fucking livid. You’d assumed he’d be pretty relaxed, considering. “Umm, I’m actually at your place,” you speak slowly to hide the shakiness of your voice. Fuck, of all the times to get emotional. “Listen, my apartment was bombed. I just needed -”

You’re interrupted again by a sharp sigh. “Stay there,” Javi grinds out, and then there’s nothing but dial tone.

Slowly, you place the phone back in its cradle, processing the conversation.

What. The. Fuck.  

Bits of plastic clatter to the floor as the pager smashes into the refrigerator - you’re hardly even aware of throwing it. You sink to the kitchen floor, cradling your head in your hands and doing your damnedest to just breathe.

It’s not fucking fair. He was the one who stormed out slamming doors. You haven’t pressed him, haven’t been a nuisance. Well, aside from basically breaking into his apartment and borrowing his shower.

But fucking hell, somebody - probably Pablo Escobar -  just bombed your fucking apartment. You’re living in a foreign country and you don’t even speak the fucking language. There’s nowhere for you to go, and your clothes were a mess, and goddamn, you are just tired.

What were you supposed to do?

Footsteps thunder up the stairs. God, that was quick. You manage to leap to your feet just as the front door slams open with a bang.

Javi stops dead when he sees you, and your tirade dies in your throat.

“Hey.” It’s awkward, but it’s all you can manage.

He’s just staring at you, standing stalk still in the open doorway. He’s breathing heavily, like he’s been running. His expression is tight, carefully closed off. One fist is clenched at his side, the other still gripping the doorknob.

“Murphy let me in,” you babble. You knew he was on his way, but still, his sudden appearance startled you. “My place, I mean, the drugstore -”

“I know.” He’s toneless, expressionless, frozen except for his eyes. They rove over your face and body, and you’re reminded suddenly of watching him read reports - quick, efficient, and exacting, like he’s taking in every detail in an instant.

Fuck. Heat rushes you as you remember that you’re still wearing his clothes. “Okay,” you breathe shakily, hardly aware of speaking aloud. This is getting weird, and you really don’t have the emotional capacity to deal with Javier Peña’s shit today.

Your laundry is probably dry anyway.

“Where are you going?” Javi demands, resting a hand on your shoulder as you attempt to push past him.

That does it. “To get the laundry!” you bite back, twisting away from his touch with a lot more drama than is really necessary. “My clothes are dry!”

He pulls away as if burned, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

You stand there like that for a long moment, just assessing each other. You’re glaring up at him warily, sizing him up, while he watches you with an expression that you don’t recognize.

“I’ll go,” he says softly. There’s something quiet, almost regretful in his tone, and it shatters your defenses. You bit your lip and nod shakily, and then he’s gone, descending down the stairs without another word.

Jesus.

You exhale another shaking breath - everything you do seems shaky, today - and pour another cup of coffee.

♠

You feel like you’ve got a little more control of yourself once you’re back in your own clothes. Javi is lighting a cigarette at the kitchen table when you exit the bathroom, a fresh butt still hot in the ashtray next to him.

“Rough night?” you ask, dropping his half-folded t-shirt and sweats onto the counter.

He huffs sarcastically.

You sigh. Your patience is wearing very, very thin, but you decide to try one more time, just for the hell of it. “Congratulations, by the way. Murphy told me about Verdugo.”

He blinks up at you, like you’ve pulled him from deep thought. “Yeah,” he says slowly, still staring at you with an intensity that’s starting to really freak you out. He pulls hard at the cigarette, and the moment breaks. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

You nod, suddenly tired.

He notices. “Ears?”

“I need to go back in,” you cut him off before he can ask whatever he was going to ask.

He frowns. “Didn’t you just leave this morning?”

Frazzled as you are, it doesn’t occur to you to ask how he knows that. “Yeah, Peña, I did,” you snap. “But then some fucker bombed my apartment, and I’ve got a nasty feeling that it has something to do with Pablo Escobar. I can’t go home, and I can’t get any sleep, so I might as well make myself useful and see if there’s anything worth listening to today.”

His gaze had drifted during your speech. He’s resting his jaw on his his palm, staring off into the middle distance.

Ugh.

“So, will you drive me, Peña, or am I calling a cab?”

“Sorry,” he says softly, breaking himself out of whatever stupor he’d been in. He stands and extends a hand like he might like to reach for you before deciding against it and grabbing his gun instead. “Of course I’ll drive you, if you feel like going in.” He catches your eye as he tucks the gun into his belt, serious now. “I really am sorry about your home, Ears.”

God. All Javier Peña has to do is throw you a tiny bone, and you fucking melt. The relief you feel is palpable. “Thank you,” you whisper, closing your eyes for a long second.

You hear him rustling around with keys. “Let’s go, then.”

♠

The car ride to headquarters is silent. Javi smokes three more cigarettes, tossing the butts out the open window before you even hit the parking lot, one after the other. You wonder what the fuck is going on with him.

He makes a point to let you out of the passenger side door, a little quirk that had been hit or miss before, depending on his mood. You walk together up the embassy steps, him hanging close to your shoulder but not quite touching you, and you wonder if this is his strange way of apologizing for the weirdness before.

You’re halfway to Stechner’s office when you realize that Javi is still following you. You arch a curious brow in his direction. He pointedly ignores it.

Okay, seriously. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” The question comes out a lot harsher than you intend, but hell, it’s been a terrible day.

He glances down at you, almost apologetic. “It can wait a minute.”

“Ears!”

Oh, fuck. Steve Murphy is running up the hallway, gaze zeroed in on you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer, just whirls on Javi. “Javi, what the fuck is she doing here?”

You bite the inside of your cheek in an effort to keep from screaming. “I’m trying to go do my job, Murphy, if the fucking DEA will let me.” Thankfully, your voice comes out pretty level.

Javi’s looking at Murphy with a narrowed gaze, head cocked, hands on hips. “What do you mean, Murphy?” he asks in a low voice.

Murphy throws his hands up in consternation. “I mean she should be in bed, or at a fucking hospital. You should have seen her this morning, Javi. Looked like she’d come straight from a war zone!”

Javi whips around to stare wide-eyed at you. “Wait. You didn’t say…” All of the color is draining from his face. “You were there?” 

Something about the breathlessness the words, like they’d been punched out of him, sends little shocks of electricity zinging across your skin. “I’m fine,” you manage. As protests go, it’s pretty weak.

“God, Ears, you’re still bleeding.” Goddamn Steve Murphy and his fucking preoccupation with your blood. “Now get out of here, please, before I call you an ambulance. Jesus.”

Javi’s face is a storm cloud of emotions as the pieces continue to click into place. “Ears,” he growls, more horrified than angry. He grips you carefully by the shoulders, looking you over again. This time, he brings his fingers gently to your temple. They come away bloody.

He sucks a sharp breath, glancing up at Murphy. “You’ll handle Verdugo?”

Murphy’s lips are pressed into a fine line. “Absolutely, Javi. Get her out of here.”

♠

He escorts you from the building with a hand pressed firmly against the small of your back. It would be sweet, if not for the blistering pace and the stony expression that’s frozen on his face. People take notice, leaping out of your way, craning their necks to watch as you storm by. By the time you reach the doors, your cheeks are flaming.

“Agent Peña!”

Oh shit. You hadn’t even noticed Martinez and his entourage milling around the entrance.

“Yeah?” Javi bites out.

Martinez raises a brow at the scene the two of you make - you, bleeding and shamefaced, Javi damned near parading you into the parking lot with all the subtly of a thunderclap.

God, there’s no way this ends well for either of you.

“Verdugo is in interrogation room three,” Martinzes says, clearing his throat awkwardly.

Javi doesn’t even slow. “Stick Murphy on it,” he snaps over his shoulder. “I’m busy.”

Nobody dares argue with him.

♠

Instead of getting into the car, Javi leans heavily against the door.

You pause, opening your mouth to question him, but he reaches for your jaw before you can speak, carefully tilting your face up into the sunlight.

“Are you okay?”

His voice is soft, but he’s looking at you in undisguised concern, eyes roving over you with an intensity that tempts you to drop your gaze.

You shiver. You can’t help it - you’re exhausted and emotional, and things with Javi have been so weird for so long, and now he’s staring at you, sharp and worried, running his thumbs across your scalp to gently assess for injuries.

No, you are not okay.

He notices the little tremor that darts through your body and rests one hand on your shoulder, leaning in to look you straight in the eye. “How far were you from the explosion?”

“Across the street,” you tell him, breathless for all of the wrong reasons. It’s only half-way true, you’d been crossing the street when the bomb had gone off, far closer to the blast zone than you’re leading him to believe. But he’s so close, cupping your cheeks in his hands, leaning forward to shield you from the traffic-side of the parking spot with his body as he continues to draw his fingers across your skin, gently assessing for more damage.

“It just knocked me off my feet,” you continue. Your throat is suddenly so dry. “Startled me, more than anything.”

Javi reaches with one finger to expose the wound on your temple. It’s still oozing.

“And this?” he asks, pinning you with another piercing stare.

You reach up, catching his hand as his fingers begin to drift down your cheek. He twitches reflexively. “Just a little scratch,” you promise him. “Falling glass, or shrapnel, I guess. Something grazed me. I never hit my head.”

This is not a lie. You never blacked out; you’re not hurt.

He blusters a sigh, scrubbing his face with his palm for a brief second. “I should really take you to the hospital.” His jaw tightens as he speaks.

“I just said I didn’t hit my head. I’m fine.” You indicate the wound on your temple. “This is nothing. You know how head wounds like to bleed.” You look up at him, projecting as much wide-eyed, awake, vibrant woman as you possibly can after walking away from a fucking bomb, and squeeze his hand in reassurance. “Please, Peña. I just want to go -”

Home, you almost say.

You stop yourself just in time. There is no home, not anymore. And you won’t make the mistake of referencing Peña’s place as anything other than ‘Peña’s place.’ That would be supremely stupid, given all of the recent drama.

“To bed,” you manage instead. “I’m just tired.”

And god, that is the truth.

If Javi notices your faux pax, he doesn’t mention it. He’s hardly taken his eyes off you. He’s near enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, one hand still twined in yours.

It’s all you can do to avoid resting your head on his chest.

“Okay,” he mutters begrudgingly, and then shakes his head like he hadn’t meant to agree. “I’ll take you home.”

You smile wanly at him. “Thanks.”

♠

author’s notes/confessions

I know you still have questions. I promise you, I will answer them.

Steve Murphy is a good bro.

Y’all hit me up if you want a little Javi one-shot after this next chapter. I wrote it for my own reference, but it might be a fun read, if you’re wondering what’s happening inside his head right now.

@tiffdawg​, look what you made me do. ;)

[wikiangela-fanfics]

"I keep my promises" - Sambucky

Ao3

This is part 2 to "You should smile more"

part 1, part 3

I started writing it before episode 6, so the fact that they dealt with all that Flag Smashers stuff is just really vaguely mentioned! and it's not important to the fic because I'm all about the fluff lmao

also, because of that, the cookout scene is not here but I might write a different fic about it idk

There will be part 3! might take a while though haha

again, thank you SO SO SO much to @tasteslikestrawbebbies for beta-reading ♥♥♥

Enjoy ♥

***

Bucky kept his promise. Or at least the part about coming to visit once they were done with everything. Sam just hoped he really was gonna stay, as long as possible.

He was excited for Bucky to visit. At least until he actually saw Bucky on his porch one morning, and suddenly he was really nervous. What do they do now? Do they hug hello? Do they kiss? Damn, Sam desperately wanted to kiss those lips again.

But Bucky just said “Hi” and smiled, making Sam feel the stupid butterflies in his stomach again. In the short time they hadn’t seen each other he almost forgot how annoying this feeling was. Especially since it was caused by none other than Bucky Barnes, the one-hundred-year-old ex-assassin with a staring problem, whose smile was enough to make Sam forget his own name.

“Took you long enough.” Sam said, rolling his eyes, really trying not to grab Bucky’s perfect face and kiss him breathless. He wasn’t really sure where they stood. Bucky did make an impression that he wanted this to go somewhere, last time he was there, but then they hadn’t seen each other, and there wasn’t really time to make out or have heart-to-hearts on the mission. And then they hadn’t seen each other again for a few days after they dealt with all that shit. And Sam was almost sure that maybe Bucky changed his mind, but now here he was. Standing on the porch, looking so gorgeous in early morning light, bag in hand, without as much as a text, again. Of course, they had talked on the phone when Bucky was in New York, and they texted, although not as much as Sam would’ve wanted. But the topic of them never came up.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” he grinned. “You missed me?”

“You wish.” Sam scoffed, as if he could still deny the fact that he did, in fact, miss Bucky. And Bucky knew that, of course he did. But still, Sam wasn’t gonna just admit it out loud. At least not yet. Honestly, all he really wanted was to stick his tongue down Bucky’s throat, and when he does that, then he can admit that he missed him a little bit. He felt his cheeks heat up at the mere thought and decided that he needed to get it together, because he was being pathetic. It was just Bucky, for fuck’s sake. Just his really annoying not-partner, not-exactly-friend, maybe not even coworker… whatever-they-were-now. “Come on in.” he sighed, opening the door wider. “We’re just having breakfast.” he added, because it was morning. The boys hadn’t even left for school yet. It was early, and Bucky was already there.

He walked back to the kitchen, Bucky trailing behind him, after dropping his bag by the door.

“Hi Bucky!” the boys exclaimed excitedly once they saw him. They were sitting at the table, already halfway through the meal.

“Hey, guys.” he said with a smile, high fiving both of them. Then he looked at Sarah and flashed her one of his most charming smiles. One of those he had never directed at Sam, not that he cared. “Hi, Sarah.” he said, his tone similar to when he first met her. Sam couldn’t contain a small huff, which caused both his sister and Bucky to look at him, Sarah with surprise, Bucky with amusement.

“Nice to see you again, Bucky.” Sarah just said, apparently deciding to ignore Sam, which he was thankful for. He didn’t want to get into that now. Not when he wasn’t sure what that even was. “You eaten breakfast yet?”

“No.” Bucky shrugged, deciding to take off that damn leather jacket of his. Sam definitely did not ogle him as he did. Obviously not. Not even when he was left in just a tight t-shirt. Nope. “The plane was early, and I wasn’t really hungry then.” he sat down at the empty place at the table.

“I hope you are now. Let me get you a plate.” she got up, while Sam slowly sat down too.

“You know you could’ve gotten a later flight, right?” Sam said, taking a sip of coffee.

“Sam.” Bucky said and Sam immediately looked up at him. “Don’t even try to complain, you invited me here. And you really wanted me to stay last time I was here, if I remember correctly.” he added, a smirk on his face, his tone a little teasing, last sentence even bordering on suggestive. Someone felt much more confident than before, huh?

Sam felt his face heat up, but he didn’t answer. He did, however, see his sister look between him and Bucky in confusion, but also with a small, barely-there smile. He knew she would have some questions, especially if Bucky kept it up. Both the comments, and the flirting with Sarah. It was bothering Sam. Of course he wasn’t jealous, but it was bothering him. Only a little bit.

Fortunately, Sarah made small talk for the remainder of the meal, and AJ and Cass were really excited to talk to Bucky too, so it wasn’t quiet. Then the boys left for school, and Sarah was about to start cleaning up, but Bucky stopped her.

“Let me take care of that, you just go to work.” he stood up and smiled that stupid flirtatious smile again. And normally Bucky’s smiles would get Sam to smile too, but right then he wasn’t in the mood.

“You’re a guest, Bucky.” she chastised, trying to grab the plates, but he took them first.

“I insist. As a thank you for delicious breakfast.” for some reason he decided to wink at her in that moment, and Sam’s blood boiled. He loved his sister, he really did, but in that moment he just needed her to leave Bucky alone - even if it was technically Bucky who was doing all the flirting… Sam was really confused about everything, including, or rather especially, his own thoughts and feelings.

“Okay.” she rolled her eyes after a second, relenting to Bucky’s stare, no surprise there. “Just this once.” she said, pointing her finger at Bucky. “Thank you.” she added, walking out of the kitchen.

As Bucky started cleaning, Sam didn’t move to help. He just sat there, admiring how good Bucky looked, and how nice it was to see him in such a domestic setting.

When Sarah finally left the house, Bucky was about to finish washing the dishes. Sam never would’ve thought that he would ever see him doing that. Such a simple, mundane task, and yet it was kind of abstract to see. Sam walked over to him and leaned against the counter, close to the sink.

“I think I told you to stop flirting with my sister.” he tried to sound casual, but when Bucky looked at him with a grin, he knew he failed.

“I’m not.” he rolled his eyes. “Why do you care?” he teased, knowing the answer perfectly well.

“You know why.” Sam wasn’t even going to bother pretending that he didn’t care, or that it was just because he was a protective brother. He thought they were past that.

“Oh, I’m not actually sure.” Bucky’s expression turned mock-contemplative, as if he was straining to remember. “You might need to refresh my memory. You know, I am pretty old, my memory is not the same as it used to be.” he tried to sound and look sad or nostalgic, but he was having too much fun with this conversation. Way too much, because Sam was not amused in the slightest.

“Really? You making memory jokes now?” he raised an eyebrow. He immediately thought about Bucky’s time as the Winter Soldier, when he didn’t remember anything, and how he was struggling with reality as he got the memories back… and even just the memories of the Soldier killing people, that were still haunting Bucky. Sam figured memory might be a sensitive topic, but here Bucky was, making jokes about it. “And you seemed to remember that I wanted you to stay.” he added more quietly, remembering what Bucky said to him earlier.

“Yeah, well, it’s getting kinda hazy now.” Bucky said, putting another plate on the drying rack. “I’m really trying to remember, but I might need a little refre-”

His sentence was cut short by a quiet “Oh, for fuck’s sake” muttered by Sam, who then grabbed Bucky’s face, slamming their mouths together. Bucky immediately kissed back, turning fully towards Sam and putting his wet hands on the small of Sam’s back, bringing him closer. The kiss probably would have gotten deeper and more heated, as Sam was about to add some tongue action, but then Bucky had to pull away. Had to, because he couldn’t kiss while smiling this hard. And when Sam looked at him, there was a shit-eating grin on Bucky’s face. He looked so pleased with himself, probably because he got Sam to initiate the kiss again. Truth be told, Sam probably wouldn’t be able to resist those lips much longer anyway.

“Shut up.” Sam said, lightly pushing him away, trying to keep his expression annoyed, but he knew there was a smile forcing itself on his face, too. Bucky just chuckled, getting back to finishing the dishes. Once he was done, he wiped his hands and turned to face Sam.

“You don’t need to be jealous of Sarah.” he said teasingly, probably just to annoy Sam.

“I’m not- I’m not fucking jealous!” Sam said, maybe a little too fast, and a little too loud. “I don’t care.” he knew he just contradicted what he said earlier, but fuck it. He might have cared, but he wasn’t gonna let Bucky believe he was jealous.

“Sure you don’t.” he rolled his eyes, going to pick up his bag and then to the living room, dropping it on the couch. Sam followed him. “So what are we doing today?”

“What?” he was a little distracted by watching Bucky, as he walked in front of him, so he wasn’t really listening. Damn, the more he was around Bucky, the more he wanted him. Maybe he should’ve visited Bucky in New York, where his family wasn’t around, and… oh no, he’s not thinking about that, not yet. Bucky hasn’t been there half an hour and Sam’s mind was already shutting down all rational thoughts. This was getting ridiculous.

“Do you have anything else that needs fixing? You wanna train again? Or are we just gonna sit here and do nothing? C’mon, I’m a guest. You should plan something to do.” he shrugged, sitting on the couch, while Sam just stood there by the door, looking at him. He didn’t really know where to look. His eyes wandered from Bucky’s muscular chest covered by the super tight t-shirt, to the strong flesh arm, to the metal arm that looked so alluring, to Bucky’s face and the blue eyes that stared at him a lot, and the lips that Sam was dying to kiss again.

“What?” he repeated, feeling his breath quicken a bit. Then he finally managed to snap out of it. He needed to get a grip, Bucky was already way too smug about this whole thing they had, whatever it was. “You didn’t let me know when you were coming, I didn’t-” he sighed. “I guess I can show you around the town. It’s not much, but.” he shrugged. “And we’ll figure out what to do later when we have to. But we could maybe go for a drink in the evening. Or grab something to eat.” he was just thinking out loud now, but Bucky smirked again. Sam was glad he didn’t finish his last thought out loud. To grab something to eat he actually wanted to add: just the two of us, without my family, especially my sister who you seem to like to flirt with, but I am not jealous. Yeah… he might need to talk to Sarah before he accidentally acts like a complete asshole towards her, which was probable, as he was not thinking when Bucky was around.

“You inviting me on a date, Wilson?” his tone was teasing and Sam immediately wanted to throw some snarky comment or just deny it, but… that was actually a nice idea. If that’s what Bucky wanted.

“Depends. You up for it?” he asked, putting a smirk on his face, and trying to sound and act casual, leaning on the doorframe and almost losing his balance, making Bucky’s lips twitch as if he wanted to laugh. Sam would be glad to hear that beautiful sound, but he would also be really annoyed that he was laughing at him, so he was glad Bucky kept it in. “So?” he prompted when instead of answering Bucky just kept looking at him.

“Sure.” he shrugged, as if it wasn’t as big of a deal for him as it was for Sam. “But just so you know,” he added, that freaking smug smile back on his face. “I don’t put out on the first date.” and he had the audacity to fucking wiggle his eyebrows.

“What?” Sam’s brain short-circuited. “Why would you say-? What?” Bucky just laughed and gave him a knowing look, as if he noticed how Sam was ogling him since he got there. And knowing Bucky and his perceptiveness, he probably did notice. “You’re so annoying.” he just sighed, his face on fire, avoiding looking at Buck now. He tried to be cool, but he was painfully aware that Bucky could see through all his bullshit.

“Hey, you wanted me here.” he reminded again, that Sam did, in fact, invite him there. And he was quite insistent, not only when Bucky was there, but when they talked on the phone, he did try to subtly ask when he was planning to visit.

“I’m starting to regret that.” Sam said, trying to seem annoyed, but they both knew he was not serious.

“Well, tough. I’m here now.” Bucky answered, but then he added, his tone more earnest: “I promised I’ll visit and stay until you want me to leave. And I keep my promises. So whenever you want me to go, just say the word.”

Sam finally looked at him. Bucky seemed a bit unsure now, and he didn’t even bother trying to hide it. His eyes found Sam’s, staring into them from across the room, as if he could find the answers there. Of course he must’ve known that Sam wanted him to stay, that was just their usual banter. But apparently, he needed a bit of reassurance.

“Buck, don’t be ridiculous.” Sam rolled his eyes and let his lips form into a small, fond smile. He quickly crossed the room and sat down next to Bucky, who kept looking at him. He didn’t even correct him on calling him ‘Buck’ so that was good, and it made Sam happier than it should. “It’s gonna take more than you being annoying for me to kick you out. And that’s a good moment to remind you to stop flirting with Sarah.” he added, not able to help himself, and Bucky grinned again.

“I can’t believe you’re jealous.” he said.

“Say that one more time and you’re out of here.” Sam responded sternly, getting genuinely annoyed. Of course there was no way he would actually kick Bucky out, but he could at least pretend to consider it.

“Mhm.” Bucky rolled his eyes, clearly sure now that Sam won’t want him to go. But before Sam could say anything more, Bucky leaned in and kissed him. And Sam immediately melted against those lips. He briefly wondered what it all meant, what they were, where they stood… but as Bucky slipped his tongue into his mouth, all thoughts disappeared. He felt like he was floating somewhere outside his body. Or as if he was flying, it was the same rush of excitement. His hands were all over Bucky, it was as if they were just doing it on their own, he barely registered their movements. He was trying to bring Bucky as close to him as possible. Bucky’s hands, however, he felt all too vividly and intensely. He felt every little touch, as Bucky’s hands moved along his arms, to his back, to the back of his head, to cradle his face… And it felt pretty insane, too, with one flesh, hot hand, and the other cool metal, both leaving Sam’s skin burning. Insane in all the best ways. And adding Bucky’s amazing lips to that… he was a mess. He could not form one coherent thought. Bucky knew what he was doing and he was an amazing kisser. And the one and only thought that came to Sam’s mind was, if he’s that good at kissing, I really want to see what other things he can do with his mouth… and other parts of his body. But he didn’t allow himself to go there. Not yet, not now. Not on his sister’s couch, minutes after Bucky was flirting with her, which, yeah, bothered Sam.

When they pulled away, Sam was out of breath, Bucky was panting a bit too.

“So that was, uh.” Sam started, just to say anything, but his brain didn’t seem to be working yet. “Fun.” he finished and Bucky snickered. And Sam cursed himself silently. Out of all the things he could say, that was fun was what came out of his mouth. Fun? Well, it was fun, but more importantly it was hot and fucking amazing.

“Yeah, it was.” Bucky agreed with amusement. Then he leaned back on the couch, the metal arm on the back of it, behind Sam. “So are we going?”

“Where?” Sam asked dumbly, momentarily completely forgetting everything that happened before that kiss.

“You were gonna show me the town? So we’re not stuck here the whole day?” he raised his eyebrow. “I wouldn’t mind staying here and making out, but we probably shouldn’t. You know, I don’t want you to get too… excited.” he added, looking deliberately at Sam’s crotch, where his pants might have been starting to get a bit too tight. There was an amused and smug smirk on Bucky’s face.

“Fuck you.” Sam grumbled, feeling his face heat up again. God, that was embarrassing. They only made out, and here Sam was, half hard, not able to stop himself from thinking about how hot Bucky is, and what he wants to do to him… His thoughts were reaching a dangerous territory, so he needed to get out of the house, where he would be able to focus on other things than Bucky. He’s always known Bucky was hot, but before they kissed, he was able to keep it together. Now, though...

“Sam, not yet.” his tone was exasperated. “I said not on the first date, so certainly not before it, either.” Bucky said and Sam started to regret every decision he’s made that led them to this moment. “I’m kind of old-fashioned.” he added with a shrug and a smirk.

