#fuck i even have a blue baseball cap with a fish on it

[eeveekholin]

...seriously tempted to do a closet costume of Moiraine this Halloween

[sgtmickeyslaughter]

ian ♥ mickey - farmers market drabble

Mickey blamed it all on the good weather.

If it wasn’t so nice out, his husband wouldn’t be forgoing sleep shirts, and Mickey wouldn’t be so suggestible in the mornings. He had been half asleep and easily swayed by a warm, bare chest against his back and a hand skimming the top of his waistband. 

Which was how he wound up in the park near their apartment, trying not to step on any of the little dogs these yuppie bitches were dragging around the farmers market.

“You know, people risk their lives by the thousands escaping communist countries so they don’t have to wait in ridiculous bread lines” Mickey commented, eyeing the line of flannel-clad millennials ahead of them. “I’m just saying, it’s a little disrespectful to spend our Saturday mornings like this when there’s a perfectly good all-American Jewel down the street with a whole isle of bread.”

“You’re not allowed to bitch until you try it” Ian said, scolding him with a smile and a hand on his arm, which Mickey shrugged off.

The air was crisp, but warmed by the bright sunlight shining through the trees. It was nice, but Mickey wasn’t going to give his husband the satisfaction of admitting it. 

“It’s fucking bright out” Mickey complained, brows furrowed. 

He nearly regretted it, since he was trying not to be such a bitch about all the gay shit Ian liked. Something about supporting and uplifting each other, even though it never seemed to matter when Mickey wanted to kneecap someone. But Ian just gave him a triumphant look and pulled a navy baseball cap out of his back pocket. 

“Gotta’ take care of those sensitive baby blues” Ian teased, gloating. 

Mickey shoved the cap on, stepping forward with the rest of the line. He had to admit, without the sun in his eyes and with his face partially hidden, it was a pretty gorgeous day.  And when Ian finally got their overpriced bread and ripped a chunk out, still steaming and held out hopefully to Mickey, he had to admit it was almost worth the wait. 

Especially when he saw his husband’s eyes travel over to the next stall, stocked with farm grown lettuce and tomato, and realized that if he played his cards right, he could get his husband to make him a BLT for lunch.

He was running out of steam when Ian got roped in by some weird looking guy who’s farm only grew different kind of mushrooms, and who was eager to explain the difference between each of them.

Mickey’s eyes wandered to the next stall over, where different colored tulips were sprouting out of buckets and an older lady was bunching them together and wrapping them I white paper carefully with shaking hands.  There was a cardboard sign hanging on one of the tent posts that read 1$ = 1 flower.

Without a second thought, Mickey was standing in front of her table, eyeing the different colors critically. They had some blues, similar to the lilies Mickey had picked for the wedding, but Mickey was inexplicably drawn to the budding pink flowers. 

He looked over at his husband, listening intently to the mushroom man. He eyed the slight part of lips, the blushing pink on his nose, from the seasonal allergies he insisted he didn’t get and made a decision. 

“Good morning,” the florist said kindly. He fished a 5 dollar bill out of his pocket and put it down on the table. 

“I’ll take five of the pink ones” Mickey said gruffly, trying to sound like he was buying cigarettes at the corner store and not buying gay ass flowers for his gay ass husband. 

By the time Ian finished, with a bag with two different types of mushrooms Mickey hoped against all odds would get them high, Mickey was standing uncomfortably on his own, a small bouquet of tulips grasped in his hands.

A small grin fought its way onto Ian’s face, but he was able to casually ask “whaha’ got there?”

Mickey raised an eyebrow as if to say if you make fun of me right now this will never happen again, and held the flowers out to his husband. 

Ian’s mouth formed a soft ‘O’ as he stared down at the bouquet in his hand, wide eyes shining beautifully. It was exactly the reaction Mickey was hoping for, even when Ian foolishly stuck his nose against the flowers, immediately and predictably causing him to sneeze. 

Ian pulled him in and pressed a lightning quick kiss to the side of his face, right under the line of the hat. Soon, Mickey was being corralled thought the crowd with an arm around his shoulders and his husband’s voice in his ear, whispering that they should go home and finish what he started that morning.

It wasn’t the absolute worst way to spend a morning, Mickey decided, looking up at his husbands brilliant grin. 

I finally woke up early enough to go to the farmers market near me (please please, i know its impressive that a 20 something woke up before 11am on a saturday, but hold your applause) and got the idea to write this drabble, please enjoy this photo of the tulips that inspired it

[stevethehairington]

33 "Close your eyes and hold out your hands" for Steddie? 🖤

helloooo, thank you for sending this in!!!! 💕 i LOVE this one and omg i have been wanting to expand upon the idea i had below for SO long and this gave me the PERFECT chance to do so so THANK YOU ahh.

33. "close your eyes and hold out your hands"

Let it be known that the Munson’s are collectors. 

Wayne has his baseball caps, his mugs. Eddie’s mother collected vinyls. His father — prison sentences.

And Eddie? Eddie collects rocks. Sometimes buttons, occasionally shells, if he can find them. Feathers, once in a blue moon. But mostly rocks. Big rocks, small rocks, rocks that are round and perfectly smooth, rocks that have jagged edges and funky protrusions. Rocks made of coarse granite and rocks made of translucent quartz, and once, notably, a rock made of sleek, inky obsidian. He collects gray rocks and brown rocks, green rocks and red rocks. His favorites are the purple ones that crack open to crystals.

