#first is a wip for a reference THAT WILL ALSO NOT SEE TAGS. GROWLS.

[bastiodon8]

I like to play and draw

[scienceoftheidiot]

Find the Word Tag Game

I was tagged by @residentdormouse ! Thank you dear 😊

My words were : calm, frantic, joy, sadness, anger 

It’s pretty funny that it makes me realize I very rarely use these words in plain to describe emotions. Like. Really, they were hard to find. I don’t know what it says about my writing (that I use too many adverbs, I know, I know, but you can pry them from my cold dead hands, thanks). (Also, so much for thinking Desden is an angry arse. There’s no occurrence of the word "anger" in the 9 chapters I translated into English. This man is the personification of serenity. Yeah. Yeah.)*insert hedgehog emoji*

Ah and ! I’m terrible at titles and all my titles are FUCKING LONG like the good french idiot I am ! 

I tag : @residentdormouse (right back at you!) @heirsoflilith @qs63 @riotbrrrd @musing-and-music @littleragondin @dairogo @goneadrift and this tag is open, please do it and tag me even if you're not tagged, so I can read your stuff !

And your words are : smile, dream, tear(s), dark, soft  

Some original stuff and fic WIPs under the cut. 

Calm - Dead men talk way too much (Original story), Chapter 4

The door from his bedroom to the living room was wide open – out of the way. He got out, and stayed in the doorway. Kalinka was still barking, but the man was now just making crying sounds. Not very frightening, for an armed robber or a mafia killer. Desden’s left hand, the one that was not holding the door frame to the point of cracking it, was shaking terribly. He closed it in a fist, clenching his teeth under the pain from his wound, and went on. He surprised himself with how steady and calm his voice sounded:

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Kalinka immediately shut up and emitted a low growl instead. Even if he knew it was not directed at him, Desden couldn’t help being a little frightened by his dog. She had never acted like that before. That was the second time this kind of thing happened in a week.

“Please, take that dog away, please.”

Frantic - Everyone learns faster on fire (FMA Royai fic - fully posted on AO3)

His last comment had been a reference to her father, that had boiled under the surface for some days. She'd acted with Mustang as she had acted with her father, catering to his every needs, getting everything ready in advance for him, growing more frantic about it as time passed and her General had become more frustrated. It was a vicious, never ending circle. She was able to understand now, to look at it with a somewhat clinical eye, but in front of him, she’d been completely blindsided. 

Mustang wasn't a bedridden, dying old man. 

And he wasn't her father. 

"Do you want a drink, Roy boy?" 

Joy - President Grumman’s little puppet theater - (FMA Royai fic - WIP)

No occurrence of joy by itself anywhere. So you get “joyful” 

"Yeah," he said as he followed her, seeing her reaching for her finest gin. "No alcohol, please. Just, fresh water or, whatever." 

He placed the little suitcase at his feet and sat at the bar, his right hand massaging the palm of his left. It wasn't that painful after all these years, but it had become a habit. It soothed him. And he felt he needed so, what with the pointed look Chris gave him. 

"Here," she sled a glass of juice towards him on the counter. "Try this." 

It was just a glass of orange juice, bright in colour and strong in smell. A good smell. Roy drank a sip, and it felt like the most tasteful thing he'd ever drank. Maybe it was that the food in prison was, well, prison food, or maybe it was because everything since he was out felt and smelled and looked brighter and stronger than it had done in years. But the orange taste was perfect, the amount of sugar just enough to feel sweet but not overtly, the whole thing so flavorful he thought there was something else. He put the glass down, looking at it, enjoying the aftertaste on his lips. 

"That thing is… great." 

Chris smiled, and he smiled in return. 

"Ishvalan oranges. First harvest in twenty years. I felt it'd make you happy to hear that." 

Roy looked at the simple glass of orange juice on the counter, its bright, joyful colour, the sweetness of it lingering on his lips. 

"Yeah. It does." 

Sadness - FMA Royai fic WIP (codename dismissed Roy)

No occurrence of “sadness”, so you get “sad”. 

Anger - FMA Royai WIP (codename Ishval)

The major's arms curled around their necks like constrictor snakes. Riza tapped on the prominent biceps to make him let go, but Alex was on a roll. "It is such a sad thing you had to be dismissed –"

"Alex," Roy's strangled voice rose on Riza's right, "if you don't let go we'll both be dismissed for being very dead –"

" – but love overcomes all obstacles –"

"Major!" 

Mustang walked between the piles of crates, effectively hiding them from people who would enter the tent directly. Then he turned around and folded his arms. 

Hawkeye looked miserable, her eyes low, her face gaunt. Mustang felt his anger ebb at this sight. But he just couldn’t believe it. 

“What the fuck, Hawkeye ? I’m stuck in hospital, don’t see you for a couple of weeks, and I find you in the middle of the camp with your gun to the head of a fellow soldier, trying to defend my honour ? One of Kimbly’s men, on top. This is going to bite us in the arse, you can count on that. Bite me in the arse, more surely, and I’m not even your superior.” 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

He didn’t want to rub salt into her wound, but he had to say it. Because it was probably what had surprised him most. So he took a more gentle voice. 

“Worse, though. Your hand. Your gun, it was shaking. What happened?” 

[eruanna1875]

I am still going through old tags, and this was one I saved lol

The WIP I decided on for this is "Kingdom of Othrys" - which is my Tangled AU featuring characters and story elements from my own stories because of a weird dream I had once. It's almost its own thing at this point. It even has a blog (@tpc-tangled-au)

"Star" was surprisingly hard to find, actually. It was always either plural or part of a compound word. But I settled on a plural at last, from the beginning of Chapter 4 (Dire Warnings):

Azarias whirled like wind over the hills, wisplike in his dematerialized form. It was not quite like real flying, but it was faster. Faster too, he knew, was Wayland, astride the swiftest horse he could find. Between the two of them, they would surely find King Frederick soon. But these hopes brought Azarias no cheer. His mood was still foul, and his thoughts stewed in its growing heat. I grow sickened of kings. Kings are fools—they do not understand the power of these stones! You cannot simply take them at will, to use or destroy! The Underworld is already thrown into chaos by ITS king, all because he thought he could rid himself of one as easy as if it were a rat in his cellar. Now this Othryan, this roughland ruler, thinks he can pluck a fireflower and not catch his kingdom ablaze! THEOS tou keravnoú, can they not SEE the stars can rend them?! His silver form flickered black once as he flew. Only once. He kept his head level, so far as any phantom physically could in that wisplike state. He kept his sight peeled for any signs. He kept his focus to the task at hand. But a low growl echoed behind in the hills as he left them, and he could feel frustration creep along his spine.

I really like Azarias and Wayland, guys. They're so epic, and I love their dynamic. (Honestly, I could've used my Chesterton reference for "star", but I just wanted to have one with Them so much.)

"Fade" was actually pretty easy - it came up less than I realized! So I have part of the first appearance of a... certain evil witch, in Chapter 5 (The Impossible Blossom).

As Salome sang, a familiar change crept across her. It tingled of power, and tasted of magic. The tune was forbidden fruit upon her tongue. Ahh... She smiled as she sang, feeling wrinkles fade from its corners. ‘Tis well for me. Well that I do sing so sweet, even as age comes forth. Her weak and brittle hair strengthened, thickened, darkened. No bearer am I, dear master, nor you. Only a mistress of magic, I. Beneath her gloves, her fingers reclaimed their softness and cleverness. But even if I knew no magic, it would be well. And well now. She ran her hands across her form, restored to its familiar shape. ‘Tis the music that does it. Well for me.

(By the way, the magic is triggered by singing in general, not a specific song. She's singing a bad song, because she's a witch and she's bad. Also, this was actually the first time I'd ever written a scene for Salome, AU or otherwise!)

"Time" came up a lot. But I decided on a little bit of description from Chapter 8 (The Lighthouse).