“You’re such an ass.” Sam covered his face with his hands. “And you’re not old-fashioned, you’re just super old.” he added, his voice muffled by his hands. Bucky laughed and nudged his shoulder.

“I’m just messing with you, relax.” he said, ignoring the ‘old’ comment.

Sam lowered his hands and leveled Bucky with a stern look, earning another chuckle, which was such a great sound, he couldn’t help that the corners of his mouth turned upwards a little bit.

“Well, I’m glad you’re having fun at my expense.” Sam replied, rolling his eyes. But then, a small fond smile appeared at his face, and he added: “I like to see you smile.”

“Uh, thanks.” Bucky’s cheeks reddened, and he looked away for a second. Interesting. So he could shamelessly make sex jokes, but couldn’t take a compliment without blushing? That was important information. Sam didn’t know exactly why yet, but it was very important to remember. “I think we kinda established that last time.” Bucky added, referring to Sam blurting out that Bucky should smile more, but at least that whole situation led to them kissing, so he was happy.

“Yeah, but I just needed to tell you again. You have a really beautiful smile.” he said just to see Bucky’s face go red. He wanted to say more of what he likes about Bucky’s appearance, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop and he would give Bucky more opportunity to make fun of him. While Sam loved Bucky’s smile, his laugh happened to be the greatest sound he ever heard. His eyes were captivatingly blue, his face was so gorgeous Sam could stare at it for hours at a time, his jaw and those goddamn cheekbones... And his soft, kissable, amazing lips… and don’t even let him get started on the rest of Bucky’s body.

“Okay, let’s just talk about something else.” Bucky said, still not looking at Sam.

“We should probably go.” Sam said, licking his lips, as Bucky looked back at him. “I really don’t think I can trust myself when I’m alone with you right now.” he muttered and it was when Bucky’s eyes widened in surprise and then a smirk appeared on his face, that Sam realized that he said that out loud. “Fuck me.” he closed his eyes, wishing for the earth to open up and swallow him. And then he thought that he should really stop setting himself up for all Bucky’s jokes and teasing.

“Buy me dinner first.” Bucky responded and Sam couldn’t help himself, he reached out and punched Bucky’s arm that was behind him. What he forgot to take into account was that it was the vibranium one. He didn’t use much force, but his knuckles meeting the metal still hurt.

“Shit.” he hissed, clutching his hand with his other one. “It’s all your fault.”

“Obviously.” Bucky rolled his eyes and chuckled, taking his arm away from the back of the couch, and taking Sam’s hurt hand into his instead. Then Sam watched in awe as Bucky brought his hand to his lips and delicately kissed the knuckles. “If I’m gonna stick around, you gotta be more careful. Aim for the right one.” he said with amusement, shifting so that he was fully facing Sam now, and put his right arm more forward.

“Imma remember that.” he murmured, his eyes on his hand still in Bucky’s grip. “I’m gonna-” he quickly got up and started making his way to his room. “Gimme a minute and we can go out. Around people and distractions.” the last sentence was whispered already at his door, but he knew Bucky heard it, enhanced hearing and all, because he heard him laugh. Damn, seeing Buck so relaxed and happy and laughing… Sam felt all warm inside and his heart was doing flips every time he heard that wonderful sound. He was honestly a bit afraid of how he felt around Bucky. He could barely control himself, what he was doing and saying. He found himself wishing they could just have that date, maybe two, and he could finally do what he has wanted for a long time now - just jump Bucky’s bones. Of course, even if Bucky was kidding about it, Sam knew he was an asshole and he was going to keep his ‘no sex on the first date’ rule, or whatever it was. But he had a feeling Bucky wanted him as much as he wanted Bucky. And the whole sexual tension and frustration were driving him crazy, so sue him for wanting to relieve it. Obviously, he wanted Bucky in more ways than one. He wanted him in his life in general, he wanted Bucky to never leave his side, to kiss him and hold him, and sleep next to him, and just to be in every aspect of his life, eventually. But for now there was one thing he could focus on the most. And Bucky’s comments and jokes were not making it easier for him. Additionally, the more time he spent around Bucky, the more Bucky smiled and laughed, and just seemed so comfortable and relaxed, the more Sam’s heart felt like it was about to jump out of his chest. It felt as if his feelings for Bucky were growing every second. He occupied Sam’s mind all the time, and it was getting annoying. Damn Bucky Barnes and his piercing blue eyes and a gorgeous smile that lights up the room. Sam was so gone.

[novelconcepts]

fic: (above) a boring little pub

“See where that takes us,” Dani mutters. “Sure. Yeah. Smooth.”

She’d said it like it wasn’t nerve-racking in the least, like she does this sort of thing every day. Get up at the asscrack of dawn, trying to remember how to make a pot of coffee she personally feels out of her mind even considering putting in her own mug. Coffee makes her crazy, spikes her already-wild anxiety straight through the roof; she hasn’t tried to brew the stuff since she was fifteen and making a last-ditch effort to get on Mom’s good side.

And, still, it was the best idea she had for Operation Fix Things With Jamie. Four days laying awake thinking, four days with her brain half on the kids, half on making Jamie smile the next time she turned up at Bly, and this was the best she could do. A cup of coffee that, to her untrained eye, looked like muddy water more than anything else. 

And she had handed it to Jamie. Just pasted on a smile and thought, Maybe the stars have aligned, and I woke up good at this today. Whether good at the coffee or the talking to Jamie, she wasn’t quite sure--but soon enough, it appeared the answer was “neither”. Terrific. Jamie, still stung from the other night. Jamie, clearly still not ready to leap off a cliff just because Dani reached out a hand. 

Who could blame her? Jamie’s maybe the most patient person Dani has ever met, so long as you’re not shredding her gardens behind her back, but she is still a person. A person who has shown Dani an extremely unexpected willingness to listen, but not so much the desire to be jerked around. Dani gets it. There’s nothing she wants less in the world, than to make Jamie feel like a chew toy to be picked up and discarded again on a whim. 

Hence, the world’s most insulting attempt at coffee.

And the invitation.

Dani does not have what a thinking man might call “a strong history” with dating. Part and parcel of being with the same person since you were ten, she supposes, and even if Edmund wasn't...right, he was still simple in his own way. The bravest she ever had to be with Eddie was in daring him to kiss her, a desperate, futile bid toward understanding all the girls at school who sighed and groaned over boys. Dani didn’t get it then, didn’t get it when Eddie closed his eyes and puckered his lips and gave her the most exaggerated dry kiss a human mouth can produce. Didn't get it, either, as he improved over the years, though she was tactically aware of him doing so. On a strictly data-driven level, she watched him get better at kissing, at smiling without nerves, at leading her by the hand wherever he felt they should go. And never, not once, did she feel it.

But one night in a greenhouse, wine in her blood and guilt on her lips, and she gets it now. She gets all of it. Jamie’s hands in her hair, Jamie’s mouth opening beneath her own--a symphony only they could hear. 

And then she’d gone and ruined it. 

So, now she’s here. Standing awkwardly in a small room in a huge manor, poking through the approximately ten outfits she’s been carting across Europe for half a year. She’d been brave with Jamie in ways she’d never considered with Eddie--brave to take her hand, brave to follow her into the dark, brave to kiss her, brave to ask her out on a...on a..

“Date,” she mutters, holding up a pink blouse and remembering Jamie saying wryly, There we are. She shuts her eyes. “Just a date. Normal person thing to do. Nothing to worry about.”

Jamie’s meant to be back here in--she flips her wrist, winces--less than an hour now. Jamie’s meant to be here to pick her up, like they’re teenagers heading off for a Friday night on the town, and Dani must genuinely be losing her mind. She didn't come here for this. She works with Jamie, works here watching the kids, and if she leaves...if she leaves, who knows what will...

A light rap at the door, so soft, she almost misses it. Hannah, gently smiling. 

“Everything all right up here? Haven’t seen you in quite some time...”

“The kids,” Dani interjects. “Of course. I’m so sorry, I’ll just--”

Hannah raises her palms in a placating gestures, slipping into the room with a nearly unearthly grace. Why, Dani wonders helplessly, can’t I be like Hannah? So elegant and serene and sure of every step? 

“I did not,” Hannah says, taking her by the shoulders and giving her a sisterly little shake, “come up here to scold you. The children are perfectly fine; Owen is running them through the finer elements of...” Her brow creases, some mix of affection and distaste. “Baking chemistry.”

“Oh.” Dani sinks onto the bed, head in her hands. “Of course. So you’re...”

“Here to make certain you aren’t, perhaps, talking yourself out of a nice evening out on the town?” Hannah supplies. She’s too kind to make fun, at least where this level of anxiety is concerned, and Dani is grateful. 

“Not talking myself out, exactly,” she says. “Just trying to decide what to wear. I mean, what does a person wear to a pub in Bly with...with...”

“A perfectly charming young woman whose primary uniform involves denim and potting soil?” Hannah’s voice is just a little too innocent. Dani grins. 

“I just don’t want to embarrass myself.”

“I don’t think,” Hannah says carefully, “there’s much chance of embarrassing yourself so badly, she leaves you alone in that pub. Or fails to return to Bly, perhaps, tomorrow?”

Color floods Dani’s cheeks. Her choice of sweater is suddenly the most interesting thing that has ever happened in this room. 

“The children will be just fine with us here,” Hannah continues, blessedly ignoring the way Dani’s shoulders go rigid with mortification. “Owen’s already planning to stay, and you know how Flora goes on about sleepovers...”

She’s smiling, but Dani thinks there’s a bit of distance behind her eyes that wasn’t there last week. A beautiful, kind woman, Hannah; it’s strange to see her even the least bit detached from the goings-on of the house. 

“You’re sure,” she presses. “I could still tell Jamie--”

“You could both use the night off, I think.” Hannah pats her shoulder lightly. Dani bites her lip. 

“Well, I can definitely make sure I’m back before--”

“Lunch tomorrow?” Hannah interjects. “Yes, I quite agree, that would be perfect timing. Rumor has it Owen’s planning a feast fit for kings and very small children.”

Dani is out of arguments, and she suspects Hannah knows it. Her shoulders slump. “Okay. Okay, good. Glad that’s all...handled. Now...”

“This one, I think.” Hannah pats the light purple, her hand possessed of such surety, Dani is briefly envious. “Brings out your eyes nicely.”

She makes her escape with another smile and a very small wave, and Dani gives herself a minute. Just one minute, sitting on the edge of the bed with her face in her hands, to really process the situation. A date. An actual real date with an actual real person she actually likes. Not just likes, but feels...slightly insane around. Insane in the best way. Stomach in knots, fingertips sweaty for no good reason, ears going hot at the sight of her insane. 

Jamie kissed her back. Jamie kissed her like there was nothing she’d like more in the world. Jamie kissed her, and then let her go the minute she didn’t seem ready for it, and even with the worst coffee in England as a peace offering, accepted the idea of a drink with her. 

Which means...

“The sweater doesn’t matter,” Dani mumbles, feeling very much as though nothing has ever mattered more.

***

Jamie has never quite done this before, either; she thinks of telling Dani so, thinks of taking a quiet moment before leaving Bly Manor to get ready for a date and come back, sweet Lord, she must be out of her mind, to say, “Hey, no worries, Poppins, this is brand-new territory for the both of us.”

But Dani is busy with the kids, and also sort of looks like she’s going to combust should Jamie stand too near her, so she skulks out to the truck alone instead. The date--it is an actual fucking date, I cannot believe she did this to us, what am I going to do on an actual fucking date with this woman?--is slated for seven in the evening. Jamie’s done working at four-thirty.

She spends about an hour of that in-between time showering, picking out a clean t-shirt--nothing too snappy, don’t want to scare Poppins off again--and jeans and a jacket that ensures she’ll look presentably-cool, and mussing her hair somewhat badly. The rest, she spends pacing. 

You know I live above that pub, right? Told you that already. And Jesus, how Dani had smiled, like she’d been thinking of nothing else for four fucking days. Four days Jamie had spent planning ways to distance herself, to stop feeling all of this flappy butterfly nonsense at the mere sight of the woman, and the first thing--first goddamn thing--Dani did upon her return was ask her on a date. 

To which she had...said yes. She’d said yes, and now off she goes to pick up her actual, real-live human woman date.

It’s one thing, she thinks as she strides up the drive to the door, to take a woman to bed. It’s a very natural, easy thing, in fact, to take a woman to bed. Strip off your clothes, strip off your inhibitions, get used to the notion of never seeing her again once the sun is up. But this? Dani? Jamie’s never been here before. Never wanted something so badly before. 

“Don’t,” she mumbles, pushing the door open, “fuck this up.”

She expects to have to go on a bit of a hunt to track Dani down--maybe to the kitchen, or even (heaven help her) up to her room, but no: Dani is right there. Dani is standing in the foyer in a black skirt and loose-knit sweater, looking for all the world like Jamie just caught her running a trench into the floorboards. 

“Hi,” she says, all deer eyes and suddenly grinning mouth. Her hair is up, so very blonde and perfect, Jamie’s mouth goes a little useless at the sight of it.

“Hey. Uh. Are we meant to be speaking with the chaperones, or...”

Dani shakes her head, looking just a little punch-drunk. “Hannah made it sound like we’d be in trouble if we went back there. Owen’s doing something with chemistry?”

“All the angels couldn’t help those kids and their empty bellies now,” Jamie says, “if Owen is fixated on another goddamn chemistry lesson.”

Dani laughs, and suddenly, it’s like a sheen of ice cracks open and all the warmth she’s come to associate with Dani Clayton comes rushing into the room. Jamie reaches out a hand, slides palm along palm until Dani is fitted neatly against her lifeline. 

“Shall we?”

She doesn’t say, I’ve never done this. Doesn’t tell Dani any of that. It doesn’t seem important, all of a sudden, not with the way Dani squeezes back and follows eagerly into the passenger seat of her truck.

Jamie, looking at her out of the corner of her eye as she prepares to back out, is struck with the wild idea that maybe they don’t have to leave at all to do this. She could just reach across the seat, lay a hand lightly over Dani’s knee, tell her she’s never met anyone like her. Never met anyone who makes her want to tell sad stories and bad jokes and goodnights that are only acceptable because there will be a good morning to follow. 

Date, she reminds herself firmly, though there’s a perfectly nice kitchen, a perfectly nice bedroom, a perfectly nice hidden spot out on the grounds that would do the job just as well. Maybe next time. There are flowers she’s certain Dani can’t go her whole life without seeing. 

But tonight: it’s a pub in the tiny village of Bly, where Jamie has lived for years without ever really caring to get to know its secrets. Now, watching Dani look around like she’s just stepped into Oz, she sort of regrets that. 

“Usually not too busy on a Thursday night,” she says, guiding Dani with a light hand at the small of her back past what she thinks of as the Attention Grabbing section--the tables up near the bar proper, where the denizens of Bly most like to congregate after work--and toward her own preferred spot. It’s in the back, near a near-secret exit that leads straight up to her flat, and Cal is charitable enough to keep most folks away from it unless the place is full-up. Not a bad guy, Cal; he’s about four hundred years old and insists on calling her Janey, but he’s still got the back for long nights serving bad drinks, and he keeps the rent cheaper than dirt. 

“You live here?” Dani sounds like she’s never been more delighted at a prospect. Jamie can’t help but laugh, slinging her jacket over the back of her chair and settling in. 

“Thought about asking for a job when I moved in, but luckily Lord and Lady Wingrave got to me first. Not sure it’d suit me, spending every night with the town layabouts.”

She winks at Cal as he shambles past to let him know this is a joke. He snorts. 

“Like I’d hire you anyway. Too damn short. Couldn't reach the good stuff.”

“Wasn’t aware you carried the good stuff,” she fires back. Dani, watching this exchange with delight, laughs. Cal raises an eyebrow. 

“Your friend’s pretty. Poor sense of character, to be spending her night with a felon, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

The smile on Dani’s lips dies instantly. Jamie swallows a curse. 

“Yes, thank you, Grandfather Drunkard, I hadn’t quite gotten to that part of the tale yet. Round to make up for it, if you please.”

He has the good grace to look slightly ashamed, patting her on the shoulder as he winds back to the bar in search of clean glasses. Jamie leans back with a sigh.

“Well, it was bound to come up eventually, I suppose. Frankly, probably for the best he spilled those beans before I could lose my nerve and put off telling you.”

Dani’s brow is creased, less like someone horrified by a glimpse into Jamie’s storied past, more like a white knight ready to draw a sword in her defense. Jamie finds herself reaching across the table, glancing over her shoulder, and touching the back of her hand with two cautious fingers. 

“Easy, Poppins, Cal’s a good sort. Our sort, even, if there is such a thing.” It’s a bold stroke, a shot in the dark, but given that Jamie’s already had this woman’s tongue in her mouth, she supposes it isn’t so dangerous to assume. Dani raises her eyebrows high enough to make her laugh.

“He’s--I mean he doesn’t--”

“He’s kind, and he knows the value of a closed mouth,” Jamie confirms. “Says things are better than they used to be around here, but there’s no point courting trouble. Anyway, he won’t say a damn thing when we--if we--”

Cal takes pity on her, delivering a pair of beers and a platter of cold chips, “on the house, as penance for fuckin’ up your evening.” Jamie raises her glass in a salute to his retreating back.

“Did he?” Dani asks. Jamie, glass halfway to her lips, pauses.

“Did he what?”

“Fuck up the evening.” Jamie’s not sure she’s ever heard Dani say the word fuck before, and suddenly feels as though it’s the best single syllable ever to cross her lips. 

“Nah. Not unless you’ve, ah, got a problem with felons sharing your table?”

Lifting her own glass, Dani shakes her head. “Not as a rule. I’d like to hear about it, though. If it’s something you’re all right sharing.”

And so Jamie shares. All of it. It isn’t the plan, exactly, but when she gets started, she finds it increasingly difficult to locate a logical place to stop. To explain the prison time, she first has to explain how a young woman finds herself in such a situation; to explain that, she first has to paint a picture of a particular kind of home life. Before she knows what’s happening, she’s leaning across the table and saying names she hasn’t spoken in years. Telling about the coal mine. The other men. The baby. The burn. 

Dani listens to it all, enraptured, never interrupting with so much as a question. She makes small noises, nods encouragement whenever Jamie falters, takes small sips of her drink when Jamie pauses for breath. 

She doesn’t ask what Jamie did. This, above all else, strikes Jamie between the eyes. She doesn’t ask if Jamie lied, or cheated, or stole, or bloodied anyone along the way (yes, yes to one and all, and if she did ask, Jamie would tell her; they're old scars, the life of someone she feels she barely knows now, and if she’s ashamed, it’s the shame of a distant dream). She only listens, nods, takes it in.

“I figure,” Jamie says when she’s run out of history to unfold between them, “you showed me yours, yeah? It’s only fair.”

Dani raises her glass. “To not being defined by the sins of the past.”

Jamie chuckles, obediently following suit. “To people being the most goddamn exhausting concept on the planet, and trying anyway.”

They drink. They drink, and Jamie thinks, Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’ve exhausted the conversation topics for one relationship already. Maybe she’ll finish this glass and we’ll head back to the house, and that’ll be that. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Dani tells her. There’s something relaxed about her, something Jamie finds new and deeply interesting. Relaxed is the last word she’d generally used to describe Dani Clayton. 

Jamie gestures for Cal, refills following suit in short order. “Been to a pub?”

“Been on a date with someone I...” Dani hesitates. For a split second, Jamie’s sure she’s about to look at someone Jamie can’t sense over her shoulder. Instead, she shakes her head, smiles ruefully. “Someone I felt things for.”

“Things, huh?” She leans across the table, props her chin on one hand, makes a show of tilting her head. “What sorts of things?”

“I think you know.” Dani is blushing. This is maybe the best night of Jamie’s whole life.

“Think you should tell me anyway.”

Dani swats at her, and they’re both laughing with an ease Jamie can’t wrap her head around. It’s one thing to flirt; Jamie’s good at flirting. Comes easy, comes naturally. She’s good at watching for the little buttons in people, the little signs of what makes them laugh, what makes them squirm. Promised herself a long time ago never to use this power for anything less than leaving a room warmer than she found it. 

But this isn’t flirting. Not the way Jamie’s done it before. This is something entirely new, entirely specific to Dani. It’s in the way Dani watches her, eyes too blue, jaw held taut like she’s trying to keep something dangerous from spilling out. It’s in the way Dani lets her fingers linger when she reaches for a chip, allows Jamie to brush against her in a fashion that looks utterly innocent from the outside and feels anything but. 

Jamie swallows hard, liking the weight of Dani’s gaze more than she’s prepared to admit. Liking the way Dani very slowly, very carefully, moves a hand under the table to press against her knee. 

“Bold, Poppins,” she breathes. Dani smiles, so clearly proud of herself and so clearly terrified that it’s all Jamie can do not to lean all the way across and kiss her. 

Best not. Cal’s a good man, their sort, but there are others in the pub now. People who wouldn't take kindly to a sight like that. And this night is going far too well for Jamie to waste where it’s going on a bar brawl.

***

Jamie’s flat is nothing like Dani expected. Admittedly, she isn’t sure what to expect when Jamie drains the last of her glass and gives a knowing glance to the exit. A very small part of her thinks this is all going entirely too well--her hand has been under the table, pressed with a confidence she hadn’t known she possessed to Jamie’s knee, for almost fifteen minutes. Even as her thumb traces small circles into the denim, even as Jamie’s eyes go a little darker, her lips parting in a way Dani finds entirely too interesting, she thinks, This isn’t me, is it? She can’t be feeling it, too. No one has ever understood this. 

Even so, here’s Jamie, standing a little too quickly. Her chair scrapes back, her jacket swung over her arm, and she’s reaching out. Dani accepts the hand, lets Jamie pull her to her feet. A good idea. A bad idea. The kind of idea that will get them out of the public eye in short order, either way, and Dani can’t think of anything wiser in this moment. 

There’s a set of stairs just outside the door, leading up to a second door. Thick brown wood, with double locks Jamie works without really looking. She’s staring at Dani even as her hands move, staring from inches away, and Dani suddenly thinks how good it is, that they came out tonight. How good it is to be away from the house, the kids, anyone else in the world. 

“After you,” Jamie says, pushing the door open with a flat hand and gesturing for Dani to enter. Her voice is a little raw, a little huskier than usual. Dani moves past her, arm brushing arm, and just about jumps out of her skin at the contact. 

The space is small, sparsely furnished, with a curtain hung to break up the room. In one far corner, a tiny bathroom. In the closest corner, a tiny kitchen, barely broken from the living space by a change in flooring. 

Jamie, wearing an expression Dani has not yet learned to decipher, says, “This would be it. The castle, as it were.”

Does she sound embarrassed? Dani can't quite tell. She wants to say there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, this place is small and quiet and somehow perfectly Jamie in its easy nature. There are books, though not many, on a small shelf. There are plants, considerably more, lined up like soldiers guarding Jamie from loneliness. 

“It’s a place to lay my head, anyway,” Jamie says, and that is definitely a touch of embarrassment in her voice. Dani shakes her head, moves to join her at the front door, takes her hand. 

“It’s yours,” she says, unable to clarify quite why that is so special. “Thank you. For bringing me here.”

It sounds better in her head than it does ringing between them in a space so silent, Dani imagines she can hear the echo of her own voice. Jamie is just looking at her, the way she’d looked the night Owen’s mother passed, like if Dani were to give the word, she’d make a move that would light them both aflame. 

She’d been too afraid that night. Was carrying far too much. Even the simple act of touching Jamie at all, of running her thumb across Jamie’s hand, had felt like heroism. 

Now, things are different. 

She’s got Jamie by the sleeves, hands gripping Jamie’s t-shirt just above the skin of her biceps, and this is what going over feels like. This is what it feels like, Dani thinks, to just let go. 

***

Kissing Dani is different here. Back in the greenhouse, Dani had been largely somebody else, Jamie thinks; still Dani, but a version carrying too much on her back. A desperate, hopeful, sorrow-laden Dani who had grabbed at her jacket like it was a life preserver. 

This Dani, sighing and squeezing her arms, feels like freedom. 

Jamie finds herself spinning them both, pressing Dani against the locked door, liking the convulsive way Dani’s hands fist around her shirt sleeves. Liking the way Dani slides one arm around her neck and leans back just a little, just enough to gaze into Jamie’s eyes, and this is almost too much all on its own. No one has ever looked at Jamie while she was trying to kiss them. No one, not even once, has looked at her with such profound affection.

And want. So much want, Dani’s eyes are stormy with it. Jamie’s grinning, but there’s a fist around her heart squeezing so hard, she worries it might burst. 

“All right?” she breathes. Dani could say no. Dani could say no at any time, and Jamie would understand it. Would lean back, comb her fingers through her own hair, offer the bed while she sets up on the couch until the alcohol’s out of both of their systems and the sunrise gives them another chance at it. 

Dani, rather than answering, makes a low sound at the back of her throat and finds Jamie’s mouth with an eager, open kiss that sends Jamie’s pulse through the roof. 

She hasn’t done this before, she’s told Jamie, but she’s coming to it naturally enough. Her lips are soft, parting for Jamie’s tongue, her hips pushing against Jamie’s body in slow, easy motions. When Jamie rakes her nails down her scalp, fingers pulling the scrunchie from her hair, she responds with such a low groan, Jamie has to bury her face in Dani’s neck for a moment to breathe. 

“Sorry,” Dani mumbles. Jamie, shaking her head, laughs against her skin. 

“In no universe, Poppins, are you to be sorry right now. About anything.”

She raises her head, looking for signs that Dani is sorry in a more important way, a way that will say stop, back up, let this go for now. Dani takes her face between trembling hands. Kisses her slowly, sweetly, tongue tracing Jamie’s lower lip like the only thing in the world is to memorize her in tiny, hopeful doses. 

Jamie sighs, one hand buried in blonde hair, the other finding purchase on the sleeve of a too soft, too tearable sweater. She feels too large for her body all of a sudden, too much adrenaline coursing through her system, and every time Dani turns her head just a little, every time she brushes her nose against Jamie’s and makes that tiny, soul-searing little sound under Jamie’s kiss, she thinks she gets a bit closer to plunging off the edge into something she won’t be able to forget about in the morning. 