So Eddie collects rocks. But he never keeps them for himself.

You see, every rock he finds — every bottle cap, every loose coin, every lost charm — he gives to Steve.

And Steve? Steve holds onto every single one of them. He keeps a shoebox tucked away safe and sound beneath the bed, and inside the shoebox is his trove of cherished treasures. All of the things that Eddie has gifted him with over the years. Every so often, he’ll take the box out, sit on the floor, and sort through the trinkets. He’ll smile at the sea glass and marvel at the marbles, and count all of the rocks, laughing as the number climbs and climbs. (His favorite is the purple one too.)

The trails are a pretty good place to find rocks — the best, actually. This is something that Eddie has learned personally.

In his bid to find hobbies outside of carting overgrown children to the arcade and the local diner and holing up in stale basements to watch movie after movie, Steve takes up hiking of all things. There’s something about the combination of a good workout, fresh air, and the chance to become one with nature or some bullshit like that that ends up being too damn irresistible to him. He takes to it like a fish to water.

Eddie, to the surprise of them both, likes to tag along on Steve’s hikes. Or — likes to isn’t quite right: Edide tags along. Outdoorsy activities have never been his favorite, and exercise isn’t exactly his idea of a fun time, but Steve likes both of those things, and Eddie loves Steve. He wants to be able to do things with his boyfriend, things that Steve likes. He wants to show his support for Steve’s interests the same way that Steve shows support for his.

So Eddie goes on hikes. 

Has been going on hikes for the past three years now, believe it or not.

The hikes are hell, mostly. Uphill battles that leave his lungs burning and his calves straining and his feet aching. By the end, his bangs are always stuck unflatteringly to his forehead, and his shirt is soaked through. 

Even after all this time, they still don’t get easier. 

(That probably has something to do with Eddie’s healthy appetite for cigarettes and chalices of mountain dew and those god damned Scotcheroos of Claudia Henderson’s that he can never just eat one of. But whatever. Some things are too good to give up.) 

The twinging muscles and the fucked up hair and the general funk seeping out of his skin are always made worth it when they finally reach the peak and Steve positively glows. The way his smile stretches across his face, big and bright; the way he angles his face towards the sun and breathes in the clean air; the way he turns to Eddie and grabs his hand and says, “Isn’t this great?” in the most genuine, wondrous manner.

“The greatest,” Eddie always agrees, and he means it every time.

They are also made worth it by all of the rocks that Eddie finds along the way. Because old habits die hard. (Or not at all, in this case.)

It is these two things — the hiking and the rock collecting — that come together as the perfect catalysts to set in motion the plan he’s been hanging onto for months now.

“Isn’t the view beautiful?” Steve asks, looking out past the edge of the cliff they’d just made it to the top of. In the distance, the sun is just beginning to peak out from behind the trees, casting a golden glow across the lake below.

“Not as beautiful as you,” Eddie replies, nearly tripping Steve up as he sidesteps into his space to lean in close and pop a kiss to his cheekbone.

Steve ducks his head and bats Eddie’s shoulder with his free hand, laughing softly. His other hand is clasped in Eddie’s, hanging between them and swinging lightly with each step. “Cheeseball,” he says, and Eddie just laughs.

They continue to follow the path, enjoying the view of the lake and the dewy morning air and the companionship of one another.

As always, it doesn’t take long before something hidden away in the greenery catches Eddie’s attention. He perks up, dropping Steve’s hand before he darts ahead towards a little patch of dandelions.

Steve shakes his head fondly as Eddie crouches down and starts to pick something out of the weeds. He wonders idly what it is, exactly, that snagged Eddie’s eye this time. 

There are a few dandelions between his fingers when he rises back to his feet and starts towards Steve again, but there’s something else too — something clutched safely in the cup of his hand, concealed by his fingers.

He comes to a stop in front of Steve, bouncing on his heels as an enthusiastic smile spreads across his lips. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” he instructs with a tilt of his head.

Steve obliges, always willing to go along with the silly little rigamarole Eddie puts them through each time he has a new trinket for Steve. His eyes flutter shut and he extends his hand.

“I gotcha another rock, Stevie,” Eddie says softly, pacing something gently into the center of Steve’s hand before folding his fingers securely around it.

Eddie’s gift settles into his palm and it feels lighter than any of the other rocks Eddie’s given him. Steve contemplates what kind of rock it might be, what it’s going to look like, if there’s any defining feature that drew Eddie to it in the first place.

“You can look now,” Eddie says.

Steve opens his eyes, and looks down at his hand. Slowly, he unfurls his fist and —

Oh.

It’s not a rock that sits against his palm. Not the kind you find on the ground anyways.

It’s a ring. The rock in question — a diamond, small and tasteful right in the center of a thin silver band.

Steve promptly loses his breath.

When he looks up with shining eyes, Eddie is kneeling in front of him. He’s still red in the cheeks from their hike, kind of sweaty too, with his hair sticking up from where it’s tucked behind his bandana. They’ve had plenty of time to cool down, but he looks breathless, as he gazes up at Steve with big, hopeful eyes and a crooked little smile.

He’s beautiful.

“So what do you say, Stevie?” Eddie asks, holding his little bouquet of dandelions. “Wanna add that one to your collection too?”