The tower, though tainted by time, had once been white. But faded splotches on the sides told also of stripes worn away. Gleaming black and bright red, once upon a time. Its walls smelled of lost seas. The little gold thing made a half-circle, tracing along the tower’s side. Then it stopped. It returned to the side where it had first arrived, and started back the other way. Furrows scratched into its face as it roamed. But no questions came aloud. The stairs, facing the north westerward, were gilded at last. The gold thing scrambled up readily through the ivy. But it found no greeting. No cracked boards, no rusted knobs, no gaping hole into which it could creep. Only blank. The furrows scratched deeper. “What sort of tower hasn’t any door?”

(That's the Tower, you see, being explored by a certain young prince. Also, I like the Lighthouse. He's nice.)

"Laugh" is a fun one. The one I picked is from Chapter 6 (Seeing the Lights), and it is cute. That whole chapter was super cute, but I liked this moment especially.

She glanced at her friend, about to reply. But she stopped. Naphtali was staring at her, mouth slightly open. His grey eyes gleamed wide in the light. “What?” “I never heard you laugh afore.” “Oh.” Melisande shrank, just a little. “Is it bad?” “Nuh-uh.” He shook his head, his grin returning. “’s nice.” Naphtali smiled at her, just a little moment more, before he looked back out at the lights. It didn’t take long for excitement to spark in him again, and he soon started eagerly pointing out the splendidest lanterns, guessing who made which one, and bouncing on his heels. And Melisande smiled too. She liked the lights. But she decided she liked them standing right here much better than she would like them flying. She didn’t notice that he hadn’t let go of her hand. But then, neither did he.

(BABIES)

So yeah, I know I sort of stole this from a long time ago, but it was open! And I had fun, so maybe I can get this going around again.

I'm assuming I need to pick new words for another round, so I will pick... silver, cheer, hands, and fire.

And I will tag... @amerasdreams @claramurphyqueenoffandoms @whoopsididitdarker @girlwiththe221bread @scarecrow-hat @o0whiterabbit0o @awesomebutunpractical @why-bless-your-heart (I don't know who's off for Lent, but if you're off for Lent, this will be waiting for you after Easter!)

Tagged by @isfjmel-phleg to find the words whisper, leave, last, and door in my current WIPs. I’m rather late to this, sorry, but here goes!

(Since my definition of “current WIPs” is rather…fluid, I decided to search my docs in general and take the most recent use of a word. :P It’s mostly Back to the Future right now…)

“Whisper,” from my Gravity Falls “what if DaMvtF happened but Weirdmageddon didn’t” WIP:

It would be really nice to stay, Dipper thought. Even if Stan and Ford kept…not-getting-along, it would still be nice to stay here with the two of them. Great-Uncle Ford was exciting and amazing and he could teach Dipper so much, but—Grunkle Stan was, well, Grunkle Stan. He was safe, and he was home, and in his own weird imperfect way, he was…pretty amazing himself.

And maybe that was why Dipper found himself saying, “Hey, Grunkle Stan?” without really thinking it through first.

Stan glanced down. “Yeah, kid?”

Dipper chewed on his lip again. “…Have you seen Mabel?”

“Not in a little while.” Stan stopped, eyes sliding uneasily back to Dipper. “You, uh, you talked to her since you got back? She was…kinda down earlier.”

“…I know,” Dipper said. His gaze fell to the ground. Why had he started this, he didn’t want to talk about this, he just…

…Well, maybe he did want to talk about, it, kinda.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Grunkle Stan,” he confessed in a whisper, wrapping his arms around his chest.

:( I forgot how stressfully this AU starts. (It gets better! It’s not an angsty AU! But this is like ten minutes after Mabel ran into the woods and Dipper’s not in a good place right here.)

“Leave” came from one of my new BTTF WIPs—to be specific, this is based on a scene from the BTTF video/one of the comic storylines. Have a teenage Emmett Brown, with a Marty who made friends with him under false pretenses:

For that matter, Emmett thought suddenly, why tell me he was lying at all?

He could easily have kept up the charade for a few minutes longer, giving Emmett some quick response about waiting to hear back and then going on his merry way. But he hadn’t. He’d confessed, as if genuinely not wanting to leave Emmett with false hopes, and then he’d (sort of) explained himself. As if Emmett’s feelings mattered to him.

The way he’d sounded when he was talking about the “someone” he needed to “save”… Well, if that distress was real, Emmett couldn’t really hold his deceit against him. And…even if he hadn’t done it for Emmett’s sake, Corleone had still spent the day obtaining illegal spirits and subpoenaing a gangster’s accountant to get this drill working. Clearly it was very important to him.

Do I have anyone I would go to these lengths for? Emmett wasn’t sure.

But he thought it was worth helping anyone who did.

(I tried to keep up canon-typical levels of dramatic irony on this one. It was fun.)

“Last” comes from my BTTF fic that has the most chance of actually being finished! I like this one.

“Hey Doc.”

“Mm?”

“You ever think about what the world would be like if you’d never been born?”

Doc looked up from his work with a start, spinning around to stare at Marty. His friend was still bent over his guitar, though, practicing chords, and missed Emmett’s reaction entirely.

Which was…probably a good thing, actually.

“What brought this on?” he asked, leaning back and restricting his tone to a relatively normal level of interest.

Marty looked up with an untroubled shrug. “It’s a Wonderful Life was on last night,” he explained, and grinned. “Me ‘n’ Dave ‘n’ Linda started arguing after, about which of us would make the biggest difference if we’d never been born.”

Doc laughed, relaxing. No time-travel wrinkles here yet, just Christmas movies and sibling rivalry. “So, did you reach any conclusions?” he asked, intrigued.

They talk about sibling rivalry and chaos theory and how you define “making a difference.” Doc has Time-Travel Context but Marty doesn’t yet. It doesn’t really matter.

“Door” is another BTTF comics scene—this time from the comics’ “what-if” storyline set in the movies’ Darkest Timeline. (I was thinking of doing a 5 + 1 centered on Doc & Marty’s many “first” meetings…)

Marty scooted forward, leaning toward him. “Wait, wait. You’re tellin’ me that…you’ve met me, but I haven’t met you. Because you met a future me? You’re tellin’ me time travel is real?” His voice rose in pitch as he spoke, squeaking a bit on the final words.

“Indeed.” Doc grinned at him. “Given the nature of the subject, it’s hard to ‘begin at the beginning,’ so to speak…but for me, it began one night in 1955 when a young man called Marty McFly began hammering on my front door, insisting that I help him get back to the future. The future he was from. That’s how I know you!”

For the next round, I’m picking the words star, fade, time, and laugh, and…tagging everyone I’m mutuals with who has active WIPs and wants to do this. Please do! (Even if you’ve done another version of this recently, please feel free to do this one too. :P )

[sirius-archive]

Could I get an imagine where the reader is a muggle American and she’s on vacation in London with her family and she somehow lost her family and she’s like freaking out and then she runs into Sirius on the streets and he like helps calm her down and helps her find her family? Sorry if this is a weird request

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader, James Potter x Lily Evans (mentioned) 

Warnings: Swearing, stranger danger too, I guess. 

A/N: so sorry this took so long! I loved the idea and I hope I did it justice. I might add to it later on or revamp it bc I love the idea but it’s a big maybe at the moment bc I’m so busy with uni and work and also my other wips. I hope you enjoy this though. Also I changed the request quite a bit bc I forgot what you originally wanted! So sorry!! 

just want to add that I did something o probably shouldn’t and included my real life friends! With their permission, ofc. I also made a modern reference even tho it’s supposed to be the seventies but I liked it too much so I left it in ha ha. Also…pls don’t talk to strangers. This is fanfiction people not an advice column. 

****

It’s another uncharacteristically warm day in London.

The sun showers blankets of warm golden light over the city, guilding skyscrapers and warming the sweet, honeyed breeze. Sparrows are chirping sweet, morning songs, dancing in the air with surprising grace. Squirrels scamper across lush green grounds in a park nearby, happily bidding you a good morning.