“You sure?” she asks against Dani’s lips, the words lost when Dani moves an arm around her neck and digs her fingers in hard. She can feel Dani nodding, breathless, and it’s enough. More than enough. Jamie finds she’s walking them backwards, navigating carefully around her small table, her small couch, the shelf upon which she keeps a few precious plants. 

With every step, Dani is kissing her. 

With every step, Dani is tracing shapes into the back of her neck.

With every step, Dani is pushing in close, like if Jamie breaks for even a second, some beautiful, perfect spell will break with her. 

They’re past the curtain now, in the little space where Jamie sleeps and wakes and hasn’t taken anyone since moving in. Dani, forehead pressed against hers, lips swollen, opens her eyes. 

“This is--”

“Not much,” Jamie says. On the one hand, she’s glad they came out tonight, glad she’s getting to hear all the little sounds Dani makes as she’s kissed without worrying about eavesdroppers. On the other, there’s nothing inspiring about her flat, nothing to say Jamie can take care of someone. It’s just walls. Just walls and a couple of plants, and for some reason, Dani is looking around like they’ve walked through a mirror into a land of magic. 

“Anyway,” Jamie says. “We don’t have to--if you don’t want to--”

***

“Don’t you?” Dani’s heart is in her throat, pounding in her wrists almost painfully hard. Jamie, one arm around her waist, leaning back with flushed cheeks and her bottom lip between her teeth, raises her eyebrows. 

“Want to? God, yes.”

Relief, flooding Dani’s body almost hard enough to knock her over. She grips at Jamie with both hands, the slide of dark t-shirt soft under her fingers, and kisses her again. She feels so good kissing Jamie, so good she forgets how nervous she is about the whole thing. Jamie, her hand strong at the small of her back, her fingers brushing just under the hem of her sweater, leans back again. 

“Just don’t want to pressure you into anything. S’all right if you’re not up for--”

"I’ll tell you,” Dani promises. If Jamie keeps doing that with her hand, if Jamie keeps tracing the base of her spine with small, reckless movements, she thinks she’ll go crazy. “If it’s too much. I’ll tell you.”

She pushes gently against Jamie’s chest, feeling bold and brave and absolutely petrified of her own actions, and Jamie lets herself fold backwards until she’s seated on the edge of a thin, clean bedspread. Dani follows her down, knees on either side of Jamie’s thighs, sitting carefully in her lap. 

“Now what?” Jamie teases, even as she’s sliding both hands up Dani’s sides, firm enough not to tickle as she brackets Dani’s ribs and lets the next ragged breath push against her palms. Dani closes her eyes for a beat, swaying, untethered until Jamie tilts her head and kisses her again. All at once, it’s like being caught at the end of a string. All at once, it’s like being handed serenity. 

She realizes she’s moving her hips, rolling them forward against Jamie’s lap, liking the way Jamie’s hands tighten on her body and begin gently pushing her back and forth. There isn’t enough friction to really accomplish anything this way, but it hardly matters; it’s still so much, so much she feels like she’ll come apart anyway. Something this new, a feeling this big, reaching across the expanse of her, consuming her--she thinks she’ll lose something here tonight. Gain something. Tie the two together and be something different come morning. 

She used to worry about that, with him. Used to worry that if she ever gave in, ever tried that one last thing to feel how she was meant to with him, she’d be different the next day. She’d be someone else. 

This is something else entirely--so much so, she almost can’t breathe around the realization. That she will be different tomorrow, and that she will not be less Dani because of it, but more, somehow. Something more Dani than she’s allowed herself to be in her whole life, because it was chosen here, tonight, with Jamie’s hands on her body and Jamie’s mouth under her own. 

***

With Dani in her lap, skirt riding up around her thighs, hips moving restlessly, Jamie thinks for a second they’ve hit a wall. A very good wall to hit, she thinks hurriedly. If this is as far as they go tonight, it’s still worlds past anything she really expected from Dani. 

So long as she doesn’t regret it, doesn’t run from me, I could stay here forever. 

Dani, who has been kissing her for what feels like forever, breaks contact and just looks at her. Her hand, soft and cautious and more certain than Jamie expects, presses against Jamie’s breastbone. Pushes again. Jamie shifts backwards, inching up the mattress, pulling Dani with her until she’s flat on her back with Dani looking down. 

“Up to you,” she says. She likes the simple pressure of Dani’s body atop her own, of soft curve fitting all the spaces where Jamie doesn’t usually think of herself as lacking anything at all. Now, though, knowing what it feels like, how the whole of Dani is pressed flush to her, she wonders if she’ll ever feel complete in this bed again. 

“You still--”

“Want?” Jamie’s lips curve. “If you’re asking, there’s something I’m not doing right.”

“I’m sorry,” Dani says, then seems to catch herself. She sighs, smiles, laughs a little in that dizzy, self-conscious way that breaks Jamie’s heart. “This is...as far as I know. This is...”

Jamie nods, understanding. “You trust me?”

***

Dani is nodding, too, liking the way her body is moving almost of its own accord against Jamie’s. She hadn’t even realized she was doing it, hadn’t even realized she was still rubbing lightly against Jamie even as nerves pound through her system. 

“Tell me,” Jamie says in a low, urgent tone. “If anything changes.”

She rolls, then, a quick flash of movement that makes Dani shriek-giggle. From this new vantage point, back pressed into Jamie’s mattress, head on Jamie’s pillow, she feels suddenly so much more intimate than while straddling Jamie’s lap. Doesn’t make sense, she thinks with a thrill of such powerful lust, all she can do is grab again at Jamie’s shirt and hold on. But this is hers, and I’m here, and she’s...she’s...

“Tell me,” Jamie says again, a quiet command that drags soft nails up Dani’s back. She shivers, nodding, and Jamie takes the lead at last. 

***

She hadn’t thought, somehow, about this part. Not in so many firmly phrased words. She’d thought about the shape of it, of Dani in her flat, of Dani in her bed, of Dani kissing her, touching her, but somehow, this part slid away every time it tried to rise in her mind. 

The part of the show where clothes go away. The part of the show Jamie has always liked the most, and the least, at the same time. 

Dani is kissing her when she slides both hands beneath the sweater, easing it up, giving Dani ample time to pull away. Dani, instead, sits up just enough to allow the sweater to rise over breasts, shoulders, head. Jamie drops it off the bed, leans back on her knees, smiles. 

“Is there...” Dani isn’t covering herself, exactly, but there’s a sort of nakedness to her expression that has nothing to do with clothes disappearing. “I mean, am I--”

She leaves it unspoken, a bit embarrassed: right? okay? enough? 

“Perfect,” Jamie tells her. “Absolutely gorgeous.” 

She takes the hem of her own shirt in her hand, waits, pleased when Dani sits up and covers that hand with her own searching fingers. She doesn’t want to go anywhere Dani isn’t willing to take her, and she certainly doesn’t want to deprive her of the small moments that make a first time with someone else so electric. When Dani guides the shirt up over her head, it’s like Jamie’s never done this, either--no woman has ever just looked at her, eyes steady and searching, in a moment like this. 

Women are usually the fast, nervous, lights-off-don’t-talk kind of souls in Jamie’s bed. Touch me, kiss me, don’t look, don’t ask questions, don’t act like you want to be here. But Dani is looking at her with lips parted, hands tracing the lines of Jamie’s neck, collarbones, the dip between her breasts. Her fingers are shaking so hard, Jamie covers them with her own, pulls them to her lips. 

“One thing at a time,” she says quietly. “Anything’s too much, we pull back.”

Dani pulls at her, guiding Jamie’s hands back to work the clasp of her bra, to cover her skin with soft, careful strokes. She arches into Jamie’s hand and whimpers, and Jamie thinks there was no way, no way she could have predicted any of this. Not as it is. Not as Dani is letting it be. 

***

She’d thought, back in the greenhouse, that Jamie’s kiss was enough to drown in. That Jamie’s lips traveling from her mouth to her throat to her ear was enough to drive her wild enough that she’d forget her own name. 

It’s nothing compared to Jamie kissing her now, holding her with gentle hands as she explores every inch of skin she can reach. She is all tongue, all soft bite, all lips on shoulder, on pulse, on everything Dani has never been able to imagine letting someone else even look upon. 

Here, Jamie’s jean-clad legs intertwined with her own bare ones, her skirt rucked high, Dani thinks maybe this is the best it could possibly be. To be in Jamie’s bed, with Jamie’s hand light on her breast and Jamie’s kiss burning hot as she travels lower, as she moves like they’ve got all the time in the world, is maybe the best the world could ever get. 

Every so often, Jamie raises her eyes, and Dani feels something hot and tight clutch in her stomach. Jamie, asking if this is all right. Jamie, sucking a mark into the skin of her belly. Jamie, one hand moving lower so slowly, Dani sort of thinks she’s going to scream. 

***

She’s trying to go slow, trying to take this as easily as she possibly can, but every inch of Jamie is on fire. Part of her is hyper-aware of the reality of the situation: that Dani is nervous, that Dani is special, that Dani is someone Jamie couldn't bear hurting even on accident. And, more: that Jamie’s scar is out on display, that Jamie’s home is out on display, that Jamie is more visible and vulnerable with shirt off and jeans on and mouth pressed to the smooth arc of Dani’s stomach than she’s been in years. 

When Dani takes her by the wrist, she’s sure they’ve gone far enough--that the heat between her own legs will have to wait, that Dani is going to roll off the bed and scramble back into her sweater and away from--

Her hand, wrapped around Jamie’s, slides beneath her skirt. 

Her fingers, wrapped around Jamie’s, guide her to press against damp underwear. 

Her back arches. Jamie groans. 

“Okay,” she breathes, looking up at Dani’s too-blue eyes. “Okay, getting the picture.”

***

She didn’t know. Didn’t have the first idea what this would feel like. Didn’t have even the remotest frame of reference, and if she were anywhere else, if she were with anyone else, maybe she’d still be too keyed-up to find out.

But Jamie is sliding back up the bed, hand rubbing soft, testing circles between Dani’s legs, and yes--she thinks she’s starting to understand at last. 

She kisses Jamie hard, without care of how she looks or being even the least bit smooth, her own hand fumbling toward the zipper of Jamie’s jeans. No time like the present, she thinks with a truly unexpected delight, pleased when Jamie spreads her legs and shifts her hips to help her ease between cloth and skin. 

“Right for it,” Jamie pants in surprise, and Dani is too invested to feel embarrassed. Jamie is soft under her hand, wet, hips jerking to match her clumsy movements. She closes her eyes, concentrates on trying to mirror what Jamie’s doing with her own considerably more nimble fingers. Tries to match her in slow, gentle pressure--then a little faster, as Jamie sucks breath through her teeth--and faster yet, when Jamie presses up in a way she doesn’t fully expect. 

She doesn’t even realize she’s losing control until she’s already halfway gone, her hand tripping and fumbling as Jamie uses two fingers and a series of quick, rhythmic motions to set a pace Dani can’t help but follow with her hips. She realizes she’s rolling onto her back, arching, making noises she’s never heard from her own lips, and Jamie rolls to follow, kissing those noises into muffled joy.

Jamie rides out the spasms with her, keeping her hand exactly where it is, slowing to a gentle rest of fingertips against ruined underwear. Dani’s vaguely aware her own hand is still down Jamie’s pants, no longer moving. She exhales. 

“I--”

“S’all good,” Jamie says, her smile edged with something Dani thinks looks rather smug. “First time. Takes practice.”

***

It doesn’t surprise her, Dani falling asleep soon after. There were some mumbling sounds about reciprocation, about fairness, about wanting to feel Jamie twitch and groan under her fingers--but Jamie, jeans unzipped, feeling rather good about herself, only pulled her in close. Kissed her slowly. Let her fade into a gentle doze against Jamie’s shoulder. 

Good, Jamie thinks, though her skin is buzzing and there is an ache she hasn’t felt in a long time low in her belly. Rest, Poppins. There’s always tomorrow. 

If pressed, she couldn’t say why she feels such pride, such easy pleasure, watching the way Dani sinks into sleep in her arms. Maybe because Dani hasn’t looked like someone with the benefit of a good night’s sleep since Jamie met her. Maybe simply because Dani feels perfectly safe, perfectly notched against Jamie in this small bed. 

Either way, it feels right, Dani’s warm breath spilling across her bare skin. It feels right, even in this dumpy little flat above the only pub in Bly, though Dani is surely too good for a place like this. 

Maybe not for someone like me, though, Jamie thinks blearily, too pleased and too tired to pile upon that idea the weight of a lifetime not being good enough. Past doesn’t matter, not with Dani. It’s different, with Dani. 

She drifts. Tomorrow, they’ll wake to sunlight streaming through thin curtains, and maybe Dani will be a little embarrassed about everything they’ve done--maybe she’ll want to talk about it, or want to pretend it never happened, and Jamie will figure out how to handle the pain of that then.

She falls asleep thinking this is possible--but somehow knowing it isn’t likely. Isn't Dani. It’s too early to know a thing like that, but all the same, Jamie is pretty certain there will be no mortified scramble for clothes, no pushing her aside as Dani runs for the door, no awkward small talk on the ride back to the house. 

She does not anticipate, upon waking, Dani kissing her cheek. Kissing the corner of her lips. Kissing her neck and murmuring, “Morning...” with a question on the end of the word Jamie can’t help but laugh at before she’s even fully awake. 

“First thing, huh?”

Dani smiles at her, the smile of a woman who selected this very date venue not out of any polite curiosity about a small village pub, but because this particular bed existed above it. “Takes practice, you said.”

Jamie inhales sharply as a hand cups very lightly against the front of jeans that feel entirely irrelevant. “I did. Yeah. I definitely did.”

[chimchimsauce]

XS - II (First Impressions)

“Give me just a little bit MORE”

Being the son of the largest gang in the country, Kim Taehyung might as well be a prince. He is more powerful than any one man should be and is not afraid to get rid of anything - or anyone that gets in his way.

So when a man is unable to pay back the gigantic loan he owes Taehyung, the heir is all too happy to take his life. Moments away from pulling the trigger, a girl more beautiful than he’s ever seen bursts in and offers her life for her father’s. Taehyung knows right away that he wants her.

And Taehyung gets everything he wants.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

When YN wakes up, she's alone. For a moment, everything is okay. Her eyes flutter open and she stares up at the tall ceiling, a crystal chandelier throwing rainbows across her face. She sits up and silk slides down her skin, pooling at her waist.

She blinks, temporary confusion washing over her.

Where is she?

It hits her like a truck. She's been kidnapped. Or, rather, she's traded herself to a trigger happy stranger in exchange for her parents' lives. Her parents. A pit forms in her stomach just thinking about them. She has no real way of knowing if her "fiance" plans to go back on their deal or not. Her parents could be dead right now, bleeding out on their dingy kitchen floor with no one the wiser.

YN feels nauseous. She scrambles out of bed and heads to one of the doors in the opulent room, pulling it open. Unfortunately, it's not a bathroom, so she shuts it immediately, opening another and stumbling inside. She barely makes it to the toilet before spilling her guts, retching over the golden seat until nothing but air comes up. Her fingers tremble against the cold metal and porcelain, barely able to maintain a grip on it.

"Are you done?" a cool voice calls out from the doorframe.

YN would have startled if she wasn't so worn out. The best she can do is lift her head and wipe her mouth, glancing towards the source of the sound. The man staring at her is vaguely familiar, large nosed and sharp jawed, handsome in a way that's hard to pull off. For a second, she can't place her finger on it, and then she looks at his tatted hands and shrinks back.

He was the man who held a knife to her throat.

YN's fear must be evident on her face because this man - what was his name again? - grins sinisterly, tightening his loose hands into fists.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna hurt ya," he says in direct contrast to his body language, "The boss likes you too much for me to get away with it."

YN swallows, a terrible taste on her tongue. It almost makes her want to puke again, but she doesn't have anything else left in her.

"He wants to see you," he says, "So you better clean yourself up. First impressions are important."

First impressions?

He doesn't give YN any time to ask questions before disappearing just as quickly as he came.

YN stands on shaky feet, stumbling over to the sink. She looks at her expressing, wincing at the face that stares back at her. Her skin is blotchy and discolored, red eyes looking at her sadly. There's blood on her clothes and ugly bruises from where she'd been manhandled. She can only look at her reflection for a few seconds before she has to look away, not wanting to face the reality of her situation.

Still, the body guard's words get her moving, so YN splashes water on her face, grabbing a towel from the rack by the shower and drying off. She takes a whiff of her shirt and cringes. Honestly, she smells terrible, heady with blood, sweat, and tears. Apparently, a quick splash of water will not be enough, especially if she has to make a "good impression".

She's hesitant to strip down in this place, especially since she doesn't even know if this is going to be her room or not. Still, she turns on the water as hot as it can go, watching with begrudging awe as water pounds down from the ceiling like a waterfall.

YN exits the bathroom, taking in the bedroom for the first time. It almost looks like a princess' room, white and gold with decorative molding on the walls. The carpet is soft and plush, YN's feet sinking into it.

She feels so out of place here and it only amplifies her anxiety about this situation. She doesn't know anything about her captors or even where she is. Taking a shuddering breath, YN finds her way back to the room she was in just minutes ago, switching on the light to reveal a closet bigger than her entire childhood bedroom. It's filled to the brim with clothes, shoes, and accessories that tell her with one glance that they're all designer.

YN doesn't know if she is even allowed to touch anything but she doesn't really have any other choices. She picks the least flashy thing she can find and pulls it off of the rack, surprised that it's her size. Does her captor have a sister? Or worse, a girlfriend?

The last thing YN needs right now is enemies, so she closes her eyes and prays that this is just a coincidence.

She stands under the water pressure, watching the water turn pink and her skin grow raw. There's some delicious smelling shower gel that she uses to wash off the memory of what happened as best she can. She washes her hair, taking her time to detangle it with her fingers and message her scalp, trying to let her thoughts float away with the steam. YN knows that she can't stay in here forever, though, and the fear of Tats coming back has her turning off the water and stepping out, wrapping herself in a warm towel.

Once again, she glances in the mirror. She definitely looks better at first glance, but the look in her eyes is vacant, soulless. YN bites her lip, tightening the towel around her.

"You can do this," she whispers to herself, "Everything will be okay."

She doesn't believe it, not at all, but she has nothing to comfort herself but her own words. YN looks away from her reflection and brushes her teeth with an unopened set of brushes and paste she found, rinsing with mouthwash to get rid of that horrid taste in her mouth.

YN pulls the clothing she picked out on, feeling the soft fabric on her skin. She doesn't know what to do with her hair so she pulls one of the many drawers open and manages to find some products. Creepily, they're the exact same ones she normally uses, along with some expensive looking conditioners and sprays she's never heard of.

Before she can begin, the bathroom door swings open, causing YN to knock her head against the underside of the sink. She curses loudly, tears gathering in her eyes.

"Madame! I am so sorry!" A feminine voice calls out, "I didn't mean to startle you. Boss sent me to help you get ready for dinner."

Dinner? Is it so late in the day already? She could have sworn that it was midday based on the light seeping through the windows.

YN pulls her head out from under the sink and looks at the woman. She's rather short and dressed plainly in black slacks and a black polo. Her hair is clipped in a sleek bob, brushing just under her soft jawline. She's rather beautiful.

"Who are you?" YN asks her.

She's already had enough of people barging into the bathroom.

"My name is Yoonji. Boss has assigned me to help get you adjusted to life here. If you need anything at all, call me to help you."

YN sits on the floor, looking at the woman before nodding her head. Might as well.

"Let me get your hair, madame," Yoonji says, rushing over and pulling out hair products.

YN wants to protest but she's tired and Yoonji's touch is feather light, styling it into something more fancy than YN would usually do.

"Is that what you plan on wearing?" Yoongi asks pleasantly.

Even though her tone is nice, YN can tell what she's suggesting.

"Should I change?" YN asks as Yoongi puts the final touches on her hair, adding pretty diamond studded clips.

"Let me grab something for you."

Yoonji leaves and comes back in a flash, holding a midnight blue evening gown.

"This will be more appropriate for dinner with boss and his parents."

"This . . . boss of yours," YN says, choosing her words carefully, "Who is he exactly? What does he do? Why am I here?"

Yoonji smiles at YN again, but YN can tell that it's more forced than before.

"Everything will be revealed in time. Don't worry about it. Boss is a good man."

YN highly doubts that considering he was only moments away from murdering her parents last time she saw him but she swallows and smiles at her, knowing that she doesn't have any allies right now.

Since her hair has been done up so opulently, Yoonji helps YN out of her clothes and slips her into the beautiful dress. She has no energy to feel embarrassed as she stands there in her underwear (thankfully she found some new sets, all still with the tags on) too emotionally worn. Honestly, YN should be more worried about meeting with "Boss" and his parents, especially since she has no idea what they expect from her, but she knows thinking about it too much will just make her sick again.

Yoonji runs off somewhere and collects accessories, turning YN into a sparkling prom queen. She even applies makeup to YN's face, no doubt hiding the stress etched into every inch of her face. By the time someone knocks on the door, YN is starving. SHe hopes she won't have to go through this process every time she has to go eat.

But when Tats comes back into the room, YN finds herself wishing that Yoonji had taken longer.

"Dinner's almost ready and the Boss is getting antsy. She done yet, Yoonji?" he asks.

"Almost," Yoonji replies, picking up a glass bottle of perfume and spritzing some on YN's collarbones, "She is now."

"Great." Tats says, grabbing YN harshly by her wrist and pulling her upwards, dragging her out of the room.

YN looks back at Yoonji who gives her a thumbs up, whispering a "Good luck," in YN's direction.

YN stumbles over the tall heels Yoonji had placed her in, barely able to keep up with Tats and his long legs as they stride through massive black and white hallways.

'Don't fuck up, okay," he says, stopping in front of an incredibly tall set of doors, "Remember, first impressions."

He swings the door open.

Chapter Three

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Tag List (Add yourself here) 

@dorerenjun @veronawrites @nervouskiwi @tatastaetae @naaji @sunshinechim-98 @hopefilledtrash

[renjunfromthestars]

one last time

Pairing: Haechan + Reader

Genre: Angst, smut? suggestive, fluff, established relationship

Song recs: Lose by Niki,Pluto Projector by Rex Orange County, Sofia by Clario

Warnings: 

Word Count: 2.9k

Summary:

Sometimes, just loving each other isn’t a reason to continue being together.

or

Life consists of moments, and some people are only meant to stay in your life for a moment.

___

September (Now)

When you wake up, it’s breaking dawn. Despite the layers you’re tangled in, it’s still cold in the little one bedroom apartment you share with Haechan downtown. There’s an obscene amount of blankets for the sheer size of the bed; the air condition has been blasting too low for weeks, and neither of you have bothered trying to turn it off. 

The kitchen sink has clogged up a couple days ago, from the buildup of grease or a stray utensil you don’t know—just that the dishes have piled up, and much like the thin balance that holds you and Haechan together, are on the verge of collapsing. 

You question if he still lives with you out of fear of being alone, but you know the answer has always lied in the thin white sheets of the empty two sized bed when you wake up.

Even so, during the rare moments you wake up early enough to see him next to you, there’s an unspoken wall split down the white sheets, and you haven’t really kissed each other in weeks.

As your eyes dart around the room, what should really be considered evidence of your relationship seems old, like artifacts, untouched for centuries. The picture frame that once graced the nightstand, trapped in the crevice between the wall, the 70-millimeter projector Haechan bought you for christmas, back in the box, collecting dust and untouched. 

It’s another day, another changing of the seasons, and you’re still looking for someone to blame, but it's hard to point fingers at someone who isn’t there. 

It’s hard for Haechan to do wrong when he hasn’t been doing anything. So maybe it’s you that make the moments alone feel so long, as you find yourself waiting for just the click of the door opening, a call, a note, a kiss, anything. And maybe one day, if you try hard enough, you’ll find something out of nothing.

But right now, as you hear shuffling and the click of a door, you know he’s only leaving the apartment again. 

September (Before)

It’s bittersweet when the last hints of summer fade into fall, but when you make your way up the stairs and finally drop the boxes on the floor, you don’t mind it as much as you thought you would. 

“It’s so spacious.”

“You don’t have to lie, Channie.”

“No I’m serious.”

“First of all, you’re never serious, and second of all, it’s only because it’s empty and we haven’t unpacked.”

He seems so excited and you can’t blame him, you’re excited too. A place to finally call your own, even if it was the size fit for a Keebler elf. 

As you work on opening each cardboard box, Haechan digs in, taking your things out of the box, organizing them. When you’re finally done, you plop on the couch, resting. When you look over at Haechan he’s focused, with a little drop of sweat traveling down his face as he puts up the curtains. 

Christmas (Before)

“Well, it has character.”

“You don’t have to lie.”

The thing in question, being the little Christmas tree Haechan dragged in despite your insistence that one wasn’t necessary. It’s frail, evidenced by the way the weight of the star bends the tip of the tree, and the firs that branch out from the trunk are discolored. It’s so dry, you think, if you snap the tree in half and start rubbing the sticks together, you could start a fire. You rather not be arrested for arson, so you just sigh. It is kind of endearing, but you’d never admit it. 

“And now we wait for Midnight,” he declares, wrapping his arm around you. “so I can kiss you in celebration.” 

“I think you’re confusing Christmas with New Years.”

 “I figured you’d be difficult,” he shrugs.  “You’re always worried about something,”  he begins, rummaging in his pocket. “Loosen up it’s Christmas, our second one.” When his hand finally leaves his pocket, there’s a small bunch of mistletoe haphazardly attached to a string. He lifts his arm, and it dangles just above your heads. 

“You have to kiss me now.”

“I’d kiss you regardless-” 

“Shut up.” With the swift movement of his head, he presses his lips against you. 

It’s Christmas, and you don’t have a lot of money. It’s Christmas, but you have Haechan, and that’s all that matters. 

…

“Where did you get this, anyways?” 

Haechan scratches the back of his head. “I dunno.”