The laugh that bubbles up and out of Steve is giddy and electrified and tinged with wetness as the happy tears start to spill over his lashline. He closes his fingers back around the ring and he stumbles forward to fist his other hand into the front of Eddie’s t-shirt and haul him to his feet so he can tug him into a kiss.

“Yes,” he mumbles against Eddie’s lips, “yes, yes, yes.”

Eddie’s arms curl around Steve’s waist and he laughs too, until they’re smiling into one another’s mouths more than kissing.

Steve grabs Eddie’s wrist and flattens his hand, depositing the ring into his open palm. He sticks his own hand out then, the left one, and wiggles his ring finger eagerly. “Put it on me!” He requests.

Eddie laughs, but does just that. He takes Steve’s hand gently into his own and slides the ring down the length of his finger until it fits snugly at the base, right there against his knuckle. It glitters in the sunlight, and Eddie draws Steve’s hand up to his lips so he can press a sweet kiss just above it.

“Thank god you said yes,” Eddie says, twining his fingers with Steve’s and pulling him back in for another kiss in between. “If you made me climb a whole ass mountain and then said no…” he trails off, shaking his head.

Steve snorts. “You love it,” he says. “You love me.”

Eddie softens. “I do,” he says. “And I get to do it forever now.”

“Forever sounds pretty damn nice,” Steve tells him.

“It sure does.” 100 ways to say i love you prompts

[writtenjewels]

Nick’s Birthday Surprise

[Just found out Jason’s birthday was yesterday, July 22! Happy birthday, jarhead!]

Nick had insisted on taking Jason out for birthday drinks. The bar Nick chose was a lot more bright and open than the ones Jason usually frequented, but after all they went through in that temple, he was no longer a fan of dark places. Jason took his time with the beer, talking about maybe catching a game later.

“Oh, I got you a present,” Nick mentioned.

“Yeah?” Jason turned his head. “You bring it with you?”

“No, I'm having it delivered.” Nick checked his watch. “Should be here any minute.” Jason was intrigued and a little excited. Wanting to get the full effect of a surprise, Jason turned back to drinking. He waited, expecting a delivery guy to come in announcing he had a package for Jason Kolchek.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Jason turned and nearly fell over when he saw the person standing before him. The man was wearing a striped button shirt and jeans and his face was no longer dirty, but there was no mistaking him.

“Salim.” He reached out and touched the man just to make sure he was real. Then his arms were around Salim, hugging him tight. He felt Salim embrace him and pressed a little closer. “Holy shit, I can't believe it.”

“Good to see you too, Jason.” Jason pulled back enough to get a good look at Salim's face. He couldn't even put into words how good it was to see the other man again. Salim had been on Jason's mind ever since they parted ways at the shepherd's hut: wondering if Salim made it back to his son safely, how he was coming after all they went through at the temple, if he managed to escape the war.

“You're a sight for sore eyes,” Jason smiled. “The fuck are you doin' here?”

“Nick contacted me and told me it was your birthday.”

“Yeah?” Jason turned to his friend and it was only then he realized he and Salim were still holding each other. He slipped out of the embrace to clasp an arm around Nick's shoulder. “Good call, brother.”

“Thought you might like it.” There was something about those words that made Jason blush. Nick looked at his watch again and cursed. “I'm sorry, Jason, I forgot I have this thing I need to do. I don't wanna rush out on your birthday, but it's urgent.”

“You don't say...” Jason gave him a suspicious look.

“Salim, you mind taking the birthday boy out?” Nick asked, ignoring the look. He fished something out of his pocket and handed it over to Salim. “Happy birthday, man,” he waved to Jason. Jason followed him out, catching him at the elbow before he could walk out of the bar.

“What the fuck are you doin', man?”

“It's my present to you. You put up with my whining about Rachel and Eric, and I wanted to do something for you in return.” Nick's eyes darted significantly over to where Salim was standing. “Go for it, man.”

“Go for... I don't know what you're talkin' about.”

“Then you have all day and night to figure it out,” Nick replied with a smile. “See ya.” He waved and was gone. Jason knew he was blushing and tugged down on the brim of his cap so Salim wouldn't notice when Jason made his way back.

“So what did Nick give you?” he asked Salim.

“Tickets to a sporting event.” Salim consulted the tickets. “I think it's baseball.”

“Figures,” Jason huffed. At Salim's questioning look, he explained: “Those don't got clocks like most other sports. The inning lasts until the team gets three outs. They can go for fuckin' hours. Hope you don't got plans,” he added with a little smile.

“My plan was to see you on your birthday,” Salim told him. “Oh, before I forget.” He held out a wrapped parcel. With the shock of seeing him, Jason hadn't noticed it before. He unwrapped it, revealing a blue shemagh with a black star pattern on the fabric. “I didn't know what you would like,” Salim explained, “but I remembered you wearing one of these.”

“Thanks.” Jason ran his fingers over it and, before he could second-guess, asked: “You wanna tie it on for me?”

“Certainly.” Salim looped it around Jason's neck and tied it in a knot. Jason held still, his heart pounding the whole time. “Looks good on you,” Salim judged. He smoothed out the shemagh; Jason wished the lighting in this damn bar was worse so his blush would be better hidden. “Ready?” Salim asked.