And not one of these motherfuckers are going to help you find your friends.

You wander aimlessly past the same park monument you saw just half an hour ago. Your legs are already aching, your feet are forming blisters that hurt the more you think about them, and the sun is slowly drilling into your soul.

You think you might die of thirst before you find your friends.

In retrospect, it wasn’t entirely Sophie’s fault. While it was her dumb shit idea to tag along with the sexy British tour guide, you, Matt, Aaron, Riley and Reuben had been far more interested in touring the British Museum. So it wasn’t at all surprising when Sophie rushed off with knockoff Colin Firth to have a jolly high tea or whatever it is British people do on dates. Still, it gave you an opportunity to visit the museum.

You hadn’t even walked through the front gates when Matt, Aaron and Riley wandered off to have a deep and meaningful (you had warned Riley that coming on the trip with Aaron would cause some tension between your group. Thing between you and Aaron were a lot more complicated than the five-night-stand you’d shared last year). Reuben, being his usual womanising self, started flirting with the hot receptionist and not wanting any part of that (last time you wing-womaned for Reuben, the chick thought you were seeking a third), you stepped out for some air.

Now, you’re trying to navigate through the urban maze that is London by yourself, struggling to find your friends who are scattered all over the city.

Slumping against a park chair, you take a deep breath and study your map again. A part of you is screaming at you to swallow your pride and ask for directions but you’re a stubborn New Yorker and if you can effortlessly find your way through the Big Apple, you can tackle London.

“You’re not from around here…” says a masculine voice behind you. You sit up straight, whipping around in the direction of the voice.

Holy fucking cucumber sandwich.

The most handsome man you’ve ever laid your eyes on leans against the trunk of an old oak tree, observing you with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. He looks like he chomps down magical donuts that grant him sexy powers. You stare.

A cigarette hangs from his kissable, smirking lips. His hair falls gracefully around his face, framing glinting gray-blue eyes, high cheekbones and a strong jaw. He’s wearing a leather jacket and exudes all types mysterious-sexy-bad boy vibes. You’d bet a hundred bucks that he rides a motorcycle too.

Boys with motorcycles are usually trouble.

Your mouth goes a little bit dry.

“Please don’t be a serial killer,” you mutter and the stranger cocks a perfect eyebrow.

“What was that?”

You shake your head, “I mean — Is it that obvious?”

Sexy bad boy stranger shrugs, “I know a lost tourist when I see one.”

“Is this what you do, then? Lurk around parks waiting for lost tourists?”

Bad boy chuckles — a deep growling sound that rumbles at the back of his throat, “Maybe. Maybe I was just walking past and thought I’d help out a pretty girl in need.”

It takes all of your willpower not to blush now.

“So you’re just a Good Samaritan, then.”

“I’m whatever you want me to be.”

“What if I want you to go away?”

The handsome, young motorbike guy takes a deliberate step forward, “I think we both know that’s not true.”

You swallow. He’s good at this game. Something tells you that you’re not the first victim of his play-boy charms.

Desperately trying to reclaim your composure, you fold your arms across your chest and glare at him.

“What makes you think I need your help?”

British James Dean thinks for one attractive moment, “Well, you don’t have to accept my help but something tells me that if you don’t ask for directions soon, you’re going to end up wandering around London forever.”

He makes a good point.

You stand up from your seat, arms still folded across your chest, “Hypothetically speaking, If I were to accept your help, how would I know that you’re not a perverted serial killer who wants to collect my spleen and leave me in a ditch or something?”

Sexy stranger takes another step forward, “That’d be a shame. You’re too beautiful to kill, and I’m just beginning to like you.”

“That’s exactly what a perverted serial killer would say.”

“Touché. Alright, how about this: I drop you off at your hotel straight away, no detours and no taxi fees that you have to fork out to greedy muggl— erm, I mean, drivers.”

You consider this. He certainly doesn’t seem like a serial killer. Still, it’s hard to trust a charming stranger, especially one as handsome as he is. Then again, if he’s smart — which he definitely is — he’d never kill you in broad daylight in the middle of London.

You uncross your arms and hold one out for him to shake, “Alright, deal.”

Sexy stranger takes your hand and shakes it. His hand is strong and firm and electricity sparks in the warm space where your hands are clasped together.

“Sirius.”

“What?”

“Sirius.”

You blink at him, “Is that some kind of fungal STI that I need to be aware of?”

Sexy stranger chuckles again, “My name is Sirius.”

Sirius? Who the fuck calls their kid Sirius? You have to admit that the name suits him, and the way he says it — in a husky, velvety murmur — gives the name an alluring sex appeal, which sums him up completely.

You consider giving him a fake name but ultimately decide against it. That’s just weird and you can’t lie for shit.

“I’m (Y/N).”

Sirius repeats your name, tasting it on his lips. A more carnal part of you wishes he’d say it in a completely different context.

“Alright, (Y/N),” Sirius smiles, and he practically glows with charisma, “Lets get you home.”

***

You were right, of course. About the motorcycle.

Sirius’ carefully-polished motorbike is almost as sexy as it’s owner; gleaming in the sunlight and flaunting a sleek black paint job with plush leather seats. Several passerby’s stop to admire it (or Sirius, you can’t exactly tell), though Sirius doesn’t pay them any mind. One dudebro with a repugnantly bright tank top gawks at the motorbike while his girlfriend stares hungrily at Sirius.

“I’ve…never ridden a motorcycle before,” you bleat nervously.

Sirius hands you a helmet and smiles.

“Just hold onto me and you’ll be fine.”

Sirius mounts his motorbike and you awkwardly slide in behind him. You’re not sure where to put your hands so you place them on his shoulders. You think you hear Sirius laugh behind his helmet.

Sirius turns the ignition, revs the engine, and kicks the bike into gear.

“You alright back there?” He calls over the roar of the bike.

“Uh—yeah.”

“Hold onto my waist,” he orders, “You’ll be more secure.”

You’re about to protest but then Sirius takes off and you find your arms flying to his waist, gripping on tightly.

It’s exhilarating. Liberating. Intoxicating.

As Sirius weaves between London traffic, you feel a rush of adrenaline pulse through your veins. The air whips past, fluttering around the ruffled trim of your dress. Your hands soak in the warmth of Sirius’ body, his muscles firm beneath your touch.

You pass familiar landmarks and stores you passed when you and your friends took the double-decker bus from your hotel room. You recognise the buildings around you and realise the hotel is just a few kilometres down the street, on the right.

Suddenly, Sirius veers off to the left and zooms down a street you don’t recognise.

“What are you doing? The hotel is up that way!”

“I just have to make a quick stop,” he shouts over his shoulder.

“That wasn’t part of the deal!”

“Don’t worry, it won’t take long.”

You clutch onto him, apprehension beginning to claw away at your lower belly. Where is he taking you? How could you have been so stupid to trust an extremely attractive stranger to follow through with a deal?

Sirius slows the bike down until it rolls to a stop and flicks the engine off, climbing off sexily. He helps you clamber awkwardly off the bike and you tear your helmet off, taking in your surroundings for the first time.

You’re next to a footpath with a view of the The Thames, lined with large ornamental pear trees. Its quite a romantic spot with a view of the entire city sitting pretty behind the flowing River Thames.

Sirius tells you to wait by the motorbike and stalks away, rushing toward a boy who looks about your age. He’s tall, has messy black hair, and half-frame glasses. He looks like a sexy professor with the body of an Olympic swimmer that all the girls have crushes on.

Why are all the men here so insanely attractive?

You’re just about to sink into a delightful fantasy of sexy Professor feeding you grapes when Sirius comes up behind you.

“Ready to go?”

You ignore his question, “Who was the god — I mean — guy that you saw?”

Sirius arches an eyebrow. You notice for the first time that there is a scar knitted into it, “That’s James. He’s a total prat, by the way.”