“Don’t even try lying to me, I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

“It’s not lying if I withhold the truth,” he says stubbornly, and you roll your eyes as you adjust the focus of the screen. 

“No seriously, this is a really nice projector. I don’t think we could’ve afforded something like this if we only ate rice and beans for a month.” 

“I don’t understand why it matters.” he says nonchalantly, chewing on the last of the popcorn

“It matters because rent is due next week, and we’re almost short because of the heating bill.”

“You worry too much.”

“And you worry too little” you interject.

“Not when it’s about you.” he responds, and your face softens. 

He opens his arms, and you crawl into them. You’ve been stressed with work lately, he knows.

You’ve always talked about getting a projector, and how cool it would be (“We could have movie nights!”) but knowing you, you wouldn’t ever drop money on one to buy it for yourself. 

It’s the last of his graduation money well spent, just to make you happy. 

New Years (Before)

You don’t know if it’s the twinkling lights, or the atmosphere (or the champagne) that has you feeling this way, but you’re feeling quite warm and fuzzy.

You trip and nearly kiss the floor on the way to the snack table when Jaemin catches you.

“Woah woah woah there, easy. Looks like someone’s had too much to drink.” he teases, reaching across the table to grab a napkin. Some of the champagne from his flute spilled onto your dress, and Jaemin dabs a napkin apologetically. 

Renjun glances to his side and gives Haechan a little tap, pointing to your hunched figure. Haechan sighs, and makes his way to you.

To the average bystander, it's an innocent display of chivalry as Jaemin links his arm around yours and you lean on him, searching for a place to put you so you won’t cause anymore trouble, but Haechan can’t help but feel a little, pissed off? Peeved, jealous even. 

“My dress,” you grumble, and Jaemin only laughs. “It’s okay, you still look pretty y/n. You’ve always been.

Yes, you do look pretty tonight, Haechan knows, and when you’re back in his arms, he whispers to you that you’re going home. 

...

You’re breathless when Haechan scoops your legs from right under you, disregarding the heel on your left foot you still haven’t taken off.

“Too slow.” he huffs, and you can only wrap your arms around your neck in support when he impatiently shakes your body slightly so that your shoe falls to the floor. 

When he finally makes his way to the bedroom, he plops you front first. The bed feels so comfy, but you snap back into focus when you hear some rustling, then the familiar clank of the metal of a belt hit the floor. 

When you turn around, he wastes no time kissing you, and you almost forget what you wanted to say.

“We didn’t even-” Haechan begins to slide his hand under your dress, interrupting you. “Even see the ball drop” you manage to gasp out. 

“Does it matter?” he hums. Your strapless bra is yanked right out from under you, and any resolve you had to press the topic any further goes with it.   

“It is so bad that I want to spend some quality alone time with you on New Years?”

He’s so worked up it’s almost comical, and he makes it a point to fuck you so that you’ll be feeling it for the next week, but you’re not complaining. It’s quality alone time after all. 

Spring (Before)

If  they say March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb, then your sanity must have left with it. You get a job promotion, and Haechan well, finally finds a job after months of searching. Haechan’s excited, you’re excited, money isn’t as much of an issue anymore, and you couldn’t be happier.

With your newfound responsibilities, you find that it’s hectic at work, so you’re hardly home when he is. When you are, you find yourselves  too tired to do anything but stick a frozen dinner in the microwave, and call it a night. But when you can, you try to set aside a day to eat together, to do something.

It’s difficult at first, but it’s okay, because change is arduous, and it’s okay, because  you have each other.

You try your best to call during lunch breaks, but even then, the calls get shorter, and spending time together becomes an afterthought. The time you do spend together is awkward, with strained silences in between that make you think, was it always like this before? You would almost prefer arguing- then you would at least be talking to each other.

Maybe the riff between you two goes deeper than that, then just work on the surface. It’s riddled with doubt, uncertainty. Doubt, when he says he has extra hours he needs to do at the company, uncertainty when you don’t know when you’ll see him next. You don’t need to lose your mind every time he doesn’t call, because he certainly doesn’t. He doesn’t, so you won’t. You shouldn’t have to win his love, right? because you have it. You’ve always had it.

You don’t know when it occurred to you that his laugh began to mean something more to you--but right now, you’re not so sure when you started evolving into strangers.

Summer (Before)

Spring bleeds into summer, and work lets down a little. Haechan has the day off. You let him know you’ll be coming home a little early, and you do, right before the sun sets, groceries in hand.

When you slip off your shoes and hang your jacket on the coat rack, you make your way to the kitchen. As you make your way to the kitchen, you notice the pans on the stove, and the single empty set aside in the sink.

When you make your way to the bedroom, you find him on his back, scrolling aimlessly through his phone.

“Does this even matter to you, if we eat together?”

“Not really,” he shrugs.

You drop the subject.

September (Now)

Maybe at a time you felt free here, but right now, everything about the apartment is suffocating, the blankets, the air, the silence. You bring out the duffel bag you haven’t used since you’ve moved in, and begin to fill it with your belongings. You need to be somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere but here.

Dusk is transforming into evening when you finally see him. He’s leaning against the door frame, with the light of the sunset illuminating the thin wisps of hair that frame his face. In baggy sweats, and your favorite white tee of his, with the tiny hole on the sleeve from wearing it so much (because you liked it, he once said), in the rose tinted light, he’s the spitting image of the boy you fell in love with, the boy you’ve always loved, for the past year, months, weeks. But when you take the time to look closer, he looks tired, with his eyes sunken and hollow. At the edge of the room is as close as he gets, but he feels miles away

“Where did you go today?”

“I was out with a friend,” you lie. You’re always there when he comes home, and that hasn’t changed. But how else are you going to explain the traces of makeup that linger on your face, and the fact that you’re dressed? You didn’t think he’d care enough notice, let alone point it out. You look up at him, but his gaze remains on the floor, shoe digging in the peeling carpet.

When you see his jaw tense and lips begin to part, you see a glimpse of the man who used to hold on to you like you were the last person on earth; he’s lost the right a long time ago, to be overprotective, to ask about your day, like it would make any difference now. It’s when his gaze travels from the carpet, to the closet, the empty hangers, the sweater in your hands, the bag, he stops; it’s finally sinking in. 

Baggy sweats, in a white t-shirt with his heart on his sleeve. Messy hair, he looks like the man you’ve always known, always loved, last year, last month. Today, and even tomorrow when you’re on that train going far far away. If you get on that train.

Because you’ve been thinking: Is this what love is? They say distance makes the heart grow fonder, but all you’ve been feeling these days is empty. Even so, after all this time apart, you still feel the urge to kiss him. 

“Where are you going?” he looks at you, the closet, the bag.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t need to lie to me.”

The answer is in your silence, and wordlessly, he walks past you and lays on the bed. 

“Come here,” he says, and his body forms a crevice on the bed that hasn’t been there for months. 

“I don’t think I should.”

“Please,” his voice breaks, and you feel your plans begin to tear apart at the seams. “Just one last time.”

He knows he can’t stop you from leaving, it’s inevitable, an unspoken end. He can only delay it.

There's a soft crinkle as he wraps his arms around you in your jacket, tightly, almost painfully. 

“The truth is, I- I still, I-”

“I know,” you say softly, interrupting him. “Me too.”

…

When you wake up it’s breaking dawn, and you’re tangled in the arms of the only thing you’ve ever known love to be. He looks so peaceful, with the light of dawn shining on his bare face like drops of morning dew catching the sun. He’s still Haechan and you’re still you, but you know things are different now, and somewhere along the way you forgot to tell each other about it.

You hastily get your bag, leaving no room for second thoughts.

As you head out the door, you see a bag of groceries carelessly dropped on the counter, the bag broken. You see oranges, cereal, a carton of eggs all for two. You see your favorite brand of instant coffee, the one Haechan hates, but always buys for you anyway.

It’s bittersweet as the last hints of summer fade into fall, and you mind it. You mind it a lot. You know there will be a time again when everything will fit right in, but right now, everything is falling apart and you can’t look back. Maybe in a different life you both fight all day, but kiss all night. In another universe, things could still be changing too. You could be leaving this little apartment together, on a train maybe to somewhere bigger. 

September (Before)

“y/n?”

“Yes Hyuck?” you say absentmindedly, fiddling with his silver necklace as you lay on his chest. You’re both tired from unpacking, and you might be just a little late for work. It doesn’t matter, you can spare the subway fare instead of walking. 

“Where do you want to live eventually?”

“I have no idea, but I’m open to anything. I think it would be really cool to live in the city,” you ponder. “but I wouldn’t be able to live there my whole life, you know? What about you?” 

“I kinda wanna live in Utah.”

“Utah is really pretty.” you agree. “Airplane tickets are kinda expensive though, trains are cheaper, but it might take a little longer, and I don’t know if I can be in confined space with you for that long.” you tease.

“Don’t lie you love me,” he grumbles. “It just seems so great,” Haechan continues. “It’s rural and the houses are so big and-” he suddenly pauses. “What if we can’t find jobs in the same location?”

“Hyuck why are you so worried about all this? ” You can only laugh at the little frown he makes in response. “We just moved in, and all of this is so far ahead in the future.”

“I want to make your life amazing,” he announces, “I want the best for us so figured I might as well start planning now.”

You’re ready to tease him for his sudden onset of seriousness, for being so out of character. The Haechan you know doesn’t plan; he scarfs down cereal each day in the morning, and throws on the first item he sees-but when you look up at him, his eyes are filled with sincerity—He’s dead serious. 

As you sit up you kiss his forehead, cupping his face in your hands. Feeling his cheeks contract as you pull away, he purses his lips.

“Kiss me?”

“Okay, just one last time,” you laugh. “I really need to go now though.”

______________________________________________________________

a/n: I don’t know why but I’ve been writing a lot of sad stuff lately, I hope this one makes sense lmao. Let me know what you think, feedback is always appreciated

[solastia]

Sanctuary | 2

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x F!Reader

Summary: Your bed & breakfast has a new regular...Jeon Jungkook of BTS

You shuffle into your office, still a little sleepy despite having a shower and having a steaming cup of coffee in your hands. You weren’t sure what the cause of it was, but you’d been entirely too restless to sleep well. Too much excitement, perhaps?

You shrug to yourself and sit into your office chair with a loud yawn, ruffling your still damp hair as you power on your laptop. You still hadn’t received any reservations for this week and you were hoping someone would come by for the weekend at least. You had some honeymooners reserved for next week, but that didn’t help you now. An entire week without guests would put a noticeable deficient in the books.

That’s why when you pulled up your check-in program and saw that you’d been booked for the entire week by a single client, you had to verify that you weren’t still asleep. You pinched yourself and cringed at the pain, staring again at the program.

Sure enough, it was all still there. One client, for seven days straight. They’d booked the biggest room upstairs, the only one up there besides your own. What was incredibly strange is that they changed the offered rate. Normally, you were one of the cheapest places in the area and charged $120 a night. Not bad for one of the more expensive areas in Northern California. This person was offering you a deal of $300 per night, along with fees for meals and a hefty “to be discussed” tip if you were to close reservations for anyone else. They were trying to rent the whole place? So probably some celeb going for anonymity by hiding in an unknown B&B.

You shrugged. It wasn’t that crazy, although most local celebs tended to hang out in Carmel rather than around here. And it certainly wouldn’t be the first one you’d hosted, simply the first one that had been so generous. The other two were well-known names and you’d been expecting a hefty tip from them but they’d been surprisingly tight-fisted. One had even tried to argue your nightly fee down in exchange for using the name of your place on his social media. You’d been happy to decline.

While a little more business would be nice, you didn’t want the place overrun. You wanted it small and cozy. Safe, for yourself as well as your guests. The whole purpose of the place was to have somewhere calm and comfortable to escape to.

This person must be especially desperate if they were booking the entire place to be alone. There wasn’t a mention of them bringing any other guests with them. You exhaled noisily and clicked accept, sending them a little welcome email with all the instructions they’d need. You wondered with a self-amused grin if you should start putting a little footnote mentioning that celebrity scandals or drug-filled parties were not allowed on the premises.

You lean back in your chair when you’re done, taking sips of your now luke-warm coffee as you think over everything that you have to do to get ready. According to the form they filled out, they’d be arriving that evening. You kept the house in shape daily so you didn’t have much to do in the way of chores, but you should make a menu for the week, get the fireplace in the room prepped, and hit up a few of your friends for the local event tickets.

Thor comes up and bumps your thigh, reminding you that you still had to take him out.

“I got you, buddy,” you chuckle, standing up with a groan and going to fetch his leash. “We have a long day ahead of us, and then maybe you’ll have a new friend for a bit, huh? You gotta be on your best behavior.”

Thor barks softly and you pretend he’s answering you instead of demanding you hurry the hell up with your shoes. You decide at the last minute to throw on a hoodie too since the temperature was lowering fast. You hiss as you step outside and hope that Thor manages to get his business done fast. But even the chill wasn’t enough to bring down your mood. Today was going to be a great day. You could just feel it in your bones.

****

You had just finished putting another batch of cookies in the oven when you heard someone arrive and ring the little bell you kept on the front desk.

“Good evening! I’ll be right there, but go ahead and shut the door if you want!” You holler from the kitchen as you wash your hands.

You’d left the door open just in case they came around while you were putting around the place, but now that they were here you could finally turn on the heater.

You dry your hands and pat down your shirt and pants as you walk, hoping you didn’t look too casual. Jeans and a flowy blue button-up blouse with matching flats seemed casual yet comfortable. And you were wearing your pearls just in case they were the stuffy sort that would look down on you for not looking at least a little professional.

“Hi, welcome to Sanctuary! I’m -”

“Hey, Noona,” a cheeky-toned voice answered as you turned the corner and entered the foyer.

Your eyebrows fly up as you see the tall figure standing there. “Jungkook?”

He looks...fucking glorious. Black pants that look like they are painted on tucked into those stomper boots he seems to love. Plain black t-shirt tucked into his pants and a blue flannel shirt over that. Sitting next to him is a large black backpack that is easily half as big as him.

He grins cockily and leans against the desk. “They gave me a couple of weeks off so I’m here on vacation. Please take care of me,” he bows with mock formality.

“You’re the one that booked the whole place, right?” you ask, bringing up your computer application to check him in. He leans in way too close and looks over your shoulder as you work.

“Yup! One of the managers did the form though. Did he do everything I asked? Up the rate and made sure you feed me?”

You snort, “Yes, Jungkook. They are paying me an astronomical amount and I have plenty of food. Although, I only went shopping for one normal person. You’ll probably go through it all it two days, so make me a list.”

He chuckled lowly and you shivered, feeling his breath on your ear.

“Well, I’m not eating every meal here. I’m going to go out sometimes, too. Maybe noona can show me some nice places?”

You struggle to hold back a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

A shrill beeping started in the kitchen and Jungkook jumped back, looking around curiously.

“Cookies,” you answered the silent question. You finish typing a couple of things in the program than jump up and rush towards the kitchen, amused to notice Jungkook hot on your heels.

You shove your hand in a glove and pull out the pan, your own stomach rumbling a little from the delicious smell of chocolate chip cookies. It probably also didn’t help that in your rush to prepare for your guest you might have forgotten your own meals.

You scoop them onto the wire rack, so focused in the work that you forgot about the other person beside you until his thieving hands begin reaching towards one of the scalding hot cookies. You smack it with the spatula.

“Let it cool,” you order unapologetically, forgetting for a moment he was an actual guest. His sheepish grin assured you that there were no hard feelings. And that he would probably do it again.

“Are you hungry for actual food?”

He nods quickly, helping himself to one of the bar stools at your prep counter.

“Yeah. I ate this morning, but then I had to finish this interview before they’d let me go free. And that means an hour in hair and makeup for five minutes of questions,” he rolls his eyes and props his cheek onto his hand as he watches you.

“Ugh,” you grunt sympathetically. You look around for the menu you’d made for the week and hand it to him. “Look this over, will you? Let me know if there’s anything you don’t like.”

He silently reads your list as you prepare him a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. And maybe you sneak a couple for yourself as well.

Finally, he nods and tosses it over. “It’s good. Maybe add some Korean food if you know how to make any. I noticed there weren’t any restaurants.”

“Yeah, this place isn’t really known for its diverse cuisine. But if you want fifty seafood places, we have you covered.”

He snorts, “Kinda like home.”

You laugh, remembering how many little food carts littered Busan’s beaches.

You place his snack in front of him and he dives in happily, his eyes wide with happiness. You slide into the seat next to him and study him.

“So, Jeon Jungkook. What are your plans for the week? Are you going to stick around the house most of the time or should I maybe find some places for you to visit? I have lots of friends that I can get tickets from.”

He takes a huge gulp of milk and sighs contentedly before he answers. He shrugs, “Mostly around here. This is my time to actually relax. Definitely going to the beach and taking some photos. Other than that, I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” you hum, propping your chin in your hand. “The main attractions out here are all marine-based, so it’s up to you if you want to see any of it or if it’s all just old news to a Busan boy. But we do have the marine sanctuary nearby, there’s whale watching, and I think the butterfly exhibit is still going on. It really depends on how far you’re willing to travel. Monterey has even more things to do.”

He looks almost shy when he glances up at you. “Is it okay if we just stay here tonight?”

Your filthy disgusting mind conjures up all sorts of things hearing a sentence like that coming from Jeon Jungkook’s mouth, but you gulp and hope your voice sounds normal.

“Yup. Of course. It’s your vacation. Most guests don’t even interact this much with me. They just check-in and have meals sent to their room.”

“It’s okay. I like having noona around,” he grins, his eyes crinkling mischievously. Brat.

He looks around suddenly. “Hey, where’s Thor?”

“I usually keep him in my room until I figure out how pet-friendly the guest actually is.”

“You can let him run around, I’m fine,” he grins with excitement and follows behind when you get up and head towards the stairs.

Once you reach the top you can already hear Thor sniffing on the other side. You fling open your bedroom door and let him practically fly towards Jungkook. The man tries to sneak a peek inside before you slam the door shut, not ready to let the international celebrity see your mess.

Instead, you nod towards the room across the hall and gesture with your arm.

“This one is yours.”

He grins softly and walks around peeking at everything, patting the covers of the bed until Thor jumps up. He sits next to him and nods.

“It’s so nice. You did a good job.”

“Thanks,” you grin lopsidedly as you take a quick look around. “I think I did okay too. I’m no interior designer, but I was hoping for homey.”

“It’s relaxing,” he agrees with a nod. “I couldn’t even do this with my own place. I just threw some blankets on the floor and set up my PC. I don’t even think I have proper dishes. I had to eat cereal out of the plastic bag inside,” he giggles.

You shake your head, unsurprised really.

“This TV is pretty big too,” he grunts as he climbs towards the headboard of the bed, then crosses his ankles with a sigh, setting against the plush pillow behind him and playing with the remote. “Do you get all the channels?”

“Yeah,” you nod, standing there awkwardly now as he gets comfortable. You should probably go make dinner now or something, right?

“Oh nice,” he suddenly exclaims exactly, tossing the remote away. “Deadpool is on. Come watch, noona,” he says, patting the spot next to him on the bed.

His eyes are huge and there’s not a single hint on his face that this is a joke. He looks innocent and earnest. Just where was this “shy” Jungkook you’d always heard about?

You shuffle towards the bed and slowly lower yourself onto it, trying your best to avoid actual contact with him. He didn’t seem to approve because he actually scooted closer until his rock hard thigh was pressed right up against yours.

“Get comfortable, noona. I don’t have rabies,” he chuckled, tugging you down a little more until you were sharing a pillow.

Fuck. How was it possible for a man to smell so good, you moaned in your head. Thor - the traitorous bastard - was cuddled in a circle right in between Jungkook’s legs. He looked well on his way to taking a nap.

You focus on the tv, not really watching the movie, and trying instead not to hyperventilate. He was so close and you didn’t know what to do with your hands. You felt like a nervous teenager.

It was probably midway through the movie when you first heard it. A tiny little wheeze. Then, the man next to you felt like he was slipping. You turn and grin when you notice that Jungkook is pretty much out for the count. His head has slipped right onto your shoulder and his mouth is wide open as he sleeps, his nose making a cute little rattle instead of outright snores.

You huff and look around, yawning as the feeling of laying in bed finally begins to catch up with you as well. You hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, so it was understandable. But Jungkook probably didn’t get much sleep on a regular basis, so you’d hate to disturb him now. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to rest your eyes for a little bit. Just until it was time to make dinner.

You give in to the lazy feel of the room and shut your eyes, snuggling into the pillow a little more. You barely noticed when a strong arm flipped you over gently and pulled you closer.

[cybrfang]

Just What You Needed... A Sick Day.

Anon Asked: Could you do a fic where Marko takes care of his sick, human girlfriend please? :) This has taken forever, and it might have been more comedic and focused on the downfall. My bad lol...

You had been out all day, buying some new clothes. You still have a lot of your old clothes with you… but after moving into the cave with the guys, all of what you had started getting the after effects of surprise hugs. Leaving what you would be wearing covered in blood, that you couldn’t (for the life of you) wash out. And trust me, you tried everything. Lemon and bleach, bleach alone, alcohol, and even fire. But it’s not like you had the guts to go and send everything you owned to the dry cleaners. That just sounded like too many questions that you didn’t have the answers to. 

“What would I even say the blood was? Fucking jam? How much jam would I be eating to destroy an entire wardrobe!” You mumbled to yourself, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a loud sneeze, the dust around you floating in the air. Pulling out your hand sanitizer, you let out a groan. You normally squeezed your nose shut before a sneeze, but oh well. 

You would feel too horrible if you asked the boys to stop hugging you when they got back from a hunt, and besides, you definitely enjoyed the hugs. They chased the loneliness away after being in the cave by yourself for a few hours. So a weekly shopping trip with Max’s credit cards was the solution. Dwayne had slipped it into your wallet once and refused to take it back. 

The haul was pretty good today. Though you didn’t buy everything you brought home… the boys always said if it was a big corporation and you can do it, definitely rob ‘em blind. You were starting to pick up a few bad habits from them. What you did buy we’re some new tank tops, a few pairs of pants, three pairs of shorts, new boots, and even some new underwear. Your underwear was fine, but you figured Marko wouldn’t mind something new. You could even imagine the way his face would light up, and his entire body would somehow twitch. 

You were putting your clothes away in your part of the cave when a massive headache bloomed behind your eyes, and spread to your temple. It didn’t slow you down though, you figured it was there due to a lack of sleep. Staying up with the boys all night and being up half the day wasn’t really good for your body. But with the plan tonight in mind, you figured you should take a little more care of yourself. So you popped some Advil and keep organizing your stuff. 

You started making some food when you noticed your sinuses had gotten clogged all to hell. You had noticed your nose running earlier on the boardwalk, but you figured the pollen was just trying to fuck with you. But now it seemed like something else, putting your nerves on end. You started scanning around the cave, looking for some Claritin, or one of those sticks that you’d shove up your nose and snort. Anything that would help you feel better. 

“Please let this just allergies… PLEASE let this just be allergies!” You doubted it, but tried to ignore those thoughts and the feeling of the cave just getting way too cold. Even though it was a nice 98 degrees out, with a slightly there kinda breeze. 

It was when you started to change your clothes that your mouth started salivating. You groaned as your stomach started clenching, flipping over and over. Just in a shirt, you went to wander over towards the cave opening, gripping the rocks along the wall as you went. The air pressed onto your sweaty face, almost like it was trying to push you over and watch you tumble backwards. You shuddered, holding your stomach and slowly lowering yourself into your knees. 

“No… I don’t want to…” You felt tears quickly well up in your eyes as you whimpered. You absolutely hated the feeling of getting sick. And you couldn’t deny that you were probably racking up some kind of fever.  It was too painful for you to handle, vomiting that is. The thought of vomiting without your control made you sob out loud, spitting the liquid in your mouth onto the ground. You had your eyes shut, while you tried to take deep breaths. So you missed the noise behind you as the sun disappeared under the horizon.

You finally heard the sound of rushing footsteps, but you were already rushing over to the edge, all the contents in your stomach forcing itself up your throat. You were loudly crying now from the strained clenching of your body.  A hand reached out to touch your stomach, while the other rubbed your back. The feeling of being held made you feel overwhelmed, like you were tiny. 

“Shhh…shhhh it’s okay babe… I got you.” Marko whispered into your ear, pulling you close to his cold body. 

You started trembling horribly as your crying worsened, snot falling from your nose. All you wanted to do was rest your head on the rocks, but each time you tried, your stomach would clench again, giving you a small warning before you puked what little you had left in your system. 

Your eyes were burning from the tears when you stopped throwing up, calming down enough to just become exasperated with the whole situation. Marko waited for you to breathe normally again before he picked you up, pulling you against his chest. You peeked open your eyes, clutching his jacket as he walked you back to your bed. 

“God Marko, I feel like shit man.”

“Oh really? I didn’t notice.” He chuckled, squeezing you closer against him. 

He made it seem like you were water and he was desperately trying to stop you from leaking from his cupped hands. Over the top you know.  You were used to him being pretty dramatic, but with you feeling this bad, it made you want to act smaller than you were, and he knew that pretty well. 

 Marko finally placed you under the covers, and as he went to pull away,  he jerked forward and fell next to you. You watched his eyes process what had just happened with some amusement. He slowly looked down towards your hands to see you gripping his jacket. He opened his mouth to say something but you beat him to it. 

“I’m sorry hot stuff… I didn’t know I was gon-”

“Y/N it’s fine, it’s fine! Don’t freak out about it.” He gave you a crooked smile, reaching out to wipe a tear sliding down your cheek. “I mean it’s not like you planned to throw up your intestines all over our welcome mat.”

You let out a sharp laugh, inhaling too quickly and snorting. It killed your pounding head but it made Marko’s face light up and join you. You should’ve felt stupid for apologizing, it wasn’t your fault for getting sick and you knew that. But on tonight of all nights? How could you really be that stupid? 

Marko’s laughter died, his eyebrow raising while watching your face contort with exasperation. He reached out and pressed his thumb against the middle of your eyes, smoothing down the skin. 