“Yeah, better get to the stadium now and get a good seat.” The two of them headed out the door.

Maybe this would be one of the longer games, Jason thought. Hours sitting next to Salim. In that time, he might even get enough courage to hold Salim's hand.

[fruitcoops]

I absolutely love your fics!!! Thank you for sharing your talent with the world. If you're interested, do you think you could write a fic where Finn gets injured in a game against Tampa? O'Hara brothers ftw ♥️♥️♥️

Ohohohoho yes. It's 'missing your big brother so you write siblings' hours, and all of you are trapped in here with me. Combined with prompts for cubs hurt comfort/ poly love (@hi-im-phoenix) and distraction hurt/ comfort for AJ. Sorry about your manager <3 SW credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for bone inJuries

The crowd was roaring. Finn couldn’t catch his breath. His arm was on fire.

Something like a sob broke free in his chest, but he could do little more than hiccup in pain and fear from his place laying flat on his back atop the unforgiving ice. He couldn’t move his fingers. His elbow throbbed. Everything in between just hurt.

“—fuck is wrong with you?” an angry voice shouted, followed by a flash of blue and white shoving at the man whose late hit had left him suspended in shock. Finn didn’t know if it had been on purpose, but he didn’t really care anymore as a tear tracked down to his ear. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the bright lights overhead.

A hand cradled one side of his jaw, warm and clammy on his cold skin. “Talk to me, mon amour, what’s wrong?”

“Lo,” he croaked, swallowing hard. “I’m okay. ‘m okay, promise. I’m okay.”

“Out of my way!” The blue and white blob pushed closer before kneeling next to him. A helmet hit the ice, followed by a glove; heavy hands settled on his shoulders, and the one on his face disappeared. “Finn? Finn, look at me.”

Finn’s chest hitched once, twice, hard. His head was pounding, and everything hurt. He may have been able to reassure Logan, but he had never been able to hide from his brother. “Alex.”

“Hey, buddy,” he soothed as Finn finally regained enough breath to gasp around his tears. “No, no, shhh. You’re gonna be just fine, yeah? Can you tell me what happened?”

“Hurts,” he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut. The pain had reached his shoulder and every movement was agony. “It hurts, it hurts—Alex, it hurts.”

“What hurts?”

He could hear people calling for medics. His friends, his family. But Alex stayed right there next to him, holding his good hand and brushing his tears away. “My arm,” Finn said, feeling as pathetic as he ever had. “Alex, it hurts so bad.”

“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?” Finn sobbed again as he shook his head and saw the encouraging smile slide of Alex’s face. “That’s alright, buddy, just take some deep breaths.”

“I don’t wanna be out,” Finn blubbered. “I gotta play.”

Alex gave his hand a light squeeze. “It’s not that bad, Fish. Deep breaths.”

He managed a handful—and admittedly felt a little better—but the alarms in his head were still blaring when Remus arrived with the medic, all but carrying him across the ice to get to Finn. He had a smudge of a bruise beneath his eye, but the worry creasing his brow overtook anything else. “I’m good, Loops,” Finn panted as the medic sat next to him. “Totally cool.”

“28, I’m going to need you to make some room,” the medic ordered. Fear spiked in Finn’s heart when he met Alex’s gaze, but he found only determination looking back.

“I’m not leaving,” Alex said simply.

The medic glanced down. “Can you stand?”

“I think so?” Finn said hesitantly, trying to get cool air back into his lungs. “It’s—I think I broke my arm. Everything else is okay.”

“What’s your pain level?”

“Eight. And a half,” he added. Alex frowned.

“Let’s get you off this ice, yeah?” The medic patted him gently on the shoulder. “O’Hara, can you get him up?”

“Keep that one close,” Alex murmured, sliding his arm under Finn’s shoulders. He clenched his teeth around a cry of pain as his bad arm was jostled, but Alex was strong and steady, and within a few seconds he was on his feet. “Easy does it, bud. I’ve got you.”

“Fucking shit,” Finn wheezed as he tried to close his hand. The fear and adrenaline had faded, but involuntary tears sprang to his eyes anyway. Alex held him upright without faltering despite his wobbly legs; they made it to the bench in a blur of movement that made Finn dizzy.

“We can take him from here,” the medic said to Alex.

“I’ll be fine,” Finn said, cutting him off just as he opened his mouth. “Go play. Your boys need you.”

Alex pressed his lips together in obvious frustration, but tapped their helmets together and skated back to his own bench. Finn let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “O’Hara?”

“I’m good,” he assured the medic.

“If you feel like you need to throw up, let me know.”

“No. No, I’m good. Just hurts.”

He caught a glimpse of the clock as they headed down the tunnel—ten minutes left in the period. Finn steeled himself for a long stretch of being alone in a medical room and tried to focus on something over than the unbearable heat and throbbing in his arm.

--------------

Leo traced the edge of the splint with a deep-set frown, but said nothing. His other thumb ran in gentle lines up and down Finn’s waist, kept there by Logan’s side pressing close. “You’re sure you’re alright?” Logan asked softly as he placed a kiss on the corner of Finn’s mouth.

“I promise.” They had barely traded ten words—both had shown up the second the game ended, stripping off their pads and skates in the entrance to the medical room before sandwiching Finn between them. Leo had been unusually quiet. They had won the game; from what Finn saw on the television in the corner of the room, Alex had reamed out the guy that hit Finn with a vengeance. Tampa had been disjointed, and the Lions swept in as a cohesive pack, out for blood.