“Sounds like you two have that in common,” you quip and Sirius mocks offence.

“Anyone tell you that you’re cruel?”

“Everyday of my life.”

“Here I was thinking you were just another hot little American bird.”

For one half of a millisecond, your brain snags on the word ‘hot.’ Did he just call you hot? You heard that right? You recover with grace, grinning wickedly.

“You’ll get over it.”

A teasing smirk flirts around the corners of Sirius’ lips, a little crookedly, slanting lazily in a way that makes your cheeks warm. He looks amused by this verbal tug-of-war but also a little turned on.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the same way.

“You ever walk along the River Thames?” Sirius asks, sliding his strong, sexy hands into the pocket of his sexy leather jacket. He begins to follow the footpath, leading you past the knots of pigeons and moonstruck lovers.

“No,” you sigh, “Admittedly, I just came along for the underage drinking and the hot British guys.”

Sirius laughs, “How’s that working out for you?”

You shrug, teasing him with a flirtatious smile, “I’m still working on it.”

“If you want,” Sirius begins, clawing at the nape of his neck, “I can help you out with that.”

You quirk a carefully-manicured brow, “What, you know any hot guys like your buddy James?”

Sirius snorts, “I wouldn’t go saying that around his girlfriend.”

“Why, is she the jealous type?”

“No, she’s the ‘try-not-to-make-his-fat-Head-even-fatter’ type.”

You chuckle, intrigue plucking at your mind, “She’s my type of girl.”

“Lily is everyone’s type of girl.”

“Well now I just have to meet her.”

Sirius raises his brows, a spark of hope in his eyes, “Is that your way of telling me that you’re taking me up on the offer for free beer?”

“You never said it was free before.”

“I’m feeling generous.”

“Aw, and they say chivalry is dead.”

Sirius laughs easily in a way that is completely carefree, as though laughter bubbles just beneath his skin, itching to pour out. It’s mesmerising how he doesn’t seem to take life too seriously.

“You are something else,” he says, letting his eyes catch and linger on yours for a quiet, suspended moment.

A gust of warm, summer wind brings peach blossoms raining down. The gentle coo of a skylark echoes in the distance. Time slows to a stop to stare at the two of you.

He steps forward, like he’s about to kiss you.

You let him.

He tastes like liquor and rebellion, a little wild in a way you’ve never realised you’ve wanted, you’ve needed. His hands are strong as they wrap around you, pulling you flush against his chest. Your fingers roam through his hair, tangling, tugging, earning a low groan from the back of his throat. You feel drunk on him, your head spinning and your heart thumping, as though it’s trying to tear through your chest and leap into his strong, capable hands. Suddenly, you realise how weird this is. He’s a stranger you’ve known for an hour or so yet now you’re kissing him. It’s as though you’re somehow drawn to him, to his energy, to the way he seems to know you intimately, in ways you hardly know about yourself. You break away, taking a step away from him. Sirius looks like he’s five again and has just had his favourite toy ripped away from him. 

““Are you—?”

Slap

Before you even realise what you’re doing, you’re slapping him across the cheek, not hard but he feels it. You kissed a stranger. That is a thing you did. You also slapped said stranger, partly because of impulse and partly because you’re terrified of how quickly your feelings are beginning to stir for someone you hardly know. Sirius is stunned, silent, staring at you with shock and hurt that stings you more than it should. You stare back, drawn in by every fleck of colour in his eyes, suddenly aware that, sure, he may be a stranger but that doesn’t mean he has to stay one. Obviously, you have a connection.

 So…connect.

 You crash your lips against his again, throwing your arms around his neck. 

Your friends can wait. You’ve found yourself a new tour guide. 

[thissupposedcrime]

jealous of the nights (that I don’t spend with you) (wip)

When Yuri is nine, he names his cat Puma Tiger Scorpion. He never regrets it.

In hindsight, that sort of behavior was a neon bright sign of things to come.

“You haven’t spoken to me in three days because you had a dream I liked someone else?” Otabek’s sigh is heavy.

“A nightmare,” Yuri corrects cooly, unsure if his tone should be outraged or Lilia-Pointed-but-Proper.

Yuri’s not one to victim blame, but honestly, Beka should have expected something like this from him.

(pieces of a sequel to every time I try, every time I win that I’m working on)

When Yuri is nine, he names his cat Puma Tiger Scorpion.

A decade later, he stands by the decision.

In hindsight, that sort of behavior was a neon bright sign of things to come.

“You haven’t spoken to me in three days because you had a dream I liked someone else?” Otabek’s sigh is heavy.

“A nightmare,” Yuri corrects cooly, unsure if his tone should be outraged or Lilia-Pointed-but-Proper.

Yuri’s not one to victim blame, but honestly, Beka should have expected something like this from him.

Let’s bring this story back to the start, then the present.

Yuri at seventeen: cheeks flushed by the Russian cold, by the embarrassment that trails him like a shadow whenever Victor hangs off Yuuri, mouth bitten red, first by his own angry teeth as he gnaws down on the vile oaths he wants to hurt at the chests of men who catch Otabek’s attention, and later by Otabek’s own mouth, soothing because of the force, the intensity of kissing Yuri back; golds, silvers, and bronzes pretty collars around his neck when his limbs aren’t out of control.

Yuri at twenty: cheeks flushed from Mila’s prodding about Otabek, a metaphorical battering ram going through his phone and sending selfies to Otabek and hosting a password protected group chat of Katsuki, Victor, and Mila on Yuri’s phone; mouth bitten red because at some point during his tenure with Yakov he learned silence was a viable option but goddamn is it hard, mouth bitten red to match the trail of hickeys under his clothes; golds and silvers, no room for bronze, pretty collars around his neck, swan graceful once again and the apple of Lilia’s eye.

Otabek in the years before, during, and after: Yuri’s.

Unfortunately, it’s Yuri himself who occasionally forgets that fact.

Day Six

The thing is, Mila doesn’t call. Text him vague threats when he first began dating Yuri, speaking not just for her own protective instincts but also the vengeful wrath of the Russian Skating Federation, specifically members coached by Yakov? Absolutely. Tag him across the spectrum of social media accounts he is lovingly bullied to use at least once a month? Constantly. Send him adorable pictures as Yuri cuddles with his cat or breathtakingly lovely images of Yuri, taken as his back creates a graceful arc on the ice? Happily and with pleasure. So when he ends practice to see three missed calls, two voice mails, and a few texts, his heart plummets out of his body, sinking past the changing room floor, to the core of the earth. Yuri. His Yuri. Famed composure abandons him as his fingers shake, thumb pressing the call button. He can’t control his limbs long enough to remove his second skate. The taste of bile might be permanently ingrained on his tongue at this rate, a disgust he will gladly cope with the moment someone reassures him Yuri hasn’t wound up in the hospital or the local jail. He’s not sure which is less plausible.  