“Don’t you dare beat yourself up, or I’m gonna have to beat you up. Then I’ll have to beat me up for beating you!” He pushed off the bed, leaving you to groan at how lame his joke was. 

“Why do you always get so unfunny when I get sick?” You questioned, watching him look around your room. 

“Cuz I’m mostly just worried about you babe, can’t be on my A-game all the time.” He picked up an extra blanket that had found its way on the floor, turning around to tuck you in with it. “Especially not when I’m overthinking and scared as hell that something’s really wrong.” He looked back at your face and gave you a smile. “Even though I know it’s just a small thing.”

Your chest felt tight, and your heart sped up. Why did he have to be so over dramatic and sweet at the same time. You think you could quite literally die with how happy he made you at the moment. 

“Oh Marko… I’ll be alright. I’m just a little sick that’s all. It must’ve been something I ate.” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, grabbing the blanket and pulling it closer to your neck. 

You missed Marko’s smile dropping as he watched you try and wrap yourself up like a burrito. He reached out and stopped you, tucking the blanket under one side of you while keeping the other free. 

“Nooooo… I’m so cold, you gotta tuck my other side.” You pouted at him, trying to give him your best puppy dog eyes. Before he could explain why he did what he did, you started hacking into your elbow. Your throat felt like it was tearing down the center with each cough. When you finally stopped, you let out a sigh almost like a moan. 

“What I was going to say before you so rudely interrupted me,-” You rolled your eyes but gave him a weak smile at his attempt at humor. “-If your cold as hell, then you’re probably gonna get hot as fuck later.” He reached forwards and swept your hair from out of your eyes, smiling expectantly at you. You saw a remnant of something familiar in Marko’s eyes as he looked down at you with such a fond look on his face. You had a feeling you knew what he was thinking about. 

“Remind me-” you started, reaching up to stroke his jawline. “-if we ever meet your little brother, I need to thank him for all the nurse lessons you got looking while after him.“ 

Marko let out a loud chuckle, his face warming at the thought of his brother. But another thought made his smile turn into a smirk.

“Do you think I should get a sexy nurse uniform, maybe prance around and talk in a soft high pitched voice?” Marko stood back, walking around while lifting himself to make him look like he was a graceful dancer. “Oh you don’t look so good suga’, maybe I should give you the big needle now instead of later!” His voice was raised a few octaves, with a southern lisp to it. 

“You already do that on the daily hot lips, there’s no need to be ashamed about it.”

“Ah ah ahh don’t be so mean, I was thinking about giving you a sponge bath later tonight, I would’ve had to get in with you and everything.” Marko pointed at you like you had done a serious wrong, his free hand on his hip.

After a second of silence you both laughed, Marko sitting down on the edge of your bed. A tickle in your throat had you coughing softly again, letting it build up into something hard and violent. This time the sides of your throat seemed to cave in. You were about to complain when you felt the cold leave your body. It was a short lived relief as you started kicking the blankets off of you. Marko rushed back to your side, placing one of his colder hands on your forehead, while the other was placed on your abdomen. 

“Ya know we could’ve played with the sexy nurse and sick patient role play after the whole initiation thing tonight.” You mumbled, letting out a forlorn sigh, closing your eyes tightly. “Where are the rest of the guys anyway?” You asked.

“I sort of told them to just beat it while I took care of you. They’re with Star playing the bait game, so when you get better you’ve got your pick of food.”

You nauseous again and suddenly there was a bucket in your hands. Marko must’ve grabbed it when he found the blanket for you. There was nothing left in your stomach, but the idea of finally killing someone and drinking their blood made the acid down there want to call it quits now. 

“Sorry I completely forgot that’s something gross to a living human being. It’s my breakfast, lunch, and dinner ya know?” He rubbed the exposed bit of your back as the vomiting quieted down. You dropped the bucket, not caring if anything spilled out. Lucky for Marko, none did. 

“Tonight was supposed to be the night I became one of you guys… I was supposed to become family and I got sick!” Your arms flailed out around you when you put the emphasis on the word sick. 

“…But you’re already family (Y/N). No matter when you become one of us… you already are one of us.” Marko stated, pushing you back down on the bed. “And let me repeat myself from earlier, you didn’t plan on puking up your guts tonight did you?“ 

Marko let out a ‘hmmmm’ of approval as you shook your head no. He kept going before you could beat yourself up again. 

“When you feel better, the first thing we’re all going to do is shove that wine down your throat, and take  you out for a ride. How does that sound beautiful?”

A sigh slipped from your lips and the images of you sitting behind Marko, your eyes a brilliant yellow. 

“I think that sounds like a great idea.” You giggled as he leaned down to kiss you firmly on your forehead. 

“Now that that’s settled, I have to find you a few things. Probably some soup, NyQuil, a thermometer, ice pack, and some water.” He paused while you sniffled, the sound was clogged and slimy. “Let’s add  a humidifier to that list. I’ll be back in a second. You know where the bucket is, and don’t fully cover yourself with the blanket.”

He stood up to leave, but stopped when you called out to him. 

“Can you find some eye drops, my eyes are burning like crazy right now." 

"Sure,  just call me Dr. Marko and I’ll be at your beck and call.” He did a curtsy, lifting at your laugh. 

“Yeah… I preferred the nurse really. Nurse Marko just seemed… sexier.”

“That’s it, no sponge bath tonight, and no fluffing when you feel better.”

“But Marko!!”

The last thing you heard was a playful chuckle, and he was gone. But it was fine, you could just give him hell when he got back. You really could just die of happiness right now.

[ordonianhero]

Dawn of a new Adventure

A Linked Universe fan fiction. No real warnings needed other then a bit of language. its 2,408 words. Angst/fluff. Little bit of everyone involved. 

Synopsis: The weather get really bad and they just need to find shelter. However the more they journey the worst their moral and mood get. Things get testy. will they find shelter?

Authors note: this came about with our own stormy winter weather blasting through where I live. I hope you enjoy. feel free to create art from any of this or any of my other writings. I would love to see what stuck out to all you creators out there. I love the whole family platonic like bond like thing...so for the life of me don’t go turning this in to LINKCEST or anything NSFW.  The Creator Jojo has requested so and I am with them on that. thank you. Now enjoy. 

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Wind: dang we missed the before the story stuff.

Hyrule: well someone had to take their time.

War: excuse me?! I can’t just go walking out in plublic in nothing but lounge wear.

Legend: SHHHHH shut up you three. the story is about the begin.

-silence-

loud popcorn crunching comes in the direction of Wild. Everyone angrily looks at him. Twilight take the bowl away.

story begins- loud sounds of Hyrule entertainment played by kudzus, by fairies. Time having to swat them away. “Enough!”

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  "It's raining sideways!" grumbled the Veteran. The rain blasting at them all as they trudged through a storm. The hair dripping and sticking to their faces. "Surprised its you who is complaining and not our Captain." The smith stated, his hood over his head. The heroes all had experienced unwelcoming weather. However it never makes for an easy journey. The leader of the group was equally not in a pleasant mood with such weather. The cold temperature and soaked clothing seeped into his sore joints from old injuries. He kept his mood to himself, however I knew they best find some sort of shelter. Cloaks did nothing to protect them with the wind blowing harshly, and Rain blinding them with every step they took. Their boots muddy and soggy. If they didn't find shelter soon, they were bound to catch a cold from it.

 They all halted under some Trees for some cover after some time. The rancher blew into his hands attempting warm part of himself up. The wind picked up again, the Trees creaked and moaned. The rain pounding ever hard. This was some storm that had happened. It being winter, that'd be expected. The leader of their group rubbed his sore joints. "So do any of you know which Hyrule we are in?" asked the captain, attempting to ring out his royal blue scarf. Pointless really. They all looked at each other. None of them knew. The young sailor seem to cling to Sky, as he shivered. "only if we had a map or something to show us a place for shelter." The smith stated shaking out his boot. Wild has been quiet, he had done on his warm doublet and his hood, however now even those were failing him.  The rancher shook out, rain water getting ever, a useless thing to do. however it helped him at least be able to see things better. The water droplets had started to form on his eye lashes. "I am sure if we keep moving we will find something." He then suggested. Standing around getting more soaked wasn't going to fix their situation. They all nodded. "so would you like to take the lead then?" suggest the Leader. Rancher looked over at them and then over the rest. "I can take over." He replies, adjusting his sword and pelt. The leader came over and placed his hand on his shoulder. The rancher could tell the Old man was hurting bad. The rain was starting to slow down enough. "Okay, let's get going then." he states as he turned to lead them down the path more. He wasn't very comfortable taking lead. The captain stuck closer to the old leader then, while the wild one and traveler joined the rancher in the front. ********  They had wonder for hours it seemed, as the rancher lead them through the dense woods. It only provide them with some protection from the raging storm going on. The mood in the group had started to get very unpleasant. Some grumbled under their breaths, some whined, and some just stayed quiet. Their mind filled with images how much a warm bath would be nice or a warm fire, with a warm drink. A bed for comfort. It's amazing how weather can make one romanticize little things other's take for granted. Even Wild, who enjoyed the outdoors was thinking about the comfort of a good shelter. His Hyrule always being unpredictable with the weather. The rancher even was thinking how much he would give anything to have a bowl of warm soup. That also reminded him of the time he visited the yetis. Dunking warm baked bread in to a bowl of soup. All their minds were swimming with wishes and images of comforts. So much so that they were all so lost in thought. As the rain once more came down hard. Big, hard, Fat rain drops. "Okay, Could Hylia please let up on us for once." Grumbled the Veteran and in a what would of been comical moment, they all seem to slip and fall like dominoes in the mud. The young sailor sat up and slammed his fists into the puddle he fell in and sob, "I can't do this. This is fucking miserable. I would take being flung out of a canon then this." Sky came over and helped the young sailor up and held him. The captain helped the Older leader up. "probably best we find a cave or something." he tried gently suggesting. "too bad the wild child's stupid slate cant bother work or we wouldn't be this stuck." the veteran angrily says trying to get some of the mud off his tunic.  

 Wild looked down, his wet hair covering his face. Rancher turned and snapped, "Hey, that aint his fault. We're all in this. Sorry we don't have some 'magical' tool that will just go 'hey, there's a good shelter over there!' " his finger pointing out in some random spot. He bore a face which the veteran has never seen. the rancher rarely snaps and is often more comforting or stern. However never snippy or angry. If he was, he never let it on or turn on other. The veteran now felt guilty for lashing out. The rancher was often protective for sure. he knew he picked the wrong person to go after. "Okay let all take it easy." said the Older leader, rubbing his side he fell on. "Getting snappy won't get us anywhere. we got to just got to keep a look out."  They all stood quiet for a bit, the young sailor was still buried into sky, softly sobbing and shivering.

 The rancher turned and closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh. His breath could be seen in the cold that was creeping in more. He placed his hand on the back of wild and rubbed it gently before moving forward. The other's then followed in step. It was only when they walked a few more miles, they all saw in the distance, illuminated by light among the dark woods. "A CABIN!"  Squealed the Traveler. "wonder if anyone live there?" questioned sky as they all made their way towards it. "who'd want to live way out in the middle of nowhere in thick forest?" stated the Captain. The older leader stayed quiet. "some just do." replied the rancher. The veteran snored, "right." As they approached there was a sign that sated, "Traveling camp cabin."

 "oh! it like the cabin's I came across in my hyrule. It's a place for travelers of all sorts to take shelter in." wild explain. "Is that so?" said the smith. "Yeah. see- they have a place where you can even house your horses." they all looked. "well that mighty nice." the rancher said with a smile. They opened the cabin door. The room was semi large. a single bed, a old wooden table where a leather book laid open. A fire place with cooking pot and kettle hung. Wood off to the side of it. It looked unvisited for some time. the room floors creaked and the building smelt of smoke from previous visitors. A few spiders had made their home there in the odd corner of the building. Rancher tended to making sure Epona was set up in the side horse stall with fresh water and food. Dry bedding and a warm blanket over her back. After he dried her off. He then brought in everyone's packs. Wild had gotten a fire started.

 The group respectfully left their muddy boots by the door. Then they each shed their soaked clothing and put on dry ones. Placing the soaked ones to hang on a well placed wire. One of them brought in some water from the nearby stream, placing some off for cooking and the rest was to wash the mud and grime. it wasn't a warm bath, but it would do in the mean time. They had all agreed the Older leader could take the bed. The rest placed their bedding off to the side for when they would go to sleep. Wild made work on making some hearty soup and Traveler went about making tea. They stayed quiet for some time. some took to doing a bit of work on their items. Such as patching up hole in their clothing, placing new chainmail links and removing damaged ones. Traveler came around handing them a nice herbal tea. To sip on while food was still being work on. The Moment the warm liquid touched their lips, there a unison sigh from everyone. The tea hit the spot in helping in warming their cold bodies up and the warm fire heating up the space.

 The smell of the food wild was preparing was also welcomed. Just a simple soup of creamy meat soup. which consisted of whatever meat wild had on hand, milk, herbs and vegetables. There was a little rack above it for warming bread, which he did. The Rancher had his blanket over his head as he stared down at his chainmail and made work with getting all the broken rings off and putting in new one. The young sailor looked over his shoulder and watched in awe. The Veteran also doing so. The Captain, Old leader and Smith worked on their weapons. Sky stuck with Traveler and Wild, helping where he could. When the rancher spotted the little Sailor watching him, he motioned them to sit beside him. He asked if they wanted to learn how to work on chainmail. The sailor nodded. There was a soft chuckle that came from the Veteran. Rancher paid no attention be then gently started teaching the young one the trick. then hand his chainmail over to them. The nervously looked up at the rancher, who placed a hand on their shoulder. The sailor then fidgeted be felt unsuccessful, so the rancher shifted his sitting spot and placed his hand over the sailors and helped them till they finally were able to do it on their own. in which the rancher praised them. The room filled with warm laughter when the sailor enthusiastically whooped that he did it. The fact they were out of the rain, warm shelter, and food on the way improved everyone's moral.

  Once food was ready, they each got a bowl with some honey wheat bread. "MMM. I am so going to food coma after this." Moaned the Veteran. "Oh please do. Think we had enough salt for the day." the Captain joked, with a mouth semi full of soup and bread. "Zing. One point for Captain. what you going to do about it Vet?" laughed Rancher. with a dead pan look at Captain and replied. "Throw salt at them."

"Oi, no thro-" The Old leader was about to say.

 The Veteran placed his bowl of food down and leaped across to tackle the Captain, who had to quickly put his own food down before he was toppled over. "OOF." Everyone in the room chuckled. "Ah now I get it." said Sky, softly chuckling. "wait- were you like the old man and thought he was going to literally toss salt?" questioned Traveler. "well you never know in this group. Sometimes it takes a bit to realize things- like the Old man's horrible dad joke." chuckled the Smith. The room erupted in laughter. "I think my jokes are rather dadtastic." the old leader said with a gently laugh. "okay, say that when you're around your wife next time." The Vet teases as he was getting off the caption and returning to his own food. There was another roar of laughter from the group. Once after several helpings of soup and all of them had finished their food, a few helped with clean up.

 Bed rolls were laid out ready for sleep. The old leader took to reading a few letter his wife sent. The more younger members took to watch as Captain was once again losing to Rancher in a game of poker. "I for the life of me have no idea how you do it." captain said smiling back at the Rancher. There was a smirk on the rancher's face as he shuffled the deck. "He just that good. You maybe a strategist in this group, but he is the one to read through you bullshit talk and look." Sky chuckled. "Oh is that so, country? predicting my moves are you?" the Captain smirked with a flashy smile. The Rancher didn't reply but handed out the cards again. Then he just smirked once more up at the Captain. The played at least one last round. Which resulted in the Captain fling his cards at Rancher and everyone chuckling.

 Wild made some warm honey and cinnamon milk to help the younger ones to fall asleep easily. Which they drank and fell in to warm milk drunk sleep stage. Everyone else crawled into their bed roll and laid down to sleep. a few snuggled up with certain members. The rancher was last one up. He tossed in two more logs to keep the fire going a bit more before heading to his bed roll. He then caught the eye of the Older leader, who quietly motioned him over. He quietly made his way over. The old leader shifted and motioned for him to sleep beside him. Rancher joined him and curled up in their arms. Soon falling asleep in their arms. "I am so proud of you." whispered the old leader as looked over his blood. Then softly fell asleep himself. The only sound left, was the sound of the heavy rain falling, soft breathing of nine sleeping heroes and the crackling of the fire. Safe and Sound, snug and warm, and forgotten memory how the day first was. *****  When they woke, the warm sun streamed through the window. The fire was out, but the ambers still smoldering, and could be seen dancing in the light. The resident birds chirped. Only a few still not woke. Not shockingly sky being one, but the Old leader and Rancher. Who were known to be early birds in the group. by habit. The Captain suggested to let them sleep in a little more, while getting sky to wake, but grudgingly not ready to get up. Wild set to work making some breakfast. Veteran and Wind went about feeding Epona and giving her some attention. The Traveler Stretched and lout a yawn. "A Dawn of a new day. New adventure awaits us." -Fin.

[suntrastar]

abstract: chapter 3

 chapter 2!! you can also read it on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 9520. i am deranged. someone euthanize me i beg you.

Author’s note: jesus fucking christ. this is so long for no reason. probably kind of poorly written. that is okay though. i really really appreciate the support you guys have given me for the last 2 chapters!! i was a bit iffy about joining tumblr but i’m glad to be here now :) please comment and reblog!! i appreciate it so much!!! ily all ok now enjoy this mess!!!

“You want to paint me?”

Rina looks at you, shocked, mouth agape, lone cherry tomato speared on her fork.

“Yeah,” you say, and smile with your straw still in between your teeth. “You in a field of flowers.”

“You want to paint me in a field of flowers?”

“Yes- that’s literally what I just said.”

The bustle of the restaurant is loud enough to drown out the rising volume of her voice. Thankfully. She’s being excessive, again- as if this is the first time she’s ever been the center of attention- but you’re fine with it today. You almost like it.

Today, her enthusiasm is almost contagious.

“I know,” Rina says “Duh. But, like, it’s just so crazy to me that you want to put me in your second solo show ever- I mean, why me?”

“Because,” you say, and almost leave it at that, just to mess with her. “Because you’re my best friend, and the whole thing is focused on people I know. And your hair would look so good with poppies, and-”

“I’m your best friend?”

“Obviously,” you say, even though to her, it might not be that obvious. “Who else?”

“That is so sweet,” she says, and leans back in her seat, dramatically clutching her hands over her heart. Rings sit on each of her fingers, gold and heavy stone. “You are too nice to me.”

She’s really milking it. But you’ll let it slide.

Rina gives you a self-satisfied smile, which you return without too much trouble. She’s so overwrought and showy with how she sits, limbs sprawled all over, like they’ve been blown into disarray by the wind. Her hair, still glossy red, is parted down the middle and made up in two French braids, tips just barely brushing her shoulders. The hair ties don’t match.

She has no best friend. She probably has, like, five other people just like you, who she calls on when she feels like it, whenever she wants company, when she feels like humoring someone. Or when she wants someone to listen to her talk.

It comes as part of the lifestyle- can you really blame her?

“I know,” you say, veering back on topic. “Bucky gave me the idea.”

You do it on purpose.

Her eyes go wide.

“Bucky?” She says, incredulously. Like she doesn’t believe you.

The feeling of being incompetent comes quick in a flash, and it takes too much to put it away.

You’re not incompetent- his number is in your phone, after all, isn’t it?

“The Winter Soldier, I mean,” you say, and the words feel all wrong in your mouth.

“No . Shut up. You are not on first-name basis with the fucking Winter Soldier.”

“Oops,” you say.

Her jaw drops.

You’re grinning too hard. She didn’t expect this from you- you didn’t expect this from you! You take a bite of your food, some garlicky chicken thing you can’t pronounce the name of, to delay your response. It gives you time to think of what to say next.

Rina waits, stunned into silence.

“We’re… talking, I think,” you say. “I asked him for his number.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Yep.”

There’s a story there, that you won’t tell her.

You texted him a day after class, on Tuesday. Was that too soon? You didn’t care, your mind was too muddled with so many other things- icy blue eyes and different techniques for drawing wrinkles and this week’s shopping list and the best color that went with orange-red, and the laundry that you still hadn’t done.

You were too giddy to get smart with it- all you sent was a simple Hey.

All he sent back was a simple Hi.

Then, once you had read over his message too many times, you turned your phone off and pretended it never happened.

It’s too nerve-wracking. And pointless. You’re going to see him on Monday again, anyway! There’s plenty of time to text him- everything doesn’t have to be so immediate- you’ll get around to it before then, for sure.

You just have to stop thinking so much.

“I cannot believe you,” Rina gushes, and from her expression, you believe her. “You’re all grown up! I am so proud of you. That man is delicious, I cannot-”

“Do not describe him as delicious, oh my god.”

You burst out laughing as Rina raises one eyebrow, filled in dark. Her eye makeup always kills. “Am I wrong?”

“Well… no, but…”

***

Steve leaves, but Bucky stays back at the end of class to help you clean up. Acrylics again, and it’s the second-to-last class, so you had finally brought out the canvas.

Canvas means more fun, but more mess. More paint splatters on the tables, more brushes with clogged-up bristles.

Bucky doesn’t smile as he says bye to Steve, and it makes you feel a certain type of way , but you stick to business. Cleaning supplies are pulled out, paper towels are ripped from the dispenser. Bucky starts on the tables while you roll up your sleeves and start the sink, preparing to start on the brushes.

God- these brushes.

If these brushes were washed incorrectly, you would cry. They’re new, and high-quality, and the bristles are still soft and not yet frayed or discolored, and the handles are made of thick, clear plastic, and they come in different sizes and styles, and you can barely believe it, but they all even have rubber grips.

They’re really nice brushes.

“You didn’t text me back,” Bucky says.

You wish the sink was loud enough to swallow all sound, swallow you up within it.

Still, you look over your shoulder, giving him a pained smile while he scrubs at a spot of dried paint. He looks back at you, but you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Of course you didn’t text back- thinking less is way harder than it seems.

“I wanted to,” you say, “but I got nervous. Sorry.”

You turn back to the sink. It’s a little easier to breathe without having to look at him.

“You got nervous,” he repeats, voice still so unreadable.

Is he mad? He always looks mad, always sounds mad- you can’t ever tell if there’s anything behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, and shrug, like it’s no big deal at all, like you chicken out of things all the time, like texting is always such a cause for concern. “I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ugh.

The sink water slowly circles the drain. You don’t look past it, only keeping your eyes on the sink and the remaining brushes- it helps calm your heart, a little. Bucky is probably on the last few tables. All of the paintings have been neatly propped up on the drying racks.

Bucky painted his entire canvas yellow.

You are so dumb.

“Um, okay” you say, shutting off the sink. The really nice brushes are all neatly piled up on the counter on top of a folded paper towel, washed and drying. “What if I was like, ‘hey, Bucky, after this class ends and I’m not your art instructor anymore, would you want to meet up sometime?’”

You turn back around and lean against the sink. It’s an effort that deserves applause- you look so collected, while your heart is beating way too fast, and Bucky, its forever opposite, just stands behind a table, spray bottle in hand.

Your hands are sweaty.

He nods slowly, and it’s a victory in and of itself- the action nearly has you weak at the knees.

“Meet up,” he repeats, voice low, like a halfhearted growl. Disdainful, kind of. “Like a date.”

You wipe your hands on your apron. It’s a totally normal, totally relaxed movement. But then you’re wishing that you wore something cuter- was this sweatshirt really the only thing you had? Do you not own, like, a blouse, or something? Didn’t you just do your laundry?

Fuck, you’re being annoying.

“We don’t have to call it that,” you say. “We can just… hang out. Eat something. Go on a walk.”

You say it casually, but honestly, you like nice dates. Dates at art museums, dates at fusion restaurants, dates at movie theaters showing indie films in foreign languages. Anything eccentric, haphazard. Spontaneous.

But you also like seeing him smile, and you like to talk, and you like to be listened to- and he is giving you that.

This is a different type of everything. It’s all upside down, inside out, twisted over in itself. You have to approach it all differently, maybe it’s because he’s too quiet or too famous or too dangerous or whatever the hell, but none of it matters.

What matters is that you want it.

You’ll realign your compass.

“Okay,” he says. “I like walks.”

“Great,” you say, and go on without hesitating, because long nights have you tired and hesitation is for the weak, “I like you.”

Bucky Barnes, real, unfitting name James, clutching dirty paper towels and a spray bottle, smiles at you.

It’s wrong, but you could just bite him.

A sudden, unprompted thought hurls through your mind- you want to paint him.

***

The last art class.

It was once long-awaited, but now, you’re actually sad to see everyone go.

You buy a tray of cookies. It’s the least you can do- everyone has been so nice to you, so respectful and cooperative. Everyone has made things fun. You don’t know if you were doing anything right, but it sure as hell has been enjoyable.

Crumbs might get in the paint, but’s a small price to pay.

“Knock yourself out,” you announce.

The tray is set out on the middle table. You forgot the package of napkins back at your studio, so you gesture to the paper towel dispenser.

Then you long for the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes, because unlike these people, they wouldn’t be looking so dead at the prospect of free cookies.

You shake your head and return to your perch, tucking your feet behind the legs of the stool.

Eventually the conversations trickle out, slowly turning the room warm and lovely and bright. You listen in, a little, savor it, and hop back up. There’s nothing to do- might as well make some idle chitchat, one last time.

Shonna uses a small brush to add purple highlights to the feathers of a pigeon. It’s gorgeous- and you don’t even like pigeons- but you like her painting style and the jewel tones she’s adding amidst the grey, and the orange beak, and the washed-out yellow background she’s painting over.

“Wow,” you say, and she adds another purple highlight with a flick of her hand. “I cannot stop looking at this pigeon.”

“Thank you, honey,” she says, without looking up.

She’s too focused for you to stay for too long- you have to leave the pigeon for others. Marcie waves you down and gives you the latest update about her son, abandoning her half-painted rose while she launches into a bit of a tirade- her son wants to pierce his nose, isn’t that ridiculous?