“I was worried about you,” Leo said at last, resting his temple on Finn’s shoulder. He sighed, then shifted impossibly closer. “Couldn’t get through the crowd.”

“I thought Talker and Loops were gonna kill that guy after he hit you,” Logan said with a shake of his head. “Looks like Alex did it for him.”

“What, you didn’t get into your shining armor for me?” Finn teased, nuzzling his nose against Logan’s cheek to draw even a slight smile from him.

“Maybe next time.”

“No,” Leo mumbled, linking his fingers with Finn’s purple ones and lifting them to his lips for a brief kiss. It was a clean break, but would still take weeks to heal. Big blue eyes landed on him, melting his heart like they always did. “No ‘next times’, okay?”

“Aw, Knutty,” Finn said, barely above a whisper. He wrapped one arm around each of them and held them tight, soaking in the feeling of having both crushed against him. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

Logan tucked his face into Finn’s neck. “Nothing to be sorry for, mon rouge. We’re just glad you’re alright.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” a voice said from the door. Alex shifted his weight back and forth, twisting his baseball cap in his hands like he always did when he was nervous. Finn didn’t hesitate before extracting himself from the cuddle pile and crossing the room; Alex met him halfway and engulfed him in a hug. A shudder ran through him under Finn’s palms. “Jesus, Finn, you scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” Finn mumbled into his hoodie, letting himself be cocooned by distilled safety. Even out of his skates, Alex had a good two inches on him, and he had always been the broader of the two—Finn suddenly felt about six years old, as if he had just skinned his knee on the sidewalk.

“What’s the diagnosis?”

“Closed break, clean fracture. I’ll be out for a month or two.” He stepped back and swiped a hand under his nose, then tilted his head toward Leo and Logan with a wry smile. “But I’ve got these two to look after me.”

Alex scanned his face for a moment; his mouth dipped on one side. “I called mom and dad, told ‘em you’re okay. You should tell them yourself, though. They were freaking out.”

“I will,” Finn promised.

The worry creasing his brow didn’t diminish as he wrapped Finn in his arms again, holding him tight. “Keep me updated, yeah? If I don’t hear from you, I’ll get the captain on your ass, and he won’t be as nice about it as I will.”

“Deal.”

“Knutty, Lo, drive safe. If he tries to pull some stupid shit, I’m counting on your survival skills to stop it.”

“Survival skills?” Leo half-laughed.

Alex pulled away and raised his eyebrows. “They don’t call me Hurricane O’Hara for nothing.”

His eyes flickered back to Finn, who was horrified to see slight redness around the rims despite the teasing in his voice. “Alex,” he said softly. “I’m okay, I swear.”

“I know.” His voice was gruff, but it poorly hid a sniffle as he bumped their foreheads together. “But I’m your brother. It’s my job to worry about you. I hate that one of my guys was at fault here.”

Finn tried for a smile, socking him on the arm. “Six weeks, and I’ll be good as new.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” With a final survey of his face and a kiss to the top of his head, Alex headed back out into the hall with his shoulders up near his ears. Finn sighed; he hated it when Alex was upset, and even more when there was nothing he could do to fix it except wait. He didn’t know what he’d do if one of his teammates broke his brother.

“Fish?” Leo was smiling when he turned around. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“What kind?”

“The kind where I pull out all the sob story pity points on Cap’s soft heart and get us babysitting privileges for his incredibly fluffy dog after three months of constant begging.”

Finn’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

“Make sure you look extra sad when we leave,” Logan advised. “We can’t lose this opportunity because you were too perky about a broken arm.”

“Quick, someone make me cry.”

Leo’s grin turned to horror. “What?”

“No!” Logan said at the same time.

“You guys are killing me here,” Finn groaned. “Just, like, hit me in the arm or something.”

“No!” they shouted in unison.

“You said I need to look sad!”

“I meant pout and sigh!” Logan pulled him over by the hem of his shirt in clear distress. “You’ve already cried too much tonight. No more.”

“Alright,” Finn agreed, already wracking his brain for any smidgen of drama skills he might have acquired over the years. Younger siblings were always the best actors, of course—he had given some Oscar-worthy performances to his mom when Alex got on his nerves as a kid—but Sirius was tough to fool. Maybe if he stayed quiet and didn’t risk opening his mouth they would get away with it.

Leo let out a slow exhale against his chest and snuggled closer before standing. “Come on, darlin,” he said with a kiss to Finn’s forehead. “Let’s get you settled. We’ll take a shower, have some dinner, and then we can put a movie on.”

“Mighty Ducks?” Finn asked hopefully.

Logan rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

[ohheyitsokay]

good eye

part 4 of the ‘hey batter batter’ series

pairing: Francisco Morales (Frankie, Catfish) x reader

wordcount: 3.5k (I’m only 14% sorry about that)

warnings: strong language, extremely mild injury, Benny Miller working out, a little bit of a cliffhanger ending

summary: it’s a Triple Frontier baseball AU! Trust me, you don’t need to know anything about baseball. 

“good eye” is an encouragement for batting players, essentially applauding them for having good judgement when and when not to swing.

In this chapter, the guys becoming increasingly aware of how interesting you are to the whole gang - and what they’re going to do about it. 