God he hopes it’s jail. “Otabek!” Mila’s voice calls him to attention, almost sing-song as it separates the syllables of his name. Immediately, Otabek’s panic mellows, a dull thrum instead of a thumping beat. “Is Yuri okay?” His voice doesn’t waver, but he still can’t manage to stop the nervous twitch of his fingers. “Your boyfriend is being especially bratty,” she declares, and Otabek realizes he’s in for a new hell. Normally, Mila refuses to claim Yuri as one of hers when he’s being a dick, but she sounds happier than past experiences allow. Her voice is musical, teasing, and Otabek understands Yuri can hear them. Faintly, “You hag! Put down your damn phone and check your makeup. The wrinkles are showing!” echoes across the miles between Almaty and St. Petersburg. “See? Such an ugly mood for our Yura,” she croons, and clearly he has become spectator not participant. “HANG UP THE PHONE!” “No!” There’s a crash in the background, more shrieks. Otabek puts the phone on speaker and places it on the locker room bench while he sips his water, grateful to lose the sick taste in his mouth from before. He’s managed to remove his other skate and change his shirt before Mila returns, victorious in abandoning Yuri but simultaneously riling him up with the knowledge Otabek is about to know something. Otabek is glad his relationship with his family does not reflect in the Mila-Yuri dynamic. “Ah, that was fun.” She sounds winded for a professional athlete, but Otabek doesn’t comment, slightly impatient for her to tell him about Yuri now that he’s calmed. “Is Yuri okay?” He starts again. “You tell me.” “I don’t understand.” “Has Yuri been off when you speak?” Mila asks, no longer breathless. Ah. This indeed is something for him to deal with. “What has he done?” “I have a list,” she announces brightly. A brief cough, a hum of her throat follow, and Otabek wonders if there’s something in the water at Yakov’s rink considering his least dramatic student of the past decade was Georgi Popovich. (Yuri is the love of his life, but he thrives on dysfunction to an alarming extent. Otabek understands this and accepts it as best he’s able; it is why they’ve managed to stay together for the past three years.) “To start, he refused to leave practice yesterday. Victor chased him around for nearly twenty minutes until he caught him and dragged him off. Did you see my upload?” “No, but I’ll check when we’re done speaking.” He hopes it isn’t on Instagram. He doesn’t want to deal with the comments from Yuri’s fans.

“It’s on Instagram!”

Naturally.

“Yuri keeps growling at one of our skaters, a boy named Dmitry. We’ve found him crying under a table in the break room four times this week. For some reason, he’s wearing a helmet and runs out of the room whenever Yuri enters. Do you know about that?”

“I forgot you had a Dmitry at your rink,” Otabek replies flatly, memory blank as he tries to recall Yuri ever mentioning a Dmitry.

“Yuri calls him Tiny Bastard if that helps?” Mila offers, and Otabek sighs.

It does. Tragically, it does.

That damn dream.

Sometimes Otabek wonders if he’s become more dramatic since Yuri twirled his way into the center of his universe.

This phone call is all the proof he needs.

“Those pains in the ass are talking about kids!” Yuri shouts across the kitchen, voice somewhat tinny over the speakerphone, hands busy making dinner.

“They’re getting another dog?” Otabek replies, half listening as he reviews the new diet plan suggested for him, nose wrinkling in disappointment in his own kitchen in Almaty.

“I trust them with poodles,” Otabek hears a faint huff and pictures Yuri blowing stray wisps of blond hair out of his face. It brings up a pang of longing and another needless reminder of the long month since their last reunion.

“A human child Beka.”

“You’ll always be my favorite Yura.” It’s an achingly sincere statement.

“That’s not-” A loud exhale. “Thank you, but don’t start with that. I’m the only one who realizes how unhealthy codependency is apparently. I’m worried about what they’d do to a child, not what their child would do to me.”

“I’m confident they wouldn’t send it cowering under a kitchen table in the break room four times a week,” Otabek offers and hums an acknowledgement while Yuri starts cursing Mila’s name. 

Guess who remembered she needs to get back into writing Yuri on Ice if she ever wants to finish soldier boy

For those of you unfamiliar with my past work, Otabek references a fit Yuri threw after having a dream Otabek, his boyfriend and later fiancee, was in love with a Russian skater, one he never even met. From there, an anon begged me to write this.

I felt this would be a better attempt at remembering the voices and characterization than a WIP so well liked but also on such a long hiatus (soldier boy). 

also my friend @dizzytea said the original story is a comfort fic so I thought I’d bring more joy. 

gonna try to have this out this by this time next week, if not sooner if I can keep it under 8k.

[jngukie]

WIP Tag

i was tagged by @floofyeol! idk if this is a blessing or a curse let’s find out.

some of these fics have been in drafts for ages? so tbh i don’t even know if i will post them but hey we’ll see. (so assume for now that none of these will be posted—except when stated otherwise with an *)

the first couple will be ships. the later ones are reader-inserts. all are still protected by the Creative Commons license.

slide it up in here: chapter 10* pairing(s): jikook, namjin, yoonseok genre: humour, crack, drama, angst tags/warnings: texting, college au, slightly filthy, innuendoes, Awkward Jeon Jungkook™, slowburn, self-esteem issues, self-hatred, implied/referenced homophobia, everyone is a mess™

SUMMARY

gguki: [image attached] gguki: what should i do with it chimothy: um chimothy: dude idk if i’m entitled to give you suggestions but chimothy: i mean you could always just stick it in the ass???????

or jungkook accidentally sends a stranger a picture of his roommate’s brand new dildo

PREVIEW

the (9)7 wonders of the world

tol: ok here’s the plan dabs 24/7: yugyeom no offence but your plans kinda suck muscle pig: ^^ what bambam said muscle pig: i don’t trust you anymore tol: wow that hurt tol: but i promise you this one will be better dabs 24/7: don’t do it kook tol: it won’t backfire in any way

untilted vhope pairing(s): vhope, namjin genre: humour, fluff tags/warnings: college au, skype dates, profanity, neurobiology/pyschology major!namjoon, ra!jin, music major!yoongi (i think), some major!hoseok, and high schooler!tae, tbh idrk bc i haven’t finished writing it lmao

SUMMARY

When Jung Hoseok signed up for college, he didn’t think he’d end up on academic probation so soon. Hell, he’d never guess he’d have friends who would use him as a fucking lab rat for their atrocious experiments. He definitely did not expect to fall in love with his resident advisor’s little brother—and then proceed to sneak into said resident advisor’s room and hack his computer just to have one more Skype date with the little brother. Without getting caught by said resident advisor. Yeah—he’s a little stressed, to say the least.

→ a continuation of It’s Burning Up in Here.

PREVIEW

He didn’t sign up for this. He thought college would be a great idea—who would pass up the opportunity for ultimate freedom and youthful stupidity? No, he was ecstatic for college—but he definitely hadn’t signed up to be the fucking victim for his resident advisor’s boyfriend’s experiments.

“Hoseok-ssi, please stay still or otherwise this will hurt. A lot,” Namjoon begged as his friend Yoongi tried to hold him down on the fragile coffee table.

“That’s not what your needle’s saying! You said it was a harmless experiment! You said I’d be fine!”

“You will be! I just need practice drawing blood once—”

“You’ve never even done this before?” Hoseok shrieked, writhing some more. Yoongi growled in frustration and flung his entire weight onto Hoseok’s body—and thus effectively snapping the legs of the coffee table and sending them down towards the floor.

His advisor ran into the room then, eyes wide in alarm while holding a skillet filled with half-cooked meat, his creased white apron reading World’s Best Dad! in pretty cursive pink. “What the hell is going on here?”

untitled taekook* pairing(s): taekook, yoonjin genre: fluff, angst, humour, crack tags/warnings: restaurant au, running away, mentions of nudity, exhibitionism, does getting caught dancing naked in your room count as exhibitionism idek, mention of mpreg, but there’s no actual mpreg, i mean it’s the sims it’s not real, many many references to the male organ, but sorry folks no smut (A/N: this is literally what i have in my docs wow i’m such a nerd for preparing ao3 tags LMAO)

SUMMARY

The last thing Jungkook expected after running away to Seoul is to score a private live viewing of Naked_Neighbour_Dancing_In_His_Bedroom.mov—and then proceed to bump into him when he’s not-so-naked. And then also manage to greet him with a slap. It also probably doesn’t help that Nude Neighbour is his new boss. All in all, Jungkook just maybe kinda wants to die. (But of course Seokjin isn’t gonna allow him, so he’s just going to suffer—for now.)

PREVIEW

He sighs, turning his head to gaze out of the window, only to freeze when he realises his view isn’t exactly the most… decent.

Because across from his small studio apartment window is a perfect view of a larger apartment in the building across, and currently, the tenant (he hopes the boy’s the tenant) is enthusiastically dancing through his room completely naked, dinglehopper fully on display. He’s mouthing the words to some song, throwing a finger up in the air as he shuts his eyes and nods his head as though the music (Jungkook thinks there’s music) blasting in his room is speaking to him on a spiritual level.