“Hey, I wanted to pierce my nose when I was his age, too,” you say, and spout something about self-expression that makes her frown.

Ahmed chimes in. You have no idea what the blob he’s painting is supposed to be, but you like it. “I’ve been trying to tell her the same thing! These kids are modern now- these are just the things they do!”

“These are just the things we do,” you echo.

Marcie heaves a heavy sigh.

***

You head over to a few more tables, and it goes by too fast and too slow, but then you’re suddenly there in the back, with your star student, and your…

With Bucky.

“I really like how this is turning out,” Steve says proudly, as you approach them.

Then, he adds, almost childishly, “Don’t look until I’m done.”

He has a half-eaten sugar cookie sitting by his paint water.

“I won’t look” you promise, and all at once, you’re almost emotional- he is such a nice guy. He’s like the human embodiment of a golden retriever. “Don’t worry.”

Steve nods, pleased and nervous at the same time. You pointedly look away from the painting as you slide into a seat, across from Bucky and his yellow canvas.

Yellow and black canvas. He’s hunched over with a fat-bristled paintbrush in hand, adding black stripes, blobby and unevenly spaced, but still unbelievably straight.  

It is all so cute.

“Very bumblebee-esque,” you say, and his forehead creases. “I like it.”

Steve smiles.

Bucky adds another line. He didn’t take a cookie. He should’ve- the chocolate-chip is so good.

“Thanks,” he says.

And Steve just smiles wider, and you almost kick him under the table, and Bucky gives you an unsmiling look that turns you to jelly.

Hat aside, he is looking exceptionally pretty today. All hair and eyes and bone structure- it makes you want to do something, like reaching out and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Like running a hand over his jaw. Catching his stubble under your fingertips.

Parting his hair down the middle and French braiding it.

Taking a picture- it'll last longer.

“I'm going to miss seeing you guys around.”

Steve gives you a surprised look and shakes his head. He has one arm protectively curled around his canvas, even though you’re still not looking.

“Oh, I’m sure one of us will be seeing you around,” he says, and grins.

You glare at him.

Bucky laughs.

***

The goodbyes aren’t as bad as you thought they would be.

People leave with a simple goodbye and a brief thank you, shrugging on their coats and gingerly clinging to their still-damp artwork. Marcie makes you promise her that you won’t pierce your nose. One woman who would always come to the class with a huge coffee cup sets her painting aside to sweep you into a hug.

It’s very gratifying.

Steve and Bucky linger.

Shonna does, too, but for a completely different reason.

You want to give her Rina’s contact. She probably has some painting class available, if Shonna’s interested in that sort of thing, if she’s okay with being around so much personality.

And you also want to give her your contact- so she can keep on sending you pictures of those  birds.

“One sec,” you tell her, and reach for your purse, sitting on the counter.

Bucky is standing closeby, remarkably closeby, and you accidentally brush against him.

He goes rigid.

But you’re busy pulling out a pen and a scrap piece of paper, and then you’re using the counter as a hard surface to write against, shoulders angled away from him, and you’re talking all the while- you don’t have the spare second to be concerned.

“This is my email,” you say, adding a smiley face after the address. “Send me your art. And, like, talk to me. Send me your grocery lists, if you want- I don’t care. Here.”

Shonna takes it and gives you a smile. There’s a glimmer of something in it, a knowing.

“Thank you,” she says, and laughs a little, and you suddenly fiercely miss your mother. “I’ll keep the last bit in mind.”

She looks past you. Steve, standing a few feet away, holding the canvas he still hasn’t shown you, nods respectfully. And Bucky, standing near the counter, still near you, even though he’s looking at you like you’ve scalded him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says.

You almost ask, “to what?” But she’s already left- Shonna and her pigeons are gone.

Steve steps up fast to take her place.

You still have no time to think.

“So, this is the finished product,” Steve says with no preamble, and with a great flourish that makes you laugh in delight, he turns the canvas around.

Oh.

Wow.

You’re not dizzy.

But you will be, if you keep on looking at this- a tangle of vines on a wall, with blooming flowers in what should be the wrong colors, dappled in light from a window you can’t see, drawn from a strange perspective. The leaves are really big and the vines are really small, and then it’s flip-flopped, and he has a hot-pink underpainting that he didn’t fully cover, so there’s pink in the leaves, pink on the wall. Pink in the un-pink flowers.

“Fuck,” you say, and then go quiet.

Steve tenses.

Now you have two very strong men looking at you weird.

You should probably fix that.

“I don’t- I don’t know what to say,” you say, stumbling over your words, feeling cotton-mouthed. “There are no coherent thoughts going on in my head right now. I’m just- where did this even- how did you even come up with this?”

“I tried to do that thing you said,” Steve says, sounding uncertain. He shifts and the painting moves with him, sending pink flickering over your eyesight. “No empty space. Because it’s boring.”

What is this called, again? Artists supporting artists?

“It is boring,” you say in agreement, and your voice comes back to you, all at once. “And holy shit, you pulled it off so well. I’m obsessed with the pink underpainting- it’s everything. You literally invented pink. And can we talk about these vines? How long did it take you to draw them all tangled up like that? And the flowers- you even gave them little stems, ugh.  And all the colors! And this lighting- I’m sorry, I have too much to say.”

Like watching a flower bloom, Steve unfurls at your praise, blush deepening with each compliment. It’s so wonderfully endearing, and internally, you sigh in relief.

“Thank you,” he says, and bursts into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. “Also, we have one more question.”

“We?” You ask, and Bucky clears his throat.

You turn to him.

Already, you have a whole slew of problems- you have to sketch out an emerging idea and place an order for new brushes, ones with rubber grips, and you have to cook dinner when you get home because lately you’ve been ordering too much takeout, and you have to organize your closet, and you have to give an adequate and peppy response to whatever Steve is about to say-

You’re bursting at the seams.

There isn’t much room for anything else. Any concern.

“You have something to say, Bucky?” You ask, and waggle your eyebrows.

He doesn’t crack a smile- just how you like it.

“I do,” he says, smugly, and then says your name in a way that ties your stomach up in knots, that has you thinking of flowers and chiffon.

“We were wondering if you’re free tomorrow,” Steve says, and then invites you out for drinks, for tomorrow evening.

So you’ve passed the initial threshold of friendship, and now you’re onto group drinking! That’s exciting- and you’ll get to see Bucky, and you’ll get to postpone that tedious process of planning out a date- a hang-out, and you’ll have an opportunity to show up in something besides jeans and sad sweatshirts.

There hasn’t been a chance to show it off to him, yet, but you can dress.

Steve mentions another friend named Sam, who might join, too, if that’s okay with you.

“I’m cool with it,” you say. “The more the merrier, right?”

He has to be a decent guy, if Steve associates with him, and you like new people.

But doesn’t Steve also associate with, like, Tony Stark?

That man is oh-so problematic. He rolls out with a new scandal every month. He’s had enough scandals that he could release a line of red-and-gold-themed calendars- with the dates of each scandal marked in. Each month could have its own photo, too, coinciding with the dates.

Tony Stark, making peace signs at a court hearing. Tony Stark, wasted on a yacht. Tony Stark, in the middle of an interview where he bashes people who have absolutely nothing to do with him.

“That sounds like fun,” you say, and Steve lets out a breath of relief, “but I have to ask, about Sam? Is he, like, a…”

An Avenger? A genetically-altered individual? A prominent public figure with a stupid amount of money?

“He’s a really nice guy,” Steve quickly says.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Bucky says, immediately after him.

***

As it turns out, Sam Wilson is not a pain in the ass.

He is really nice, but more importantly, he is funny.

Bucky texted you the address a few hours ago. You walk into the bar and at once, you’re assaulted by an excess of dark- dark floors, dark lighting, dark accents on the decor. None of it is dingy, just low-lit. It’s a nice place.

It might be a little too nice- nothing like the sticky-floored, rowdy sports-themed bars you usually hit when you’re in the mood to get hammered.

You catch the back of a head, wavy brown hair and thick shoulders, in a booth tucked into the corner. Steve, sitting opposite him, against the wall, catches your eye and waves you over.

Next to Bucky is a guy you’ve never seen before, Sam. Black skin, close-cropped hair, looking over his shoulder to flash a grin at you. Even in a simple shirt, you can tell that he is built.

He’s an Avenger, then. Maybe.

You’ve just barely slid in beside Steve, and you’re grinning and making some dumb comment about the disaster that is the New York subway system, when Sam fixes you with a gleeful look and leans forward.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, casting a side-eye at Bucky. “I’m not joking when I say this- I was starting to think that Barnes made you up. He’s always doing crazy shit like that. Anyways, you will not believe why I’m actually here.”

You humor him, because why the hell not? “Why are you actually here?”

Already, you can tell that he has that vaguely-ironic, purposely-stupid sense of humor, which you always find absolutely hilarious. And you want to know what he means by crazy shit.

Bucky looks up at you for a few charged seconds, telling you something you can’t decipher, and then ducks his hand back down to stare intensely at his drink. Something amber, with ice cubes.

“I’m here to make sure that you don’t feel bad. Because these two fossils,” Sam says, and Steve winces, “can’t get drunk. But I can! So if you wanna get trashed, I’m game.”

Under the dimmed lights, Sam’s teeth shine perfectly white. All of Steve’s friends seem to have perfectly white teeth.

“It’s because of the serum,” Steve says, and you just gawk.

They both can’t get drunk?  

Because of their fucking superhero vaccine?

“What the hell,” you say, and rest your elbows on the tabletop. Bucky’s gaze follows your arms, starting at the hems of the sleeves, trailing up to your shoulders. “That’s so… Steve, if you can’t get drunk, then why are you torturing yourself with that beer?”

“It’s for the feeling,” Steve says quietly, blushing pink, and Bucky is still quiet, and you have a feeling that this has something to do with nostalgia, or World War II, or something. The good old days.

Sam catches it too, so he buts in, quickly bringing the conversation back to something less layered, less wired.

He’s a man with nothing to hide. He tells you who he is with no hesitation, without trying to skip over or disguise anything- he’s open. He’s a war vet, too, and now an Avenger- he’s the Falcon. He has, he says, a pair of fancy-ass wings. And the coolest outfit.

“Wait,” you say, and you’re suddenly dying to know, “what does it feel like to fly?”

His eyes light up.

“You know when you’re trying to sleep, and then you randomly get that feeling that you’re falling, and your stomach does that thing?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that, but you can control it. It’s fucking amazing.”

He launches into a whole spiel, talking your ear off about the feeling of high-altitude wind on his skin and aerodynamics and some science-y things you don’t understand, and you get your own beer and enjoy the sweet feeling of getting buzzed on a weeknight, and as the edge you constantly have on yourself shifts, the seats shift, too.

You don’t know how, but you end up next to Bucky, in between him and the wall. Not touching, but close. Sam is across from you and Steve is next to him, and all of a sudden they’re talking about Chex Mix.

“If the Avengers were Chex Mix pieces,” Sam says, throwing the word Avenger around casually enough to make Steve’s hesitations seem horrendously uptight, “I would be the garlic chip. The best part of the whole damn bag. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, those chips are definitely the best part,” you say, adopting a mock-seriousness. “And Tony Stark would be one of those knobby-ass, crunchy little mini breadsticks.”

Sam mirrors your expression, nodding gravely, like what you’re both evaluating is a highly intellectual subject. “I completely agree. And for Rogers- man, you’re a pretzel.”

You narrow your eyes. “Square or circle?”

“Uh,” Sam says, turning to survey poor, unprepared Steve, looking equal parts bewildered and embarrassed. “Square.”

“Great choice. And Bucky?”

“Bucky…” Sam hesitates, and the briefest smile flashes over his face before he schools his expression back into objectivity, “Bucky is one of those original Chex squares. Sorry.”

“That’s cold,” you say, and Sam smiles again, and leans all the way back in his seat, bringing his hands behind his head.

“He’s not one of the yellow squares, though- those are actually good,” Sam starts, grin growing wider by the second, and you can’t tell if it would be rude to laugh. “He’s not one of those squares with extra seasoning, either. Bucky is just one of the plain brown squares. The wheat squares, or whatever the hell. Have you ever, like- have you ever wondered what the sole of a shoe tastes like? Or the eraser on top of a pencil? That’s what those taste like- that’s what he is. Just one of the plain Chex squares.”

Your jaw drops.

A roast like that from a halfway drunk man is absolutely scathing.

Bucky just levels a glare.

He’s used to this, you think. Is that his crazy shit? That he never reacts to anything?

You’re definitely a little tipsy- this is obviously no time to get wasted, but the edge has certainly been taken off, the corners of your world having gone hazy. In a lull, you watch a well-dressed man standing by the vestibule doors lean past your field of vision and receive what you think is a kiss on the cheek.

Without thinking, you lean close to Bucky and cup a hand over his ear.

Maybe he won’t react, maybe he will, but you’re not going to give him the time for either.

“I think that you’re the garlic chip,” you whisper loudly, and you’ll probably cringe yourself into oblivion over it when you're sober, but you think he shivers- and then he snorts.

“Thank you,” he says, and Sam putters out, giving you an amazed look.

***

“Heyyy,” you say later, turning to Bucky, when time has passed and you’re no longer on the subject of Chex Mix and he’s still a little too quiet. “What’s up?”

He’s quiet and troubled, drinking what might be whiskey like it’s water. Is it whiskey? You didn’t think that people actually drank whiskey- just kept it around in crystal decanters and silver flasks to look cool, like they’re main characters in a movie.

“The sky,” he says dryly, like you didn’t say that same exact shit when you were in middle school, hopelessly thinking that it was the slickest comeback.

“Very funny, James,” you say, and he huffs, and you feel a brief flash of panic, and then you’re almost apologizing, when he grins.

You know maybe three whole things about him, but you’ll press yourself up against him right here and now, under the low light of a fancy bar, with rain sliding down outside the window panes, with his friends right across the table. You don’t care.

His friends can tell.

“We’ll be right back,” Steve says suddenly, making a very showy display of getting up with Sam. Both of them send you obnoxious grins and suggestively raised eyebrows.

Bucky glares. You can’t stop smiling.

“You kids have fun,” Sam calls, and you laugh.

Just you and him, then. The mood shifts fast, turning from one thing to… another. Bucky’s eyes reflect the window outside, falling dark and darker, and you’re slipping, too.

“You look really nice,” Bucky says, and his eyes dip down in the slyest fucking move- you’re almost proud of him for it, for having such game.

A spark of heat flashes through you, as he takes you in slowly, like he’s trying to savor it.

You opted for a slightly tighter shirt, and a pair of jeans, but they’re your nice jeans. The ones without any weird streaks of paint on the thighs. And you wear a beaded necklace, and in your ears, a pair of fun, delicate hoop earrings, dangling with charms in the shape of crescent moons.

“Thanks,” you  lean back, into the wall, letting your voice drop to match the tone of his. “You do, too.”

He just stares at you, unamused. Still dark, and dangerous.

Purple chiffon, you think, and marigolds. The flower was meant for another friend, but she’ll have to manage, because now, you can only see Bucky with marigolds, with no room for anyone else.

“So,” you say, before the silence carries on and makes you do something stupid, “Done anything fun lately?”

He tenses. Again.

There’s all these things that you know you can’t ask him, things about his job and his hobbies and his metal fucking arm, which you still haven’t seen- which you’re fine with, but, like. It’s the fact that he has a metal arm in the first place- he is so detached from everything you know, and you aren’t sure if you know how to navigate it all. You don’t think he knows how to navigate it, either.

He’s hesitant, you think. But not unwilling.

You’re just going to roll with it.

”I watched a movie today,” he says, sounding so smooth that your clutch on your drink wavers. His eyes are raking you over, cold.

Red marigolds. Not the orange ones. Red marigolds with the little golden borders on the edges of each petal.

“Which movie?”

He shakes his head. “I forgot the name”

“Okay, well, what was it about?”

“Talking dogs.”

You laugh and he smiles, and then you feel light enough to float. “Talking dogs?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he takes a sip. His mouth is very pink. Layers, you think, layers and overlapping, to make the fabric look hazy. Washed-out. “They talk when their owners aren’t home.”

“That sounds right up your alley,” you say, and you’re giggly and he’s all smiley and maybe you’re being embarrassing, but whatever, because he’s looking at you like he’s never been smiley with anyone else before, and you really, really want to lean in.

You’ll wait.

***

Sam comes back with Steve a little bit later, but it isn't until you’re getting ready to leave when he brings it up.

“You’re good for him,” Sam says, while Bucky and Steve have gone to pay. Your drinks are on him- how chivalrous. “Honestly, you’re probably too good for him.”

You laugh as you shrug on your jacket. “Doubt it.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. You realize at once that he’s about to say something heavy, something concerning. “He has been through some fucked-up shit. It’s not his fault, obviously, but it’s always there. He’s never going to get over it. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep. He just stays awake, for like, three whole days at a time. Sometimes he just disappears. He never tells anyone where he goes. Sometimes he does this thing where he-”

“I get it,” you say quickly, and he must be able to see your sudden dread, because his face softens.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to know- that that’s what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Thanks,” you say, and zip up your coat, and then pat your pockets even though you know you have everything, just so you have an excuse to not say anything. Sam gives you a long look, before sighing and pulling out his phone.

Obviously, Sam is trying to tell you that Bucky is damaged.

You’re not in the business of fixing things, but you’ll take him as he is anyway, because...

“Sam?” you say, and he looks up from his phone.

“Sometimes,” you start, and swallow down whatever anxiety is starting to surface, “Sometimes he’s being all quiet and moody and angsty and whatever, I get that same feeling that you’re telling me. But then, like, he just does something. Like, he’ll make a joke, or say something, and then it’s like-”

You struggle with your words- it’s like everything you want to say is there, but you can’t reach it. Sam slides his phone into his pocket, and Bucky is coming back, with Steve in tow, moon and sun, peas in a pod. You wonder if Sam makes their duo a trio, if he’s the third invitee to their slumber party, or if he’s just on the fringes.

“It’s like- It’s like, okay. Like, I know who he is and it’s all okay.”

He nods, and smiles at you, and you sincerely hope that he isn’t just on the fringes.

***

The paintings of your parents are finished- and they are good. So good. Every detail is there, every color. Every line. The wrinkles and the flowers and the lace neckline of your mother’s dress. Looking at them makes you feel so proud- it’s been forever since you were able to properly convey your thoughts onto canvas.

They’re big, too. Larger than life. You’ll have to rent one of those orange U-Haul trailers to transport them.

On a new canvas is Rina, only halfway painted. She looks good too, even though right now she’s just a head and a torso and two floating feet, because getting the colors on her legs right is harder than you thought. It’s tricky to paint the shadows and contours without her legs just looking bruised- there’s so many flower stems overlapping with the skin, so you don’t have a lot of room to work with.

You’ll figure it out.

You might be a little in over your head, actually. Confident- a little too confident. You don’t even have this painting done, and you’re itching to start on another. A possible recipe for disaster, but every time you have a spare second, in the shower or on the subway or when you’re trying to fall asleep, you find yourself thinking about it.

Not in bits and pieces the way most of your thoughts are, but a fully formed concept; a real, true image brimming with fullness, already starting to spill over into everything you do.

You have it all figured out. You know what techniques you’ll use. What composition, what colors.

You text Bucky.

Nothing crazy. You know you could scare him off, or maybe not, not anymore- by the end of the night at the bar last week, you sat next to him and bumped up against him and whispered in his ear, and right before you left he flicked the charm on your earring, watched it sway, and then he smirked- and you almost died.

You text him Hey, and then set your phone on the farthest surface you can find, pointedly avoiding it. Rina’s calves need attention- you have paint to mix.

Ten minutes later, your phone rings.

You can’t help it, you’re weak-hearted- you drop everything and dash to your phone, dodging your carts of supplies and hopping over a stack of toppled canvases that you never bothered to pick up, and pick up on the third ring.

“Hi,” you say into the receiver, slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” he says, and he sounds slightly out of breath, too.

“Um,” you say, and laugh a little, with the heady rush of nerves flooding in, “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I called because I’m a slow texter,” Bucky says.

You feel so fluttery. When was the last time you felt this fluttery?

“Oh. That’s okay. I was just wondering if you... wanted to meet up sometime soon? Tomorrow, maybe?”

Tomorrow is Saturday, a day off. For you, at least- do Avengers get days off?

“Okay,” he says, and you swear he sounds pleased. You want to cut straight to something else. Skip, jump, leap over all of these steps, so you can get to what you really want to tell him. “I think I can do that. Where are we meeting?”

“There’s this little cafe we can… we can head there first, I’ll text you the address, but I have this idea,” you say, and wait for his invitation to continue, with your heart beating dangerously fast, thrumming like it might just burst through your ribs.

“What’s your idea?”

Thank you, you almost say, but don’t.

The steps are skipped, formalities disregarded- you just tell him.

It’s the perfect time- there’s that currently rare, pretty daylight that grows with each passing day streaming in through your windows unfiltered, blocked by no blinds or curtains. You pace a little, at first, right in the sun, and then sit down on a stool, toeing the smooth wood floors beneath, cradling the phone.

You start it off simple, with the marigolds.

Red marigolds, you specify, because you feel like you have to. Then you delve deeper, into chiffon and lighting and this thing you want to try out with layering, where two elements that overlap go by a completely different color scheme. Like, you say, like the flowers are red and the clothes are black, but the places where they meet are electric pink or orange or blue or something else unusual and distracting.

Save for the sound of his breathing, Bucky is quiet. You can tell that he’s really listening, probably sitting down somewhere and focusing on you, not doing some other task with your voice as background noise. He doesn’t interrupt when you go off on a tangent about the importance of natural lighting or contradict yourself with opposing statements on color choice, or when your words start to deteriorate, when they start pouring out so fast that they slur together and become less than coherent.

Your mind is going even faster- you can see the image even when you blink.

Something at the back of your thoughts tells you to stop, to slow down. You need to chill out.  

But the idea is so vivid, so you can’t- you don’t, not until the idea is totally exhausted and you give a final sigh and go quiet, not until after giving what could count as an entire fucking speech.

When Bucky speaks again, he sounds tentative.

“I… like it,” he says, and maybe he’s holding his phone at a bad angle, because his voice is quiet.

“You do?” You say, instead of asking something else, with a sudden bad feeling in your gut.

“Yeah. But…”

You know what he says without him having to say it.

It feels like you’ve been punched.

The picture behind your eyelids burns brighter.

“That’s okay,” you say in response to his unsaid words, speaking too late, so that it's obvious that it’s not okay.

Your heart is sinking, as if it has any right to, as if he’s in the wrong. How did you go from high to low so fast?

You scared him. You put too much pressure on him too fast- it’s exactly what Sam said, that he’s all levels of wary and weird, and little things can set him off, because of everything that he’s been through-

Even if he was someone else, though, even if he was normal, he would still say no- anyone would say no to being given such a request out of nowhere.

Well, Rina didn’t, but she doesn’t count in this situation, does she?

“Sorry,” he says.

That hurts worse.

“Don’t apologize,” you say quickly. “It’s not like it’s not going to work now- I mean, it’ll be fine. Are you still down to meet, though?”

“Sure,” he says, too late.

***

Bucky Barnes does not like anything in his coffee.

He takes it black, black like his clothes, black like his soul, black like whatever other emo shit you can come up with.

It’s not that funny anymore.

Still, you keep up with it- you’re funny and talkative and charming and everything else, because you don’t know what else to do. The subject will be broached, it’s inevitable- you’ll broach it, even, but you still have to figure out how.

He’s subdued. And wearing his stupid hat, again, and you would give anything to knock it off so you could really see him, and he’s cautiously cradling his mug in a way that makes you ache everywhere.

The cafe is busy and decorated with a specific aesthetic, one that you would call manufactured bohemian. Potted plants and quirky photographs and drinks that all have fancy and ridiculous names. The baristas wear yellow aprons, and if you have a membership card, every tenth purchase gets you a free sugar cookie iced with a smiling sun.

Your cappuccino foam is dissolving. Sometimes, even though it’s mostly tasteless, you swipe it up and eat it with a spoon. Today, it seems like a bad idea- frivolous in the face of his silence and your unmotivated charisma and this stupid idea lingering between you two, like a friend that’s overstayed their welcome.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, and wonder why you feel so jumpy for saying it. “For bringing that thing up yesterday.”

To your own credit, you still sound confident.

He looks at you so darkly that you wonder if you should be afraid. Have there ever been others in your seat, afraid?

You’re not afraid.

“It’s fine,” he says, and continues staring at you like it’s not fine.

“I’m just- I was just thinking out loud,” you say. You feel like you have to explain yourself, prove something to him, so that you won’t wilt. “It was just an idea that I thought could be cool. I told you because, no , wait. I mean, I know that I- fuck. I’m sorry that it made you uncomfortable. That was really dumb of me.”

He tilts his head, eyes sliding over, and you shiver.

He looks bored.

Which is unnerving and terrifying as hell, because you have this carefully hand-crafted, precisely-cut image of who you are supposed to be, and it is not meant to be boring in the slightest, but he's bored, and you’re going to lose it.

“I said it’s fine,” he says, monotonously, giving the sudden impression that he’s about to leave. But he’s just sitting in his seat, unwrapping his hands from his mug and setting them on the table, while your hands are on the verge of shaking. “It didn't make me uncomfortable.”

If that was true, then you wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place. You wouldn’t be stumbling over yourself to say something so simple.

It takes considerable effort to keep your gaze steady. “Okay. But I still- I just want to say a thing really quick.”

“Say it.”

He’s being mean.

But this thing has been eating at you for a while now, so you don’t care.

“Um, so, we’re really different people,” you start, and before you second-guess it, you adopt your speaker voice, the teaching voice, the smart one. He has to know this about you- you’re smart. “And you obviously have all of your own things going on in your life that I can’t even imagine, and if you ever want to, like, talk about it, I’m here, but I also don’t care.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You push on.