>>

Bottom of the ninth inning – the end of the game.

Sometimes players fixated on the score, glancing at the flashing lights or acting desperately but for Will, keeping it in his head was just as natural as breathing. Floating around first base made it easy for him to keep an eye on everything, and stay focused under the summer sun. His team was up by two.

The opposition was at bat – their final advantage as the home team. He didn’t feel particularly nervous, but couldn’t breathe easy just yet. They already had two outs, thanks to his little brother’s inhuman speed and some excellent Garcia pitching, and just one more to go before it was all over. Preferably, this would happen before the man on third made it to home base. 

There was a bead of sweat rolling down, down, down his temple over his cheekbone, and into his beard. The clouds from the start of the game were long gone – even with his cap, his blue eyes were getting tired.

They were focused on the batter, not even Pope, and never the crowd, since it was always just a blur of noise and rival colors and waving hands. The closer the game came to an end, the more the mass of people writhed with tension. It was better just to ignore it. There was no reason at all, but he looked up just for a split second and he saw a single, tiny form make itself clear, sending a confusing thrill down his spine.

A familiar crack rang through the air and he snapped back to focus. The batter was hurling towards him, the crowd was holding it’s breath as he looked around, almost frantically.

Where was the ball?!

Your form was still in his minds eye, he didn’t understand, but then – there, in the outfield. No, here. Instinct had taken over.

It was in his glove, and his left toe had found first base. Will heard a curse as the opposing player plowed behind him a second too late, a yell from the umpire, and then the satisfying groans of the other team’s fans.

Pope crashed into him first, then whoever else was the closest. It was giddy and triumphant chaos, hands clapping his shoulder, sweaty hugs, slaps, and high fives, and Will barely noticed any of it. Jogging back to the locker room was quick, the crunch of their shoes in the grit of the field like a stampede, impossibly loud. The locker room wasn’t as bad. It would have been louder if they had lost, like they had expected. Something still felt strange in his gut as they changed and rinsed off and packed their things.

You were interesting to him, he liked how real you were. He was normally the one that grounded others, that kept his head, learned his lessons and left the game on the field. It was nice, spending time with someone he didn’t have to do that for – or really anything for. There wasn’t a need to put on a show for you, or be your steady sidekick. It was nice. But it had only been a lunch and a night at the bar, no reason to know the shape of you, much less be thrown off by it.

He was taking extra care to clean his newest tattoo, absentminded, when the locker-talk caught his attention.

This was the first away game they had won this season, and everyone was debating why their luck had changed. Some of them were arguing loudly, ridiculously, and as usual, his friends started gravitating together, interested, but with lower voices and cooler heads.

“Do you think it was because I wore last weekend’s socks, Fish?” Benny was grinning, as his friends eyebrows answered for him. Frankie was superstitious, but in a way he’d gotten from his abuela, not the game. Will had a thought, the confusing last moment of the game clicking into the conversation, his eyes meeting Pope's for a moment.

“Actually, I have a theory,” he kept his voice quiet. If the rest of the team got wind that William Miller was participating in the banter, they’d be all over him, sure he was right only because he rarely cared. His friends looked at him, curiously, and he chewed on the idea for a moment, liking it more and more until he actually believed himself when he told them.

Their good luck charm?

You.

-

Tom had missed the conversation, occupied with a love-sick staff member in a quiet corner of the stadium.

He would never admit it, but he always needed a distraction when the winning catch had nothing to do with him. And Molly had to travel with the team most weeks anyway, the availability becoming increasingly more appealing than trying his luck with a random fan.

The next day after practice, he found her again and this time, despite the crude nature of the location, he took little more time. It was strange, to grab her without pent up frustration driving his actions, but not an entirely unwelcome change of pace.

He didn’t dwell on it, almost running away, but she did, trailing her fingers over the places his had been as she put herself together again. She wanted to remember each one, to savor them like it was the first time. And maybe it was – the very first time he had even kissed her with no particular personal agenda. Of that, she didn’t feel as guilty about wanting more.

Tom had long since slipped out the door when she finished the process, just slipping on her heels when the someone knocked.

Opening it, she found an eager and awkward shortstop pushing into her office. He seemed nervous, more nervous than she had seen him during photo shoots and press conferences and final innings. It wasn’t what she expected – not the demeanor the players normally held when they asked for favors. Professional athletes were confidant, suave, even. Ben had something else going on, something sweeter, maybe even innocent.

He called her ma’am, and she rolled her eyes when he asked for you number.

“Don’t you boys ever talk?” she was kind of annoyed. Ben was confused, it showed on his face.

“Tom got it awhile ago,” she started, and he got it, immediately. The older man hadn’t told any of them that you would be at the bar last week. He wondered if you knew he had arranged it. Something felt off but before he could ponder it she finished.

“And Santi got it yesterday.” Actually, she was more than annoyed. You hadn’t seemed special at all when you’d been there opening weekend. Your grandfather was sweet but nothing about that day could explain why three of the players were willing to bend the rules to find you again.

Tom’s voice rang in her ears: he’s got it bad for her. That didn’t quite fit what she was seeing, but she cooled down a little.

She didn’t even have to shoo him away, his thank you, ma’am, sorry to bother you made her feel like an old lady as he turned on his heels and trotted off.