Jungkook’s face is bright red when he finally breaks out of his trance, and he wishes he wasn’t so bad at reacting appropriately to inappropriate situations so he could at least have saved himself from adding a thirty-second clip of Nude Neighbour to his collection of non-digital memories. He rushes to the window and pulls the curtains close, fingers stiff as he tries to rid his brain of such scandalous images.

At least he was hot.

His face is redder now—if that’s even possible. “Fuck me,” he whispers, and then flushes even more. “Wait, no. Don’t fuck me. That’s not what—why am I even talking to myself. Agh.”

take these words out of my lungs (and set them free) pairing(s): vmin genre: angst, fluff tags/warnings: major character death, suicide attempt, depression, body image issues, depressed!jimin, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, ambiguous original character that appears for like five seconds, high school au

SUMMARY/PREVIEW

three pounds. that’s how much he’s gained since he last stepped on the scale, the dictator that rules over his life. he stares at the numbers again, frowning at the digits glaring up at him. perhaps there was a mistake; maybe the scale is rigged or jammed or simply broken. he couldn’t have possibly gained three pounds in a span of two days. hasn’t he been walking around his neighbourhood enough?

he sighs, stepping off the scale and turning around to flush the toilet before washing his hands. even the cold water burns his skin, and he wishes he could melt through the cracks on the floor. would he slim down then? would he finally be skinny enough?

“jimin!” he hears his mother call, and he forces his way from the sink, sneaking out his parent’s bathroom and into the living room outside. their apartment is small but cozy. jimin hates it.

untitled kim seokjin* pairing(s): platonic OT7 genre: fluff, angst tags/warnings: anxiety, depression, eating disorder, negative body image perception, lapslock (lower case)

SUMMARY

honestly, he can’t remember what it’s like to live anymore.

PREVIEW

breathe in. breathe out.

three lucky charms. four cereal pieces. seven bits down the drain.

he smiles, staring at the milk-stained sink as the spoon clatters against metal, bowl turned upside down. it’s ugly—white ink staining burnt grey like liquid cobwebs feeding on rust. it looks exactly as how he feels: dirty, wasted, trash. one-seventy-nine centimetres down the drain.

untitled kim taehyung pairing(s): Kim Taehyung/Reader genre: fluff, humour, probably angst bc knowing me tags/warnings: (sor far) nudity, profanity

SUMMARY/PREVIEW

Kim Taehyung has no regrets. Sure, he probably should’ve thought twice before he spent all of his money on BIGBANG merch just to show Jungkook that yes, he’s the bigger fanboy, and sure, he definitely should’ve listened to Jimin when he warned Taehyung that no, he shouldn’t eat three whole pizza pies by himself, but that doesn’t mean he regrets any of his decisions. Even though blowing all his earnings on people he’ll never meet did cause him to starve for a good or so month.

(Thank god for ramyeon.)

So, no, Jimin, he doesn’t regret running out of the shower butt naked when he heard her singing on her way to the second floor of their co-ed dorm, doesn’t regret shouting, “I love your voice!” before she screamed, “Oh my god, you’re naked!” And he definitely doesn’t regret yelling, “Oh, shit!” into Oblivion before sprinting back into the bathroom to resume the hot shower he abandoned.

“For fuck’s sake, Taehyung,” Jimin says to him once Taehyung’s finished recounting the story, the two of them lying side by side on Jimin’s bed. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”

“I should probably say hi,” Taehyung muses, blinking at the ceiling. “Do you think she remembers me?”

Jimin glances down, and snickers. “With how small your dick is, she probably does.”

untitled park jimin pairing(s): Park Jimin/Reader genre: fluff tags/warnings: (so far) blind!reader

SUMMARY

He is an angel; and she doesn’t need to see to believe. She fathoms his widespread wings as he gently picks her up, worriedly and urgently asking for her health, voice so soft it touches her skin like silk on smooth glass. His eyes must be crinkled in the corners, a smile stuttering through apologies, heart too warm for the human hand to touch. She imagines what he looks like, faintly deciding through his rapid Korean that he must be chesnut if not vanilla, not in skin but in connotation because he sounds and smells and feels like home.

Her pause is a millennia long, and she hears him repeat himself again, the sound of melting marshmallow oozing out of beautiful lips: “Are you alright?”

She produces a smile, feathery and light, eyes glassy and the world continues to remain black. “I’m fine,” she replies, and her voice is cracked from its lack of use; she hasn’t met anyone worth talking to in what feels like a century. Another smile reappears, much strained than what she’s used to, and she picks herself up from where the concrete lay, the dust falling from her voile skirt. “No damage done.”

untitled kim taehyung #2* pairing(s): Kim Taehyung/Reader, platonic OT7 genre: fluff, angst tags/warnings: i think it’s schizophrenia?, mental illnesses, depression

SUMMARY/PREVIEW

There is a moment when time stands still. It’s fleeting, escaping the moment your fingers curl around it and pull. But it is during this moment happiness enraptures you with its warm hug as your heart thunders against your chest—the steady thump, thump, thump of a snare drum awakening. It is during this moment pain ceases to exist.

But after, everything will come rushing back.

i have more but these are the ones that are decent, at the very least.

to pass the torch on, i’ll tag @minmelly @kinky-koreans @pasteljeonggukk @haneulismykoreanname @rnjmnster and anyone else who wants to do it! (if you don’t, no pressure. good luck to you and your writing!)

[stillthewordgirl]

LOT/CC fic: Central City Rendezvous (Ch. 9 of 12)

Rip Hunter never came for the Legends. But maybe some meetings are meant to be… (Captain Canary, of course.)

Takes place just after the Flash episode "Back to Normal" and just before and during "Rupture."

Can also be read here at AO3 or here at FF.net.

With thanks, as always, to @larielromeniel for the beta. And thanks to the @captaincanaryawards for the best WIP nomination! :) (Reminder: Voting starts tomorrow, Feb. 10.)

To be honest, Leonard would rather have liked to go back to their previous activities once he and Sara return to the safe house.

But first, they have to find a plausible way to dispose of Griffin Grey's body, in a way that implicates none of them but gives some closure to whatever family he left behind. Then Barry wants to tell them earnestly about whatever Team Flash has learned about Zoom, and...and...

By the time they make it back, he's limping badly, his wrist is also aching, and he's just this side of exhausted. Sara tells him they both need some sleep, in a voice that brooks no disobedience, and it doesn't hurt that she sounds absolutely beat as well.

He doesn't argue; he pretty much collapses onto the futon and only distantly feels her tugging off his boots and pulling a blanket up over him. He might have dreamt the lips that brush his forehead...but maybe not.

He's pretty much one big ache the next day, and just opens one eye as Sara strolls in, yawning, from the bedroom. She regards him a moment, then gets him a pain-killer, a glass of water and a book and leaves him be.

They don't hear from S.T.A.R. Labs that day. Sara cooks pasta for dinner. ("I can boil water without burning it, but don't expect much more.") And then they finally watch "Apollo 13."

This time, she snuggles—yeah, he'll use that word—up to him again, and, at one point during the movie, threads the fingers of her right hand through the fingers of his right hand, bringing his arm around her before she starts gently running the fingers of her left along his right wrist in a caress that shouldn't have him nearly as on edge as it does. His left hand, subsequently, finds that sliver of skin between her shirt and waistband again, and he gets an occasional caress in himself, running his thumb slowly over warm, soft flesh.

He's not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved neither of them go further. Not that night, anyway.

They're asked to stop by S.T.A.R. Labs the next day. (Well, Sara is, anyway. Leonard simply tags along again.) There, the topic is how to best protect Central City during the absence of Barry's powers. Cisco proudly unveils a hologram system that does not get quite the reaction he'd hoped for. ("So, what, Ramon, you're going to just bluff the criminals? Seriously?") And Sara drily reminds them that she's been a successful vigilante without any special powers at all, thank you.