“Like, it’s not important to me. If you want it to be, then it’ll be, but if not, then it’s whatever. I'm not- when I see you, I just see you. Does that make sense? Like, I don’t really think of any of that other stuff? If I’m supposed to, though, I’m sorry. I… I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

You don’t get nervous often, but you let out a small, nervous laugh.

It’s like your heart and head and lungs are suspended, frozen in ice while he takes your words in. The door to the cafe chimes and a large group of people step in. Middle aged women, all wearing athletic clothes. Devil’s ivy grows on the wall farthest from you- how chic- with vines snaking forward in your direction, reaching for you in green and streaky white.

He smiles.

All you see is teeth and creased eyes and a low, uncreased brow- you want to kiss him.

“Tell me the idea again,” he says, and leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, and you watch his forearms shift and strain against his shirt, and then you clear your throat and look away and try to focus.

You inhale and gather everything, hoping that this time, you’ll be able to make it make sense.

***

One thing spirals into another. Your words were building and building, rising like a crescendo, overwhelming you to the point where you just said it outright, and-

He’s now in your apartment.

He is literally in your apartment.

You watch him survey the area- the clutter, the mismatched furniture, the crooked posters and photos and artwork hung up on the walls. The subpar paint on the walls that you didn’t choose, the cabinets made of old wood with newly replaced handles.

The entire place is creaking, becoming worse for the wear with each passing day. You could probably afford nicer, but it doesn’t matter, because you love it here- you’ve formed an emotional attachment that goes beyond sad paint and constant repairs. Your home is cozy.

But right now, with Bucky in here, it’s suddenly cramped.

“I want you to sit over here,” you say, and facing a great window, rounded on top with those gorgeous little decorative swirls, which is your favorite part of the whole place, is an armchair. It’s a steal you found at an antique store, with little tassels lining the back of the seat, upholstered with the tackiest floral print you’ve ever seen, but it’s perfect for what you’re trying to do.

The sun is shining strong and unfiltered- he’ll be lit up.

Bucky sits. He looks on edge, and beautiful.

You want to make this easy for him. But you might be too swept away in him to make any efforts- you’re still in shock that he agreed to this in the first place, so disoriented with him being here, in your place, that your trains of thought keep on derailing.

You’re closer than you wish you were, closer to losing it.

“Perfect. Give me one second.”

You go to your room, which isn’t really a room but a sectioned-off alcove with a bit of wall blocking it from view, no door- weird architecture, but whatever, to retrieve your supplies. Tape and the neatly folded swatches of fabric and your camera.

Photography isn’t your thing, but you need reference material.

When you return, he’s looking pensive, and dazzling. His arms fall tensely on the sides of the chair, but his hands dangle so gracefully, and the light catches his face and colors it golden- you are going to lose it when it comes to painting his eyes. They’re blue, but you see them as suns.

“You look great,” you say, and he blushes. You’re ready to pounce, right now.

The fabric is a little bit awkward. It has to be draped upon him- Bucky bristles at your actions in a way that tells you he’s never done anything even remotely like this before, but you persist, and he lets you.

“Get out of the chair really quick.”

“Okay.”

Bucky gets out of the chair. You hop up on it, to tape the corners of the fabric to the ceiling. It’s a flimsy attempt, but they hold and flutter just fine.

He takes you by the hand to bring you back down.

“Careful,” he says, as you make the daunting two-and-a-half-foot descent, and he squeezes your hand in his gloved one before you make him sit down again.

You are buzzing with electricity. Another point to him- that was smooth.

The loose ends of the fabric are tricky, You try at first to tape them to the back of the chair, moving back behind him to reach. Bucky’s head stays perfectly still, and the chiffon looks wrong. It looks weirdly stiff.

So you drape one on him like planned, sort of dripping down his shoulder in a bunched-up purple river, and let the other hang freely, swaying a little from the fragility of the tape.

You move back around to face him.

“This is perfect,” you say, and grin, because this is finally happening. “You look perfect.”

He’s staring all intensely again. You want to come close to him, tell him how lovely he looks, straight out of a dream. You’re so pretty, you almost say, but you have some semblance of rational thought left in you- and so you stay quiet.

The camera dangles from its strap around your neck. You take it in your hands and power it on. The settings are adjusted, and you fiddle with the shutter speed and focus and everything else before bringing it close to your eye, expecting this dream-

He’s all tense, again.

It’s the lens, you immediately think, even though that doesn’t really make sense. You look like- you look like him when he does his things. Lenses and targets and crosshairs. How is this thought so immediate?

You’re just trying to take a picture.

“Relax,” you say, and it does absolutely nothing.

“I am relaxed,” he bites out.

He’s really not. There’s something shifting in his face, something discontented, a brewing storm. His hands are starting to harshly curl into the armrests, digging at the upholstery, distorting the flowers.

The chiffon looms.

“Fix your hands. Like, move them- no, turn them back,”

You’re stooping over to fully capture him, almost ready to take a knee.

His hands flex and stay as they are, stressed and taut and not right, and the rest of him is still so-

You bring the camera down.

***

He’s in this ugly chair, surrounded by fabric, and you’re pretty and wearing a pale pink sweater, and you’re aiming a camera at him, for a picture, but he feels like a target.

White-hot adrenaline and cold and dark dread pull at both sides of him. He feels like a total mess.

Is this they all felt- how they all feel, when he is aiming at them? He tries to do things differently, now, but the tragedy still takes place, the trigger is still fired- the deed is still done. Karma, he thinks, retracing its path, coming back to bite him through you.

You’re frowning. He wants to apologize.

You take the camera down and let it dangle from the strap at your neck. He just had your hands in his- he wants them back and wants to get as far away from you as possible.

“This isn’t working,” you say, and straighten back up, placing your hands on your hips. You look powerful, and he might be trembling from clenching his jaw so hard. “You are not relaxed.”

“I’m not,” he agrees, and you sigh and fix him with a look that isn’t pity- he’d bolt if it were pity, but steely resolve.

You take the camera off your neck, and gently bend over to set it on the floor. Then you sit down beside it, wincing as your knee makes a noise, and giving him a bemused little smile that he wants to just-

Your head level with his knees as you sit, cross-legged. Hands splayed over your lower thighs, careless and carefree. Your posture slouches a bit, relaxing the way he is not, and it's relieving.

His hands grip the chair like a lifeline.

“Why isn’t this working?” You ask, more yourself than him. “You were so- nevermind. Or, Let’s… um, wait. Maybe- Can I?”

He’s always thought of you as so put-together, a born speaker, but now you’ve been stammering and stuttering all over his heart, and he doesn’t know what to do.

You reach out with your hand, hesitantly, wavering. The scar smiles pink.

He nods- his head nods, his body is moving outside of itself, and he feels sheltered and exposed, nearly covered in purple fabric and vulnerable and sitting above you, all of him bared for you to see. Hot and cold.

Your hand goes on his knee.

He’s so alarmed that he almost lashes out- he wants to think, but you’re giving him no time to-

Your other hand is reaching out, tugging at his own, and you bring yourself up to your knees and lean back on the balls of your feet, balancing. Your head is still below his chest and tilted so he can’t see your eyes, and you’re holding his hand like it’ll break.

There’s a dry-erase board fastened on the opposite wall, next to all of the other eclectic clutter. It’s filled in with a to-do list- the words COOK SOMETHING are scrawled at the top in angry red marker. He focuses on the words as you play with his fingers.

You gently trace a thumb over the ridges of his knuckles; he’s suddenly so ticklish that he flinches and chokes on a word that he doesn’t know how to say.

You nudge his hand over to the side, drape the fingers down, and your other hand is still burning his knee, setting him alight-

You’re molding him. Setting him to look how you want, manhandling him in the softest way possible. Should this feel violating? Rude? It feels good- purposeful. He’s letting you do this, and his heart is beating hard, but he can still hear your breathing and his breathing and the white noise of the traffic on the street below, stories away.

You take your hand off his knee, and nudge at his left hand, and he thinks now, how fucking stupid this is- if it’s his fucking hand, why does he wear this stupid fucking glove?

He goes to work it off and you understand, and if he wasn’t wanting so badly to be still for you, stay here as you take your picture, he would grab you by the necklace you’re wearing and drag you closer.

The glove is pulled off and dropped to the floor and the silver of his hand winks in the sunlight.

“Oh,” you say softly, and there’s a crack in your voice, and his voice would crack too, if you asked him to speak.

There’s this look on your face. He doesn’t know if you want to hold his hand or kiss it or put his fingers in your mouth, it looks like all three and he is all unfurled, too, because he is sitting back in this ugly armchair and you’re holding his hands again, and you’re backlit by the sun- like a vision sent straight from the sky.

You fix his hands.

This feels intimate- more intimate than kissing, or anything else. This feels like skipping steps.

After a moment, you pry your hands off of his, and lean back.

Wordlessly, you take the camera and stand up, and you fiddle it and back up, back to where you were at first, far away. Then you’re bringing it close to your eye, looking at him through a lens, and the shutter clicks once, twice.

You bring it back down.

“You got it?” He says, and his voice sounds rough- he sounds parched.

You look at its little screen and bite your lip. “Yeah.”

“Can you come here for a second?”

You look up at him and he’s glad that he couldn’t see your eyes before- they’re dark. “Yeah.”

The camera is tossed to the side, again, and you walk like you’re floating. The steps have been skipped, but Bucky will have to go back to them anyway- he doesn’t like to leave any stones unturned-

And so he waits until you’re close enough, and then tugs you down by your sweater- he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s reaching and reaching-

You laugh or smile or do something else sweet, but he’s too caught up to tell. He pulls you down to him, and surrounded by you and sunlight and fluttering purple chiffon, he kisses you.

[romansleftshoulderpad]

Take A Chance On Me

Ship: Royality

Word Count: 3,127

Warnings: Mentions of being horny, breakups

--

If you change your mind, I’m the first in line. Honey, I’m still free. Take a chance on me.

Patton had never been one for sunbathing, but he was rather inclined towards any activity that involved Roman. The warmth was like a blanket, keeping him cozy and safe (though Logan would warn quite the opposite, going on a lecture about the dangers of overexposure to ultraviolet rays). Patton was with Roman, that was safe enough for him.

“He just wasn’t my style, I guess,” Roman said, continuing on his rant. Patton was trying to listen, but the sun was putting him to sleep. He wondered if Roman would have to wake him with a kiss.

“What is your style?” Patton teased. “A knight in shining armor?”

“Hey, knights have to be strong under that armor. If a buff strong man wants to suplex me then he can go for it.”

“What if he has a frog face?”

Roman thought for a moment. “I can live with that. If he keeps his helmet on.”

Patton laughed, which made Roman laugh, which only made Patton laugh even harder. He moved his hand, letting it brush up against Roman’s. He wanted to grab his hand. He wanted to take his face and kiss him senselessly.

But the timing wasn’t right.

“Carlos sucks.”

Roman shrugged. “He’s fine. I don’t regret dating him or anything. I think it could’ve worked out if things were different.”

“Things?”

“If we were a year younger. If I didn’t know what I know now.”

“And what do you know now?”

Roman moved his hands to his chest- away from Patton- and looked to the sky. He didn’t answer, but Patton could hear him humming under his breath. It was a song he recognized from Into the Woods but he couldn’t think of a title. The two went back to cloud gazing and laid in silence. He closed his eyes, tucked under the warm blanket of sunlight, and tried to fall asleep.

If you need me, let me know, gonna be around

Roman and Patton had been friends for longer than either of them could remember. But what Patton does remember is years of movie marathons and blanket forts with a projector turning the ceiling into the galaxy. He remembers losing a tooth when they were ten and Roman pulling one of his own out in solidarity. He remembers that wasn’t a pretty picture.

He remembers being thirteen. He remembers clearing “Am I Gay quiz” from his search history time and time again. He remembers watching his friends start dating. He remembers thinking of Roman.

Roman was someone Patton always considered fortunate. Roman never had to come out, no one ever expected him to be one thing or another. Patton remembered when they were twelve and Roman told him about how he learned how to kiss in a game of spin the bottle.

Patton remembers feeling jealous. Not of Roman, but of those who had the honor of kissing someone so carefree.

The honor of kissing Roman so carefree.

He remembers being thirteen and laying by Roman’s side as Dumbo played on screen. He wasn’t watching, there wasn’t any point.

“Roman,” he whispered, “when did you know?”

Roman glanced at him in confusion. There wasn’t much light, but his braces shined from the television screen. “How did I know-“ Patton turned away. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, hey,” Roman whispered. He grabbed the remote and hit mute, giving them a moment of privacy. “You don’t, really. You just find someone attractive- and sometimes you don’t even know what that means- and you just... figure it out.”

“That sounds so simple but-“

“It’s not,” Roman sighed. “It’s not simple. But you’ll figure it out, okay?” Patton didn’t look convinced. “You have a whole lifetime to figure yourself out.”

Patton grabbed the remote, turning the volume back on and making it just louder than comfortable. “Thanks, Roman.”

If you’ve got no place to go, if you’re feeling down

He can still remember being angry, boiling with rage just after homecoming. He found Roman crying in the school parking lot. There was still an hour left of the dance.

“Roman?” he whispered.

“P- Patton, I- What are you doing here?”

“Roman, I’m here. What happened?”

Roman wiped at his eyes, stepping back into the shadows to try to hide. Nevertheless Patton knew that his cheeks were stained with tears and his eyes were red with pain. “He broke up with me,” he whispered. “At homecoming, of all things!”

“He’s an asshole and he doesn’t deserve you,” Patton said. “Can I hug you?”

Roman gave a weak nod and let himself fall into Patton’s arms. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to see me like that.”

“Roman, please, don’t apologize for feeling.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, hey, listen to me,” Patton said. “My date and I were going to go get ice cream. You should come, I think it’ll help.”

“I’m not going to third wheel on your date.”

“Oh, no, we’re just here as friends.”

“Still-“

“You need friends right now.”

“Okay,” Roman sighed. “Okay.”

Patton smiled and took his hand, walking him through the parking lot towards the only lit car around. “Roman, I want you to meet Logan.”

If you’re all alone, when the pretty birds have flown Honey, I’m still free Take a chance on me

It was March when Roman and Carlos broke up. It was mid-April now. The four of them were tucked up in Patton’s living room, watching the rain outside. Virgil, Patton’s new roommate, was half asleep with his head on Logan’s shoulder.

“Go fish,” he said, barely coherent.

“How are you this tired at three in the afternoon?” Roman teased, grabbing another card.

“Movin’s hard,” he yawned. “Logan, got any aces?”

“The only ace I have is myself,” Logan said. “Go fish.”

Patton grinned. “Logan made a dad joke!”

“Fuck.”

“Didn’t you move in a week ago?”

“Roman, be nice,” Patton said with a frown. “You can’t move in on day one.”

Virgil flashed him a smile and took a card. They continued playing for another hour or so before Virgil actually had fallen asleep. Roman and Logan had carried him off to his bed while Patton loaded up a movie. The storm was coming in harder and no one wanted to leave.

Gonna do my very best and it ain’t no lie

Patton smiled, quick to take Virgil’s place against Logan’s shoulder. He gave a fond sigh, accepting his fate. After knowing him for years, one simply grew accustomed to Patton’s displays of affection. (And, while Logan would never admit it, Patton’s friendship was the perfect way to stave off touch starvation.)

As the movie started, Patton could see the sad glances from Roman. He reached out and grabbed his hand, watching Roman’s eyes light up like the same old galaxy projector they’ve used for years.

If you put me to the test, if you let me try. Take a chance on me. Take a chance on me.

He had Roman exactly where he wanted him.

We can go dancing, we can go walking, as long as we’re together.

It was the first clear day in a week. Roman was stealing Patton from Virgil for all of it. They were hand in hand walking through the park on the way to Roman’s house. It was a perfect day.

Listen to some music, maybe just talking, get to know you better

When Patton and Roman were little they could lay in the same bed and feel all the space of the world between them. They were so small and the mattress was only a continent. But they’re bigger now, adults now, and the two of them on the same float drifting in the middle of Roman’s pool didn’t offer the same space. The sun was still beating down on them, but it felt different now. Their skin was still damp and Roman kept his arm around Patton’s waist to stay afloat. Patton could feel his breath on his skin.

It was hot. And Patton was dying.

He pressed his hand against the side of Roman’s face and moved even closer, smirking as he did so. He waited a moment for Roman to respond, loving the way he turned bright red. Patton held his breath and rolled off of the float, taking Roman down with him. When the resurfaced Roman’s hair was stuck to his face and he was coughing up water.

“You FIEND!” he yelled, splashing Patton with water. “Ugh! It’s in my nose! Fuck, it burns!”

Patton only continued laughing, watching Roman’s every movement. Behind him, things were blurry. They didn’t need to be focused on because Roman was there and he was the most important person alive.

Maybe he just needed to put his glasses on.

He swam over to Roman and grabbed his hands, pressing their foreheads together. “However can I make it up to you?” he teased.

“I-”

“Yes?”

Roman moved away, taking his hands back to himself. “I think we should, uh, dry off. I’m going to take a shower. If you want to too, you can- wait shit-” Patton almost felt bad for how flustered he was. Almost. “I just mean like after I’m done and-” He stepped out of the water, and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist.

“I know what you mean, Roman,” Patton said. “Go dechlorinate yourself.”

“Right,” Roman gave an awkward wave, hanging his swim trunks up on the towel rack and heading inside.

‘Cause you know I’ve got so much that I want to do When I dream I’m alone with you It’s magic

It was later that month when they saw each other again. It was different from their typical meetings, Roman had called him late at night. “Hey,” he whispered. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” Patton lied. He glanced at the clock. Just past one in the morning. He held back a yawn.

“I- It’s stupid, nevermind. I shouldn’t be bothering you right now.”

“Roman. You’re never a bother to me.”

There was a moment of silence, and Patton wondered in Roman had fallen asleep. All he could hear was breathing.

“Roman?”

“Do you, um, want to watch a movie? Like we used to?”

“We both know you’re not calling me at one in the morning just to watch a movie,” he said.

“Oh.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

You want me to leave it there, afraid of a love affair

He walked into Roman’s bedroom exactly twenty-seven minutes later. He slipped his shoes off and let himself fall into Roman’s bed. “Welcome back to childhood.”

Roman brushed his hand against Patton’s. “Yeah. Just like childhood.”

Patton wanted to grab his hand. He wanted to take his face and kiss him senselessly.

“So, why did you call me?” He decided to let that choice be Roman’s. “You must’ve wanted to talk about something.”

“I was thinking,” he admitted. “About Carlos.”

Patton felt something settle in his stomach. Something bad.

“And I don’t like thinking about him.”

“Are you upset about the breakup?”

“No,” Roman said. His fingers brushed against Patton’s again. “You know me. I don’t like to regret the past.”

“Do you regret the breakup?”

“No, Patton, stop.” He sighed. “I regret being with him. And I don’t like that.”

“Oh.”

“He was a rebound, I guess. A distraction. He loved me and I loved that. I loved the attention.”

“Sounds like a few old memories of mine.”

“I was too busy waiting for someone to love me back. And now, I’ve been waiting for so long that I don’t know if he’ll ever-”

“Roman.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

But I think you know

Roman moved so slowly and carefully. Patton held his cheeks in his hands and pulled him forward, kissing him like there was nothing else in the world.

That I can’t let go

“There isn’t a world where I don’t love you.”

“Oh,” Roman tiredly murmured. “Does that mean we can kiss again?”

Patton pressed a tender kiss to his cheek. “You need to sleep.”

“No, I don’t.” Roman yawned. “I need you.”

“I’m here for you, Roman.” Another kiss. “Now go to sleep.” And the world went quiet. And the world went black.

Oh you can take your time baby, I'm in no hurry, know I'm gonna get you You don't wanna hurt me, baby don't worry, I ain't gonna let you

They decided to wait a few days before telling everyone. Roman, however, wasted no time stealing every bit of Patton’s affection. “I’m starved,” he’d said. “I’ll die without your kiss, my love.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Patton said, pressing a kiss to Roman’s cheek as he made pancakes. Roman was holding onto his waist, resting his head on his lover’s shoulder. “I love you, Princey.”

Roman hummed. “Love you too, Pattoncake.”

“Awww. Roman that’s adorable.”

“Only because you are.”

Patton squealed, turning around to hide his face in Roman’s chest. He was a blushing mess; he felt like Roman when they were merely flirting.

“Your pancakes are burning, darling.”

“Fuck the pancakes, my face is burning.”

Roman laughed and flipped each of the pancakes quickly before lifting Patton’s chin and kissing him softly. “You’re too easy.”

“Could’ve said the same about you in that pool float.”

Roman kissed him again. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“That’s how I wanna go,” Patton said. “Now go, sit, I need to make sure these don’t burn.”

Let me tell you now

They decided to tell everyone at the next game night, though it never really came to that. Logan had walked in on them making out in the kitchen, muttering “Fucking finally” before grabbing a soda from the fridge and walking out.

Patton blushed and hid his face in Roman’s chest as they both failed to hide their laughter. “I suppose we should get back to cards.”

Roman hummed, snaking his arms around Patton’s sides and pulling him close. He pressed a kiss to Patton’s lips and let it melt into more as sugar dissolved at his touch. “I have much more fun things in mind than cards.”

“Baaabe.”

“Yes?” Roman asked, kissing him again.

“If you two don’t get your asses over here I will stab you both,” Logan called.

Virgil then continued, shouting, “STOP BEING FUCKING HORNY!”

Roman laughed. “Let’s get back to cards.”

My love is strong enough

They settled into a nice routine. They spent more time together, yes, but also readjusted to spending time apart. Being a couple felt natural, it was hard to imagine living any other way.

Patton was laying in bed, squinting at his phone screen without his glasses. He smiled, half asleep but not willing to end his conversation so quickly. Roman was gushing about some book series or maybe it was a YouTube video, Patton really couldn’t tell. But it didn’t matter, seeing the stream of texts was comforting enough.

Pattoncake: Wait, hold on

Princey: ???

Pattoncake: I love you <3

Pattoncake: Okay, keep going

He smiled at his phone. He knew there had been times in life when he had been hurt. Upset. Injured. But Roman made it feel like nothing bad existed. Roman made everything feel like love.

To last when things get rough It’s magic

“Fuck,” Roman groaned.

“What’s wrong?” Patton asked, leaning against his shoulder.

“Tomorrow got cancelled due to weather.”

“That’s Florida for you.”

He groaned in response. “Florida can suck my dick.”

“But then I’d be out of a job.” 

Roman’s face went bright red as Patton laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Patton said, “We can still be gay in the rain.”

“Not with the other gays though.”

“We can be gay together. We can hang out with our friend gays.”

“I guess.”

“There’s other events,” Patton reminded. “Just let the weather pass. I’ll make tomorrow special.”

You say that I waste my time, but I can’t get you off my mind

Roman was out getting groceries while Virgil and Logan were sneaking into his apartment with every rainbow thing they could find. The apartment was covered wall to wall in flags and lights and for some reason a framed picture of the kiss scene from Love, Simon that had not been there before.

“Patton, I don’t intend to sound rude, but,” Logan looked up and down at Patton’s rainbow suit, “is this, perhaps, a bit superfluous?”

Patton adjusted Logan’s lapel pin, a heart in the colors and arrangement of the demisexual pride flag. “I’m dating Roman, if it’s not extra it’s not us.”

Logan rolled his eyes but gave a fond smile. “I will never understand how I am friends with either of you.”

“Yeah, yeah, love you too. Now I need you and Virgil to show how much you love me by leaving, Roman will be back any minute now.”

No, I can’t let go

Roman’s hair was sticking to his face when he came inside. He dropped the grocery bags by the door when he saw everything around him.

‘Cause I love you so

“Patton, what the fuck is this?”

“Surprise,” Patton said. “Or should I say ‘surpride!’”

Roman smiled, picking up the grocery bags and putting them properly on the counter. “You look ridiculous.”

“Do you not like it?”

“Oh, Patton.” Roman pulled him in close, holding his cheeks in his hands. “I adore it.”

Patton leaned into the touch, pressing their lips together. “I adore you.”

“Not as much as I adore you.”

“Hmm, nah,” Patton hummed. “I think I love you the most.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe,” he said with a smirk. “OH! I have to show you something!” He grabbed Roman’s hand and they ran into the living room. Patton pressed play on his phone and grabbed Roman’s hands.

“You can’t slow dance to Troye Sivan.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I want to. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

If you change your mind, I'm the first in line Honey, I'm still free, take a chance on me

Patton pressed his head against Roman’s chest.

If you need me, let me know, gonna be around If you've got no place to go when you're feeling down

“We should stay like this forever.”

“What? Dancing?” Roman asked. “People have died from that.”

“No, not dancing,” Patton said. “I mean...”

If you're all alone when the pretty birds have flown Honey, I'm still free, take a chance on me

“Together. Forever.”

Gonna do my very best and it ain't no lie If you put me to the test, if you let me try

“I agree completely, my love.”

Honey, I'm still free, take a chance on me

[alecmagnuslwb]

I Wear Your Winter Coat (The One You Love To Wear)

Read on AO3

The moon is high in the sky bright and shining, hell you can even see a few more stars than usual in between the city lights. The air’s not too cold just a nice chill that her big black jacket covered in patches and a few old clothes pins keeps away. There are clouds in the distance, but they’re hours away from causing any trouble. She has no magic shows lined up and she and John have agreed to at least a week of fun, they’ve earned it after everything that’s been on their plate lately. It’s the perfect, easy kind of night to go out and do something. So of course, Nick wants absolutely nothing to do with it.

“Oh come on mate, we took out three whole rabid vampire nests the past week. Not to mention the shows Zee’s been putting on. We agreed to a week off,” Constantine says as Nick declines so much as a dinner before he heads back to the brownstone.

“You both agreed to that,” he says turning to look at the two of them. “I have some research I want to do.” Zatanna sighs and steps away from John’s side to lay a gentle hand on Nick’s shoulder. Research seems to be his only past time these days, a past time that more and more so lately he doesn’t seem to want to share with them and it’s starting to worry her.

“You know you’re allowed to have fun, right?” she says with an encouraging smile. He brushes her hand off and shrugs.