The younger Miller was increasingly thoughtful, but he could feel something shift in the air. Then he shrugged it off. He was sure he’d find out, sooner or later.

-

“Ben, where’s your brain?” Catfish had caught him making eyes upside-down at the girl standing by the athletic trainer while he was mid workout. He didn’t really need a partner to work out, but they tried to go together, to spot on another and to argue over who could bench press the most.

He watched as his friend’s brain and body scrambled to put down the weights and he stood up too fast.

Across the room, girlish laughter bubbled and Benny blushed, still not attending as he grabbed the water bottle he was being offered and squirted himself in the mouth.

“What?”

Frankie shot him an amused look, gesturing vaguely, his point now proven. This had happened before. The young player was almost certainly going to tell him some random information now to distract him and trying to avoid the inevitable teasing.

“Did you know Tom got her number?”

It worked. There was almost no context, but he knew immediately and there was a twist in his stomach. It was the answer to a question he didn’t know had been on his mind - Catfish fully short circuited.

Redfly got your number? That was why Frankie had found him putting the moves on you before they were scheduled to meet. He was shaking his head, dazed, when Ben added, “And Santi got it a couple days ago, too.”

A moment of silence, and then,

“Fucking what?!” 

Heads around the private gym turned.

Ben hissed for quiet as he dragged him towards the locker room, and he found himself allowing it as he heart tried to catch up with his mind. No way Pope was going after you too.

“Weird, right?” Frankie felt like ‘weird’ was putting it mildly.

“I just asked for it,”

“You -"

“- because I wanted to be friends, but,” the younger man was ignoring his sputtering panic. He didn’t know if he should be mad or grateful. “Why wouldn’t they tell us?”

That stopped his racing heart. That was the question, wasn’t it? Frankie dragged his hand down his face, smoothed his mustache, readjusted his hat, trying fruitlessly to ground himself.

He said something noncommittal in response, barely hearing himself as he changed the topic. Ben was watching him, he could tell, but it wasn’t as though he could explain why he had reacted so strongly. He didn’t even know why.

It’s not like the feel of you against his hand was all he had been thinking about for the past few days.

His head was spinning, and not in the same way as when he had heard you were at the last game.

Of course other men had their eyes on you. You were gorgeous. His hand twitched on the locker as an image of him pressing you against it flashed through his mind. Shoving it down, he moved on.

You were smart, too, and kind. Certainly he couldn’t be the only one who liked the way you looked when you were thinking, or the little messiness of your hair, or the curve of your neck and shoulders as you leaned against the table.

There was a flare of something green in his chest. He was thinking about your hand on his arm, the way it made him feel like he was your anchor, the white lines on the ground guiding your feet. That, was his. For a moment, his brain reminded him of your lips on Pope’s cheek, your fingers on Benny’s shoulder, and palm on Redfly’s jaw. The locker door resonated in the quiet room as he slammed it shut. Even your eyes in Ironhead's for just a moment… it made him want to kidnap you, press into your space, surround you with his body until all you could see or touch or think about was him. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe what he was aching for was for there to be a room full of handsome, athletic, perfect men, and for you to seek him. Find his eyes, and hold them in yours until you reached each other. To choose him. 

Either. Or maybe both.

Whatever he’d been saying got lost on his tongue.

Benny was looking at him thoughtfully, and Frankie sighed, his anger slowing to a simmer. It was absurd, he knew that. Knowing didn’t make it go away, but it helped.

Really, he should be lucky he got any of you at all, that alone was a minor league miracle. Hiking his bag up, he clapped his friend on the shoulder and changed the topic once again.

The smell of dirt and grass and sweaty men faded as they walked out of the room, and when someone made a group chat that included you, Frankie remembered that he liked his friends. The bats in his bag clanged like bells, and Ben said something that made him laugh, and he thought he was a fool to have forgotten it.

-

Santiago was the first one there, over half an hour early, by accident or design you had no idea. He made all of James' things look small, and it made you laugh, because you knew it was only the beginning.

You’d been added to a group chat a few days ago. The list of total bizarre things happening to you was increasing every day of knowing them but you couldn’t exactly complain. It was exciting and honestly, you ached for them in a way you couldn’t explain. Seeing Santiago sent sharp excitement through the anxiety of preparation, but even with the handsome man removing his shoes, you couldn’t help but check behind him for Francisco.

It had been a joke, sort of. They had invited you out and you retaliated by saying you owed them a meal. You should’ve known, already, they weren't afraid to take you up on it, and you’d had to use James as your crutch. His house was much bigger than your apartment, and he was so excited to talk to them it was adorable. Before you’d even turned to Santi properly, they were already chatting, and you watched, smiling.

He looked good. It really was almost as if they actually were family – not physically but you could see it in how they interacted. Santi was more cleaned up than he’d been at the bar, thanking your grandfather like it really was an honor to be welcomed into his home. Jimbo was standing as tall as he could to scruff the younger man’s perfect hair, and you laughed as he clarified that they were always welcome, as long as they helped cook. And when Santi grinned, agreeing readily, the line on his forehead smoothed.

The stress of hosting even such strange guests lessened again, and you slipped back into the kitchen.

Not two minutes later, he found you there, and you could feel him watching you, lounging against the door as graceful and powerful as a panther. Slicing vegetables to grill, you let him, for the time being. He would tell you what he was thinking if he wanted to.