When a call about a possibly robbery at the Central City Museum comes across the police scanner, Sara simply says "We got this," and heads out the door. They all just assume Leonard's helping out, like he did with Griffin Grey, and he's following Sara (on his own bike, now, retrieved from storage in the safe house) to the scene before he realizes that maybe he should have demurred, strictly for the sake of his reputation.

But she needs backup. And he's there. And these lunatics are not allowed to fuck around with his city, damn it. Stupid amateurs are going to get people killed, make it that much harder on the rest of them.

The would-be thieves barely know what hit them. One runs, and actually makes it outside the museum—until he hits a patch of ice and wipes out. He's still playing turtle, gasping for breath, when the CCPD shows up and arrests him. They find his cohorts unconscious just inside the museum's vestibule.

The runner squawks about a woman in white and a man in a blue parka with an icy weapon. Joe West, listening, smiles.

Sara's still grinning, full of glee and adrenaline, when they get back to the safe house. A half hour or so later, with "The Terminator" on the TV in the darkened room, she squirms around in front of him, gives him a long look and a slow smile, and, running her fingertips up under his shirt, lowers her mouth to his collarbone.

And he's gone. It's been a slippery slope, the past few weeks, and now, well, he's slipped.

And fallen, hard.

They fall into a pattern, the pair of them, crook and assassin, a semi-nocturnal schedule that has them sleeping late, dealing with an increasingly domestic reality that involves cooking dinner or getting take-out and then heading out to help Team Flash (and the hologram system Leonard still mocks) protect the city.

They foil robberies. They interrupt assaults. His cold gun and his knack for planning an operation mesh so well with Sara's martial arts expertise and instinct for mayhem that the others begin to refer to them as a unit. (Although Cisco only manages to refer to them as "CaptainCanary" once before Len shuts that down with a glare. Sara, predictably, finds it hysterical. So does Barry.)

And, then, each night, they repair back to the safe house to relax—where "relax" increasingly means pretending to watch a movie while indulging in an increasing amount of, well, fooling around.

They both know they're getting closer to pushing their relationship into something they have to, or should, at least, address. And the whole thing, Leonard thinks, is a little silly and probably juvenile, but…

He's enjoying himself. A lot.

So it's juvenile, this making out on the futon like a pair of teenagers. Well, he spent all his time as an actual teenager trying to keep his sister alive, keeping himself alive in juvie, avoiding getting arrested under his father's incompetent watch, and slowly disconnecting himself from his father's shadow and building his own reputation.

He is, he tells himself, allowed this. Right?

He thought he was addicted before? Now, he's addicted. He's never felt like this about touch in his life, but she's in his head, under his skin, calloused fingertips running along his spine under his shirt as her teeth scrape against his collarbone, warm hands—and warmer lips—finding spots that make him groan. Conversely, he's finding another addiction as well, one to the sounds she makes when he returns the attentions, as he trails a line of kisses down her neck, as his hands trace her scars, gradually and tentatively finding her own sensitive spots.

For someone used to holding himself apart, keeping even sexual encounters just this side of commerce, it's a revelation.

They don't talk about it, what they're doing, where this is going. (And somehow that makes it easier. Len, he thinks, you're a bit messed up.) They press it a little further each night, in touches and kisses and sighs—or gasps muffled against skin. They always stop before…well, before, pulling away without words to seek solitary beds. And it's as tantalizing as it is infuriating, even as he's the one who hesitates.

Eventually, he knows, he's going to have to make a decision...either by action or inaction. In the meantime, he's just enjoying himself.

"Eventually" comes eight days after the incident with Griffin Grey.

They'd rescued a young woman from a pack of drunken college students that night, stepping in smoothly as she ran for shelter, the men staggering to a halt as they realized their easy prey had been replaced by a tall man with cold eyes and a short blonde whose eyes were far too bright. For the most part, Leonard stood back and let Sara have fun toying with them as they, with the assurance of the intoxicated, decided she'd do in the absence of their intended victim.

And she does, smoothly eluding their clumsy attacks as she sends one, then another to dreamland.

They're not a threat, not to her anyway, but as one shrieks a particularly disgusting epithet and drives a fist toward her face, he can see the change in her expression and opens to his mouth to call to her. But then she catches herself, and smiles coldly. Five minutes later, he's calling Joe to come collect the trash—who are whole and breathing, but will likely think twice about attacking anyone ever again.

He can see the energy in her as they return to the safe house, can't help grinning to himself about it. Sara's never quite so happy as when she's saved someone, and he knows she's pleased at stepping back from the bloodlust again.

And she channels that pleasure in the most interesting ways…

"Are you going to start a movie?" he asks once they're sprawled on the futon, moving his hand to her hip again, much like he'd done just over a week ago, this time running his fingertips up under her shirt and feeling her shiver.

"Why?" she murmurs, leaning back against him. "Are we even going to watch it?"

"Hell," he murmurs back, allowing his lips to brush against her neck and smirking, just a little, at the sound she makes, "I sure hope not."

With another sound, she tilts her head back and he moves his lips to the hinge of her jaw…

And then Sara's phone rings. Because of course it does.

With a growl that makes Sara laugh out loud, he lunges across the room and grabs it himself, barking "What?" into it in a way that probably isn't very wise.

Fortunately, it's not her father or sister calling. (And why would he care about that anyway, he wonders?)

Unfortunately, it's not really good news, either.

The quality of his silence alerts Sara, who stops laughing and sits up to watch him. After a moment, he hangs up without speaking so much as a word in response.

"Zoom," he says, staring at the phone. "He's here. As in, this Earth. He's taken over the CCPD. Barry says not to leave the safe house, to stay locked in, and not to leave until he, Ramon, or one of the Wests gives an all-clear."

This is bad. They both know it's bad. But they also know Barry's right, that they have to stay here. Alone. Together. And...

"Huh," Sara says. "Whatever are we going to do to pass the time?"

He stares at her and, for a moment, Sara think she's utterly misread the situation.

Then she realizes that the expression in his eyes isn't a lack of interest. In fact, it's rather the opposite.

But there's something deep and hesitant in Leonard Snart, even as they've grown closer, as the casual flirtation has grown into camaraderie and the camaraderie has grown into the beginnings of intimacy both physical and emotional.

In her own head, she'd dubbed this little campaign of hers "Operation: Cold," a few weeks ago when she'd started it, recognizing that the man who'd flinched from human touch back when they'd met (for good reason, to her sorrow) wouldn't embark on a physical relationship without some care on her part.

Now, she thinks she was wrong, in a way. Maybe if they'd gone straight to a purely physical relationship early on, they would, or could, have kept it casual. But they're past the point where sex is something that will come without strings, connections of mind and body and, yes, heart.

He is, she thinks, not a man who is easy with strings of any sort.

And yet, she…covets his body. She admires his mind. And she dearly wants his heart.

A breathtaking realization, that last.

It only takes a few steps to bring her right up to him, and they stand there a moment, his eyes searching hers. She watches him in return, then, moving slowly, goes up on her tiptoes, puts her hands on his shoulders, and kisses him.

It's a gentle kiss, far more deliberate than her impulsive ones the morning after Laurel had been injured, far more serious than what they've been doing this past week. A promise and an invitation, in the slow, soft press of lips, the mingled breath, the flicker of her tongue, the closeness of their bodies.

She can feel the hesitation in him, still, the indefinable holding-back, and with regret, she accepts her mistake…

And then it's gone, that hesitation, vanished like smoke, like cobwebs, and his arms are around her, one hand tangled in her hair and cupping the back of her head, the other arm looped around her waist and pulling her into him, warm and solid and real.

She laughs with surprise and pleasure against his lips and feels the smirk in return before he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, pulling her even closer, something she hadn't thought possible but enthusiastically endorses, molding herself to him.