“I have plenty of fun, see you two later,” he says without even entertaining the possibility of staying already turning around to leave. Zatanna watches him go, trying hard not to let Nick’s concerning behavior ruin her high spirits. John steps up next to her tossing his arm across her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her hair and immediately she starts to feel at ease again. For all his brashness sometimes John Constantine can be incredibly soothing. For her at least, most others probably wouldn’t agree with that statement.

“How about you help me pick out a new jacket? Seeing as you’re the reason I don’t have one anymore,” John says with a smirk watching as Nick saunters off around the corner leaving them to it.

Zatanna slips out from under John’s arm to stand in front of him mood completely restored with a bright, innocent smile on her lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says tugging at the jacket that was once his. She stuffs her hands into the pockets shimmying her shoulders playfully.

“Of course you don’t,” he says rolling his eyes fondly as he reaches out a hand to fix the collar of the jacket.

“Not a clue,” she says leaning in to place a quick light kiss on his cheek his stubble a little rough, but grounding beneath her lips. He scrunches up his face at the action, but she knows he’s secretly pleased. They may have been flirting from day one, but this thing between them is still new. It’s sweet even if they’re moving at high speed most of the time.

John loops his arm through hers entangling their fingers together inside her pocket before pulling her along down the street as he chuckles at her playful denial.

An hour and a half later they’re practically buried in a pile of coats and jackets in a small shop with Zatanna forcing every single one of them, no matter how ridiculous, onto John.

They start off simple enough with a classic black leather jacket with a few unnecessary buckles here and there that he looks great in, but he complains about the buckles purposely flicking himself in the face with one. A simple black bomber jacket is next.

“You look like Shaun of the Dead,” Zatanna says scrutinizing the look. The loose red tie, the white shirt and black pants, add in the fact that there’s a high chance any given day of him ending up covered in blood spatter and he’ll be the living embodiment of the character.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says as he pulls the zipper all the way up to his neck.

“It is for me,” she says unzipping it immediately. No disrespect to Simon Pegg but she doesn’t need to hear movie quote quips while they’re out fighting for their lives on top of his usual snark.

John huffs but concedes moving on to the next jacket. A bit later she gets him in a long purple coat with the collar turned up.

“I look like Harry Potter,” he says scrunching up his nose.

Zatanna snorts, “I don’t think you know what Harry Potter looks like.”

Personally she thinks it looks good on him, even if it clashes with the tie, but she can tell from the displeased look on his face there’s no way he’s going to budge.

The yellow leather jacket he tries on next has extreme Freddie Mercury vibes, but this particular bisexual man isn’t pulling it off quite as well and the green fur one that comes after that, well Zatanna just wanted to laugh and point and call him Oscar the Grouch she didn’t actually think it would look good.

“If you get this one, it’ll definitely distract from your personality,” Zatanna jokes with a big smile looking at John in the mirror when they move on to the next possibility. He turns in the horrendously loud jacket and glares at her.

The coat lands at a bit below waist high, it’s technically black but there’s so many rhinestones, random neon numbers and a large patch of a gold and silver tiger on the back that any subtlety it could have flies right out the window instantly. It’s hilarious and tacky and it’s Zatanna’s favorite jacket she’s ever seen.

“I am a fucking delight,” he says a little loudly, catching the startled attention of the poor shop girl who’s been putting up with them. She’s seemingly not asked them to leave yet because she genuinely believes they intend to make a purchase. Which they will theoretically after Zatanna’s had her share of laughs that is.

Zatanna snorts which quickly turns into giggles as she continues facing on John’s glare in the mirror. He rips the jacket off tossing it into the chair Zatanna has been occupying for most of this fashion show and reaches into his pants pocket. He gets the cigarette barely halfway to his mouth before the shopgirl is rushing over and snatching it from his hand.

“No smoking in here, sir,” she says sternly handing the cigarette to Zatanna who it seems she has determined is the logical one between the two of them. Which is a great and accurate observation. “Also please do not throw the merchandise.”

She huffs and walks away from them grabbing the hideous jacket from the chair as she goes.

“Alright we gotta wrap this up before that girl kills us,” Zatanna says pocketing the cigarette and trying not to laugh some more.

“I just need something simple,” John says wandering over to the wall in the back that houses the shops normal everyday looking coats. “Something easy to clean and easy to replace, cause fuck knows I get dirty.” He says looking back and winking at Zatanna, she just rolls her eyes.

John shifts through a few more hangers before he makes a triumphant sound pulling a knee length tan jacket from the rack. It’s a trench coat of all things, he slips it on easily as he walks back over to the mirror.

“Whaddya think?” he asks flipping up the collar. Zatanna steps up behind him looking him over. He looks pretty good, definitely better than most men would look in one. She thinks he might be pulling it off in a completely non-creepy way which Zatanna has never seen a man do.

She walks around him a couple times surveying as he tugs at the wrists smoothing them out.

“I think,” she says as she stops behind him lifting up to rest her chin on his shoulder and meet his eyes in the mirror. “You are the first man in history to successfully not look like a creepy flasher in a trench coat.”

John meets her eyes in the mirror and gives her that flirtatious smirk she’s so used to.

“Thanks love,” he says twisting the price tag. “This one’s actually in my price range too.”

John turns around jostling her from her comfortable position on his shoulder and threads their fingers together walking over to the main counter. The shop girl looks beyond relieved when they check out happily taking John’s money and more or less stressing in her fake chipper goodbye that they never come back to this particular store.

Zatanna feels a little bad, she wishes stores had tip jars to at least pay the girl a bit extra for her troubles. They step outside finding that during their shopping not so spree the far away clouds from earlier have turned the pleasant weather into rain. John pushes the door open holding it for her. He steps out behind her ripping the tag from the coat and tossing it into a puddle.

They huddle together and move down a bit out of the eyeline of the shop girl while still staying dry under the awning.

“It’s a good thing I got the new coat,” he says reaching into Zatanna’s pocket and grabbing the cigarette she’d been handed by the shop girl. He holds out his hand to her. “Make a run for the pub?” he says gesturing in the general vicinity of where a pub they’ve taken to frequenting sits a few streets over.

“One second,” she says standing in front of him. She grips the lapels of his coat and closes her eyes.

“What’re you doing?” he asks the unlit cigarette muffling his words just a bit.

“Hush,” she says refocusing on the task at hand. She mumbles a few backwards words of protection and luck under her breath feeling the crackle of magic at her fingers as it seeps into the coat. She opens her eyes just as it glows for a second the magic settling in.

“It’s not bulletproofed or anything, but it should keep you a little safer, maybe even bring you a little more luck now,” she says with a smile looking up at him. John just shakes his head a little look of disbelief moving across his face. He pulls the cigarette from his lips and puts his hands on each side of her face gently.

“I’m already more bloody lucky than I deserve,” he says. He leans in kissing her soundly not giving her a chance to say anything in defense of himself. She gets lost in it, in him, like she does so often these days, not feeling a thing except for the warmth of his body against her and that constant taste of smoke that lingers on his lips that she’s grown to love. The moment is broken however when a large bang on the glass behind them tears them apart. The girl from the shop is on the other side her hand still pressed to the glass a frustrated look on her face.

John starts laughing putting the cigarette back between his lips and Zatanna follows suit not being able to hide her amusement. She grabs his hand and tugs him out into the rain. They rush down a bit before they find another awning to huddle under. It’s much smaller than the one in front of the shop the rain still whipping in and hitting them. John tugs his jacket off and lifts it over top of them as a makeshift umbrella fighting off the rain that’s sneaking in.

He tilts his head gesturing for Zatanna to move in closer and she does, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Want to see if we can wait it out?” she says speaking a little louder so he can hear her over the bouncing of rain on the awning above.

“Yeah, I’m perfectly fine right here,” he says putting his arm around her as best as he can while still holding up the jacket. He seems to remember the cigarette still between his teeth then looking down at it.

Zatanna snaps her fingers saying a quiet ‘erif’ under her breath. An orange flame comes to life at the tip of her index finger and she lifts it up lighting the cigarette for him, he smiles in thanks taking a deep inhale. She pulls it from his lips taking a rare drag of her own as well blowing it out into the rain.

“The jacket really does suit you,” she says looking up at the piece of clothing and putting the cigarette back between his lips. “I think you’ve found your signature look.”

“It’s no fishnet and corset, but I think I can make it work,” he says with a smirk forming around his cigarette looking her up and down hungrily.

Zatanna just huffs a bit snuggling in closer against him and under the trench coat watching the rain fall steady around them.

[stanbillyhargrove]

Demons - The Rewrite

Chapter 16: Please Don't Make Me Beg You To Stay

Tw: eating disorders, purging, drugs

Steve’s POV

The party raged around me, bodies moving all around me and music pounding so loud I could feel it in my chest, replacing the beat of my heart. Nancy has been acting weird lately, distant and cold, and she’d decided not to come to this party, leaving me to drink with my friends. We were having a pretty good time, getting drunk and joking around for a while.

But it didn't feel right.

I wandered away to the makeshift bar near the kitchen. I was mixing myself a drink when a girl walked up behind me and ran a hand over my shoulder. I turned around to meet her drunken gaze.

“Hey there, pretty boy,” she slurred.

I tried to turn her down, tell her I had a girlfriend, but the girl just kept babbling.

I tuned out her constant talking when I saw Cat stumble into the other side of the kitchen, holding her head as she slumped against the counter. I didn’t think anything of it when a guy I’d never seen before followed her, just someone she met checking on her I thought. When she slumped to the floor I watched the new guy join a couple other guys, all of them sneering to each other. They were like a pack of wolves, snapping their teeth as they watched their prey fall. A couple people paused to talk to her but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

I knew I should go to her but I didn't, just threw back my drink and turned to find another.

“She’ll be out any second,” a voice behind me sneered.

The pack loomed, staying far enough away from their leader to not startle the prey. Cat was starting to fade against the counter, struggling to keep her eyes open. When he hoisted her over his shoulder and started upstairs with her hanging limp, dread settled heavy in my gut. I quickly scanned for a head of blonde curls but didn’t see Billy anywhere near me.

Cause he hadn't been there.

I tried to walk away from the girl but was grabbed by the arm as she started to cry. I watched them all disappear upstairs and felt my mouth go dry. I desperately hoped for Billy to appear but knew he wouldn’t. It took a while for me to shake off the drunk girl to run up the stairs after them. When I worked up the courage to open the door my blood ran cold, like ice. The leader was on top of Cat, sliding her pants down her thighs. The pack loomed, salivating over their catch.

I announced my presence with a meager, “leave her alone.”

They turned on me, ready to devour me too.

“Hey man, private party,” the leader growled.

“She doesn’t want this, leave her alone,” I tried again.

One of the pack lept forward to shove me, “why don’t you fuck off? You don’t know what she wants.”

I bristled, squaring up to challenge them, “I know that she can’t walk or tell you what she wants when she’s passed out.”

The leader slid off Cat and met my challenge, offered a worse one, “we’ll let you join if you keep your fucking mouth shut.”

I gaped at him, “are you fucking serious? No! Get the hell out of here, you fucking assholes!”

He glared at me and reluctantly backed down.

“Whatever man,” he spat, “you can fucking have her.”

He shouldered past me, his crew all taking a turn to shove me as they followed him out of the room. The interaction left me feeling dirty, like they had left a mark on me that I would spend the next few days scrubbing at. I crossed the room to the bed and grabbed Cat’s shoulders to shake her. She didn’t respond, her entire body was limp in my hands.

Too much to drink, I thought.

I gently wiggled her pants back up her hipbones, over the scars and scabs that littered them. Scooped her up and carried her back downstairs, past the leering pack and out to my car to bring her back to my house to sleep it off.

I woke up with Cat curled into my side. When I looked over at her and saw her sunken, frail frame, I realized that I had been dreaming. Dreaming about what I wished had happened that night instead of what actually happened. A weight settled over me. A weight dragging me down into an endless ocean.

An ocean of should of's and could of's.

Of guilt.

Because it's my fault.

If I hadn’t been so caught up in myself I could have done something, I could have stopped her from being drugged in the first place. I should have tried harder to keep an eye on her. I failed Cat when she needed me most and I was failing her now as she got sicker and sicker.

I dont know what to do anymore, how to help, how to quit being a failure.

--

I woke again later in the morning to Cat rummaging loudly through a box just outside my bedroom door. I could just barely see her, sitting in the doorway pulling on strings of lights.

"Cat?"

She scrambled up, "oh! You’re awake! Did I wake you up? I was trying to be quiet."

"What are you doing?"

She smiled, holding up a string of lights, "I found some lights, I thought we could hang them up over the bed. It'll be cute."

I nodded, slightly confused, "yeah..okay, I can do that..where did you find those?"

"I made breakfast too! Get up so we can go shopping!"

"Shopping?"

"Yeah," she skipped and jumped to sit on the edge of the bed, "remember? For the dance?"

I nodded, sitting up, "right. Yeah, okay."

--

"I've never been in the city," Cat beamed, looking at all the stores lining the street.

I pulled to the side of the road, in front of a little boutique. Large windows boasted racks full of dresses and suits.

"Can we get coffee, Stevie?" Cat asked, pointing at the little Cafe across the street.

"Did you eat anything this morning?"

"Yeah, before you got up."

For a second, I could look at her smiling and let myself believe her.

She was running across the road before I could answer. Didn't look for cars, just dashed out.

"Cat!" I yelled.

"Come on, slow poke!" She yelled back, laughing from the sidewalk.

--

"Young Mr. Harrington," a woman beamed when we walked into the boutique, "how's your father? I haven't seen him in a while."

I smiled tightly, "he's fine, Tam. Busy."

"Good, good," she nodded, coming around the counter, "what can I help you with?"

Cat linked her arm in mine, "looking for a dress. And Steve here needs a new shirt."

"Will this be on your father's account?"

"No, I have money," Cat protested.

"Put it on his account. I need my jacket tailored too," I held up the jacket in my other arm.

Cat spun to me, "Stevie, I can-"

I shook my head, "really, it's okay. He doesn't care. Probably won't even notice. Lead the way, Tam."

Tammy nodded, leading us through the racks. Rows upon rows of billowing tulle and shining sequins. Soft silks and delicate lace.

Cat loaded her arms with as many dresses as she could carry and eagerly followed Tammy to a changing room.

Tammy pulled the curtain closed and came over to me, "another brunette, you certainly have a type."

I scrunched my eyebrows, confused, "huh?"

"I like this one, she's pretty. Much nicer than that last one I saw you with. What was her name again? Nina? Natasha?"

"Nancy," I answered, dryly.

"Nancy! Yeah, she didn't seem like a very nice girl. Not right for you."

I was about to protest when Cat called from the change room, "zip me, please?"

Tammy hurried behind the curtain and Cat walked out a moment later in a bright red dress. Tulle poofing up from her shoulders and layering down the skirt. It engulfed and swallowed Cat like flames.

"What do you think?" Tammy asked, smoothing her hands over the offending fabric.

"It's...something," I murmured, trying to control my expression.

Cat turned and burst out laughed looking at herself in the mirror, "oh no, this is terrible," she clapped a hand over her mouth, "I'm sorry! It's just not good on me!"

Tammy smiled gently, "don't worry, sweetheart. I'm not the designer. Let's try a different one."

An hour later we were on our way home, a new shirt, dress and shoes wrapped in boxes in the backseat.

-- a week later

"You sure you don't want to come pick up my jacket with me?" I asked.

Cat smiled and shook her head, "I'm okay, I'll spend some time with Rocky. Maybe go home for some stuff."

"Okay, I'll be back in a couple hours."

--

I came back to find a quiet house and a half eaten chocolate cake in the kitchen.

"Cat?" I called, tossing my suit jacket over a chair.

A fork with smeared remnants of icing gleamed next to the paper box.

A distant, painful retch perked my ears. I followed it through the house. Through the shadows of my parents unlit room. Following the thin strip of yellow light coming from under their bathroom door.

"Cat?"

Another retch and a sobbed, "fuck!"

I pushed the door open, "are you sick?"

She was kneeling in front of the toilet, one arm bent to brace herself and choking on the middle two fingers of her other hand.

I froze for a moment, "what the?"

"It won't come out," she cried, "it's stuck."

Her fingers were raw and irritated from being pushed down her throat.

"It won't come out, I can feel it."

She was shaking, fingers trembling against pink, slick lips. Tears sprung to my eyes, disappointed, angry and confused. My mouth opened and closed, lost for words. She pushed her fingers forward, gagging when nails scratched the back of her throat.

"Don't," I whispered.

She hesitated, "I can feel it, I need it out. I didn't mean to...I was so good."

Broken eyes met mine. Shameful before they scrunched closed and she dry heaved into the toilet. I shut my eyes tight, turning away from the door and leaving my parents room.

--

I hadn't moved from my spot near the pool. Just sat staring into the crystal blue water. The way it lapped lightly at my ankles. The way the stars reflected on the surface and danced when a stray tear fell.

The patio door slid open and shut behind me. Soft feet padding out onto the stone. I sniffed and wiped my nose with the back of my hand.

"Stevie," she rasped.

A new round of tears burned like acid.

"What the fuck was that?"

"I..I don't..."

I whirled around to face her, splashing water when I hurried to stand. Her eyes hardened when she flinched.

"What the fuck was that!" I yelled, "how could you do that to me! You were fine yesterday, what the hell happened?!"

"N-nothing."

"Nothing?" I scoffed.

"Yeah, nothing," she ground out, chin wavering even with her teeth clenched.

The lying stung almost worse than the truth.

"How can you stand there and lie to me?!"

She looked away, lips tightening.

"It's like you're trying to fuck this up."

Cat stood quiet, swallowing thickly.

"Is that it? You want to be sick? You want to push everyone away so you can pretend nobody cares and try to kill yourself again?"

Her eyebrows twitched, angry. Nostrils flared while she searched for the words to hurt me.

"I don't love you."

I was taken aback. Confused and hurt.

"I don't love you, Steve. And we're not in a fucking relationship," she spat venom, closing off, "I know you think you're my knight in shining armor but you can't save me."

"Fuck you," I growled.

"Your parents left, Nancy left. Nobody stays. Do you ever think maybe it's your fault?"

Yes.

All the time.

I hold people too close until they suffocate and leave.

I scoffed, sharp words falling from my lips before I could think, "tell me again where your parents are? You pushed Billy away. I'm the only one you have left. You need me."

"I don't need you. I never needed you!"

"Then leave!" I shouted, "my life would be a lot fucking easier!"

Hurt flashed behind her eyes before she turned and stomped away.

--

Tommy’s POV

Booze flowed, bottles passed and plastic cups emptied. Cigarettes and joints created a blue haze above us all. Flashing lights and thumping music disoriented the senses further.

Sweat dripped down foreheads, mixing into the sticky floor.

White powder covered a table in the middle of the room. Dusted noses.

Glimpses of familiar faces made it through the haze. Carol laughing, wild and free. Dancing out of sight. That girl I saw with Steve, Billy's girl. Cat? Chugging from a clear bottle. Leaning over the table.

"Tommy!" Carol yelled, snapping me back to reality.

I was in the backyard, lying face up in the grass. I smiled lazily up at her.

"You look beautiful," I mumbled.

Pink bloomed in her cheeks, "Tommy, you've been gone for hours. What happened?"

I laughed, "hours? Wow.."

"Tommy," she snapped, "get it together. We have a problem."

--

“Hall?” Billy grumbled over the phone.

“What?

He huffed loudly, “keep an eye on her until someone gets her?”

I sighed, “yeah, sure, okay.”

I hung up and looked back at Carol, "he can't get her."

"Fuck, try...try Steve maybe? I'm gunna try to talk to her."

--

I led Steve through the house to the bathroom upstairs, furthest from the noise.

"Carol pulled her away from a bunch of creeps, brought her up here to calm down a little."

Carol leaned against the bathroom door, knocking loudly.

"Carol? What's going on?"

"She flipped. Pushed me out and locked the door."

Steve sighed, "thanks, guys. I'll take care of her."

@charmed-asylum

[karmasuna]

ghost? busted! [ghost!dabi x reader]

Genre: Fluff

Summary: There’s a not-so-unwelcome intruder in your house, and you’re determined to find out just who (or what) he is.

Wordcount: 1347

A/N: so this was supposed to be a todoroki (shouto) oneshot but i eneded up writing even more Dabi content again (^^;) this is probably going to have multiple parts, but we’ll see how this does!

You grabbed a plate from your cupboard, putting it onto the counter as you reached for the bread to make a sandwich. “I’m pretty sure I left the dishes out after washing them last night,” you mutter to yourself. Having finally moved out and into your own apartment a few weeks ago, you had developed the habit of talking to yourself when you were alone at home doing mundane tasks. You feel a chill pass through you as you spread the jam onto the bread. “I swear to god, if there’s a ghost in here fucking with me I’m going to get a priest to come here and dose the entire place in holy water, so leave me alone,” you say to no one in particular as you slap another slice of bread onto the jam covered one and take a bite out of it, leaning against the counter with sandwich in one hand and phone in the other, scrolling through your feed as you ate.

Putting the last part into your mouth and chewing, you turn to put your plate in the sink, nearly smashing it as your grip slips when you catch a glimpse of a silhouette in the corner of your eye.

“It was probably nothing,” you say to yourself, blinking a few times before going back to rinse the plate, wiping it dry and putting in on the drying rack.

“You know, I’m not a demon. You can’t get rid of me with holy water.”

You scream and nearly choke on your sandwich as you hear a voice right behind you, not daring to look anywhere but straight at the sink in fear of seeing anything that would make you freak out more. You reach to the side and grab a knife before slowly turning around, holding it up in a menacing manner. “Show yourself,” you say loudly with as much intimidation you can muster up in the moment, trying to slow your racing heart and stop your voice from shaking. When you don’t get a response you wave the blade around blindly, trying to land a hit on your intruder.

A freezing human-like grip stops your hand mid-swing, and you drop the knife in shock, nearly fainting in horror when it doesn’t clatter onto the floor, instead hovering just inches above the tile for a few moments before floating back up and settling gently onto the countertop, and that did it for you, vision going black as you faint, unable to process everything that had happened to you in the past minute.

You wake up, opening your eyes blearily to regain your surroundings. You feel the panic coming back to you as you realize that you were on your couch instead of in your kitchen, bolting upright to look around your small apartment to see if anything else was out of place. Your eyes dart around the space in a panic, and they fall on the man lounging casually in a chair at your dinner table, his feet propped up on the table as he munches on an apple. The first thing you notice about him is the abundance of scarred skin on his body, but you don’t have the guts to make any comments about it as your flight or fight instincts kick in.

“Who the hell are you?” you holler, grabbing the mug on the coffee table in front of you and throwing it at the intruder. It passes right through his torso as he takes a bite off the apple, completely unfazed by your attack as he catches the mug with his free hand just as it was about to hit the floor.

“Woah there,” he says calmly, smirking at you as he sets the mug down on the dinner table. “Wouldn’t want you breaking all of your tableware because of me.”

“What are you? Also, you better get your nasty feet off of my table,” you say at him, putting your hands on your hips as you glare at him, “you have one minute to explain yourself before I call the cops on you.”

“I’m a ghost,” he tells you cooly, but to his credit he does take his feet off the table. “As I said earlier before you fainted, holy water’s not gonna do anything to me. Don’t think the cops would be able to help you or believe you, dollface.”

“Why are you haunting me? I don’t think I’ve killed anyone,” you say cautiously, sitting back down on the couch and looking at him suspiciously across the room.

“Oh c’mon, you could never,” he retorts back, “I've seen you scream at the sight of a cockroach, Y/N. And also no, me dying had nothing to do with you.”

“Okay okay, time out. How do you know my name and have you been stalking me? You’re so creepy.”

The lean man stands up, chuckling at you. “The name’s Dabi. That wasn’t my name when I was alive, but it’s what I go by now. I’m stuck here with you because you took my body home with you,” he points at the plain silver band on your thumb.

“Um,” you say, not really knowing how to respond. “So if I get rid of it will you go away?”

The scarred man- Dabi- mock pouts, though the amused glint in his eyes tells you he’s not particularly worried about that. “I’ve met you for less than five minutes and you already want to get rid of me? But to answer you dollface, yeah that would probably happen. Not forever, just until someone else picks up the damn thing.”

You inspect the simple ring cautiously, the metal feeling much heavier on your skin now that you knew it came with a ghost. It had caught your eye while you were visiting a thrift store when you were looking for decorations for your new apartment, and you thought it would be nice to have something to commemorate you moving out all alone.

Sighing, you go to the dinner table and sit down, gesturing for him to do the same. I can’t believe I’m doing this, you think to yourself, this is probably going to get me killed. He does so, glancing at you curiously to see what you would do.

“Can you cook?” you ask, taking the ring off your thumb and twirling it. “Are you serious?” he retorts, disbelief in his voice.

“If you can cook and get rid of all the bugs, you can stay as long as you act like a normal person and we can be roommates,” you say seriously, “but if you can’t, this ring is going into the dumpsters behind this building in the next 10 minutes.”

A look of panic flashes across his face as you mention getting rid of the ring, gone so quickly that you could’ve sworn that you had imagined it.

“God, are you that hopeless? You live alone and you can’t even cook,” he taunts, and stops when you send him a warning glance. “Okay okay, chill woman,” the man holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I can cook, and okay, I’ll get rid of the bugs, you wimp.”

You huff at his comment, reluctantly stretching out a hand towards him. “It’s a deal then, Dabi. God, I can’t believe my roommate’s gonna be a ghost.”

He smirks at you, taking your hand and shaking it firmly. His larger hand was warm in yours, making you look up at him in surprise at how human-like it felt. “Don’t worry about the ghost part. I can be just as human as you are.”

You scoff at his comment. “Well, are you human enough to split the rent with me then, Mister Ghost-who’s-very-human?” Your hand falls forward though where Dabi’s own was seconds ago, it becoming see-through along with the rest of his body. “Nah, I don’t think so,” he replies, smirking at you and fading into thin air.

“Gee, you’re so polite,” you say to the air where he was just moments ago. “See you again soon, I guess.”