After a few pleasantly intense moments, he breaks the kiss, moving his mouth along her jaw as she sighs and clings to him...well, in her defense, that's not usually her style, but she's not sure her legs really want to hold her at the moment. After a minute, though, he leaves off that and whispers in her ear, voice sending a fresh run of goosebumps down her arms.

"Might want to take this somewhere else."

"Oh?" She turns her head and nips at his jaw, enjoying his intake of breath. "You have a suggestion?"

"Futon's been OK." She can feel the renewed smirk against her cheek. "More room in the bed, though."

"Well. You do need to get off that ankle."

"I do. "A brief return of the hesitation…and then it's gone. "Come with me."

He's not one to kiss and tell, but the next couple days are…well, "intense" is probably the best word for it. "Incredible," works, too. "Mind-blowing?" Oh, yes, certainly.

It's a little like the world outside ceases to exist, and that's a luxury he hasn't permitted himself in, well, ever. He has one focus, and one focus alone, and it's Sara Lance, in his bed, in his arms, her mouth on his, her hands on him, all her attentions matched and returned.

They don't come up for air for hours, although, to be honest, they've really lost all track of time at that point. Might be days. Might be weeks, he thinks with amusement, stretching as Sara strolls out into the main room to check her phone and grab them something to eat. (She insists that breakfast...is it breakfast? heaven knows...in bed is definitely the way to go.)

Not bad for an old man, he thinks, a bit smugly, reaching out to pick a strand of golden hair off a pillow and absently winding it around his fingers. Their age difference hasn't really bothered him, since it doesn't bother her, but it's nice to know he can keep up with her. She certainly hasn't seemed to have any complaints…

When Sara returns, bearing a tray, he disregards his tendency toward fastidiousness and shifts to make room for her and it. It holds nothing more than two glasses of wine and a few select items they'd had in the fridge and the pantry… sliced cheese, and crackers, and chocolate…

And a bowl of strawberries and whipped cream that is very, very…distracting… because of the way Sara chooses to eat them…

After a while, the tray gets knocked to the floor, and forgotten. They won't find every bit of the crumbs for weeks.

Neither of them cares.

It says something, bad or good depending on the perspective, that he's so deep in a sated and content sleep, Sara's warm and naked body wrapped around his in their nest of sheets, that he doesn't hear the intruder in the safe house until the familiar voice barks out a word out in the main room.

"Snart!"

His eyes fly open, but he's barely had time to do more than tense (Sara, he can tell, has as well) when the door to the room bangs open.

A shadow looms there, arrested in the doorway, and he peers at it, Sara coiled next to him.

"Huh," it says after a moment. "Good for you, boss. I'll be out the other room." The figure's head tilts a moment, considering them, especially as Sara sits up just a little. Only Leonard can see the knife balanced in her hand.

Huh. Where'd she get that? I'm not sure I want to know…

"Hey, Blondie," the voice says. "Well…damn. Snart has all the luck."

With that, the door closes. And they're…sort of…alone once more.

Leonard allows himself to close his eyes as he lets his head fall back to the pillow just for a moment. He can feel Sara prop herself up an elbow next to him.

"Mick?" she asks with amusement.

"Mick."

When Len vanishes into the bathroom, he's probably assuming Sara is just going to stay put. Or maybe he knows her better than that. (She thinks he does.) At any rate, she immediately pulls on some clothing, runs a brush through her hair, and pads out to the main area to acquaint herself with Mick Rory.

Len's occasional partner and old friend is sitting in the battered chair, feet up, one of the crappy beers from the fridge at his side. He raises his eyebrows when he sees her, then gives her a thorough once-over (which she returns).

"I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I've known the boss to hook up, and never here," he tells her finally. "You must be somethin' else."

There's…really no good way to respond to that. "Thanks. I think." She parks a hip against the wall and regards him. "So, you're Mick. I'm Sara."

It just gets a grunt in response, then a tip of his beer. "I'd say 'pleased to meet you,' but I still have no idea who the fuck you are. Or if you're taking the boss for a ride." He pauses, then leers at her. "You know what I mean."

She's pretty sure he's not trying for this response, but the protectiveness (and even the innuendo) make her smile. She doesn't get a chance to respond quite yet, though, because Len strolls out into the room then, giving her a half-smile and fixing a glare on the unrepentant Mick.

"I didn't expect you back in Central City for weeks, if that," he tells the other man. "What happened, you run out of money already?"

Mick doesn't respond to the half-hearted insult. Instead, he just leans back in his chair and, digging in the battered bag he'd dropped by its side, pulls out a folded copy of the Central City Picture News, which he brandishes. Leonard takes a closer look at the headline visible on the lower right of the front page and sighs. "Fabulous."

"Mystery heroes foil robbery at CC Museum," it reads, followed by the subhead: "Woman in white, 'Captain Cold' sighted at scene."

"So, you're a hero now, huh?" Mick inquires, tone somewhere between amusement and annoyance. "They certainly seem to think so."

Holding the paper up and peering at it, then, he starts reading in a nearly falsetto voice, presumably because of the feminine name in the byline: "Police charged six men with trespassing Wednesday after they allegedly broke into the Central City Museum and caused considerable damage to one of the museum's newest exhibits."

His eyes track downward a little, then he continues, "A security guard on the scene said one of those arrested threatened him with a gun, but that the alleged robbery was interrupted by a man and a woman who subdued the men before vanishing.

"The man… met the description of the so-called 'Captain Cold,' who'd robbed the same museum previously. This time, however, 'Cold' departed the scene without any apparent losses from the collection. Police are..."

"Mick, not funny."

"She thinks it's funny." His partner smirks at Sara, who gives up trying to hold back laughter.

"I think we've established she has questionable taste." He gives the snickering Sara a long-suffering look, then looks back at Mick. "What do you want?"

"I want to know what the hell is going on." Mick's voice is abruptly serious again. "Snart. Seriously? You two runnin' some sort of con? I know that's not usually your sort of thing, but now that I see her…OK, maybe I can understand you getting in on the action." He pauses to leer again at Sara, who rolls her eyes.

"No con." The words are terse. Leonard really doesn't want to explain this to his friend, given that he's not sure he understands his change of heart himself. But Mick's staring at him in disbelief and he needs to say something. "Look, there's a lot of shit going on in this city right now, OK? And it's home. I'm not going to let someone else take it over. If I have to work with the Flash to do that, I will."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sara frown at her phone (which had been lying discarded on the table all this time), then move back toward the bedroom to make a call. But his focus is still on Mick, who's still frowning.

"Are you... the other man says slowly, "telling me you really are working with the heroes? This isn't some sort of game? And what is she? One of them?"

"She...it's complicated."

"Snart..."

"Look, it's sort of a long story and I'm not going to get into it right now." He can't, quite, keep the anger out of his voice. "Trust me."

Mick, as usual, doesn't listen. "Then when? Look..."

But they're interrupted by Sara, who re-enters the room with an expression on her face that makes Leonard immediately take notice. "What's wrong?"

"It's..." She glances at Mick. "...the Flash. He's...he's gone."

"What do you mean, gone?" His words come out sharper than he'd intended, as he turns away from Mick to stare at her.

"They tried to replicate the particle accelerator explosion. And..." Momentarily at a loss for words, she spreads her hands out before her. "They don't know if he's just...somewhere else...or..."

The words hang in the silence for a long moment.

Then Mick grunts in surprise, and then again in what seems to be satisfaction. He stoops to pick up his gun, then stops abruptly when he realizes the reaction from the other two, especially Snart, isn't what he thought it'd be.

"Boss?"

But Leonard's eyes are on Sara, and Sara's gazing back at him, and he knows she understands something of what he's thinking, and it's...

Time to choose a side, I guess.

"Let's get to S.T.A.R. Labs."

...

Author’s note: Sooo, who wants a deleted scene??? ;)