It made you smile again, when his large, calloused hands began to make motions for you to let him take over. Determined or maybe even insistent, but not entitled. He mimicked your cuts, checking silently for your approval, and you saw something in his eyes you hadn’t noticed before.

Over food and drinks he had been smart and clever and passionate – an idyllic picture for over-ambitious fans. None of that was gone, but there was another layer under it, something distinctly humble, and if your dreams hadn’t already been occupied, you might’ve fallen in love with him a little bit. Prepping food to the sounds of quiet music and the rhythmic thumps of the knife against the cutting board felt domestic, but in a familial way. There was no pressure for words, for you, and when he did speak, it seemed as though he agreed.

“This might sound fu… uh, stupid but I’m glad there aren’t bobble heads around.” Of him and his friends, he implied. You wondered if he checked his language for your sake, or out of mindfulness for James.

“He really respects you guys,” you shrugged. “He’s always lecturing me on remembering that you’re human, and not overstepping normal people boundaries.”

Pausing your salad assembly, you stole a glance at him, only to find deep brown eyes looking at you curiously. His hand scraped over the stubble on his jaw, and you could almost see his thoughts, running diamonds in his head.

“Is that why you shot Redfly down?” he wasn’t looking at you, so he missed the tilt of you head. You didn’t need to know the nickname to know what he was talking about, but he clarified a moment later.

You weren't prepared for this to come up, but it shouldn’t have surprised you.

“Yes and no,” was the most honest answer. “He’s already got a girl, whether he knows it or not.” You felt good, talking to him, good like laughing, so you did. It was a strange moment, when the team’s outfield dreamboat had leaned in to kiss you, and you turned him away, but it wasn’t weighing on you at all.

Santiago was grinning at you, hands still, and you wondered if this was the first moment the two of you were seeing each other clearly. Biases and judgement and wariness stripped away easily in the kitchen, like the peels of potatoes.

“So,” his tone and eyes were mischievous, and you had never felt more like an almost stranger was your brother. “If one of the other guys asked you out, you would consider it?”

Face flaring with heat, you barely contained a squawk. He let out a triumphant noise and you shoved him. There was no doubt he wasn’t talking about himself, but you still wanted to melt into the floor.

“Don’t think I haven’t seen –”

“Shut up shut up shut up!”

Both of you were laughing when the other men pushed through the front door.

Santi answered their raised eyebrows by sticking out his tongue.

-

There was moments all the time in baseball, where when you have the ball and have to choose which opposing player gets to make it safe and who you’re going to try to get out. It’s a split second where you feel torn in two, and that was exactly how Frankie felt now.

When he had seen you, flushed and laughing, part of him wanted to give a damn thank you speech to Pope for helping bless the world with that, and the other part of him wanted to murder his best friend.

They had all pushed into the little home and he tried to focus on greeting James and looking at the cozy, dated furniture, the humble decorations, clearly cleaned just for them. There had been a moment, where you’d waved at what felt like just him, and his heart rate had doubled. He tried to talk with the guys, the friend you had invited, or help grill or set the table or … anything, but all he wanted was to find you again.

Staying by your side the other night felt as natural and the ball hitting the palm of his glove, time and time again. It was exactly where he was meant to be.

And you were so lovely he wanted you to press into him so close he absorbed just a fraction of your glow. He wanted to wrap you up and take you with him wherever he went, or maybe just settle into your shadow, to follow you forever. It felt greedy, which he didn’t really mind, but the problem was that it was unrealistic.

You were working hard to be a good host, floating around, making sure everyone was content, helping, handling things, or happily having heaping helpings of your cooking. There was another game on the TV, and James was telling stories, and his friends had made themselves right at home. In a strange way, it felt like a Sunday with his abuelos, and cousins, casual and comfortable. It was telling, of you, fitting, and he liked that, but it was distinctly missing... you.

Santi found him, listening to James, trying not to look over his shoulder for you, hand twitching to find it’s place on you again. They kept their voices low, trying to be respectful, as they caught up on the last few minutes, hours, days. Frankie felt a pang of guilt, wondering if he had been subconsciously avoiding his friend. There was still some more private communicating they had to do… He offered Pope a drive. That would do it.

There was an understanding as the looked at each other, under the music and talk, and clatter of dishes. Will was making James laugh, loud and care-free. The uneasiness settled in his gut – he trusted Santi with his life. He could certainly trust him now, with whatever this was.

Not long after, Frankie found himself being herded through the little house, around tables with glasses and napkins, and back into the little kitchen. There was a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder, and then he was alone with you, for the very first time.

Your eyes were big, staring at him, as you held a pile of dirty dishes.

He wanted to kiss you.

Of course, he didn’t, only cursing himself as he awkwardly offered to help. When you shook your head, your hair fluffed, and with the sunlight through the window, he was having trouble remembering how to function.

Frankie was solid, known for being sturdy and safe. Not like Will was, with his ethics and upbringing like roots into the ground, but that of Atlas, supporting the world on his shoulders.

He was the cornerstone of the team, the background man behind the curtain, with hair and eyes and thighs that Santi swore made women swoon.

And he was doing dishes in the kitchen of your grandfathers house, weak in the knees because you had smiled at him, impressed and grateful. His mind was telling at him to talk to you more, to say something interesting or impressive or to make you laugh when he heard you yelp.

The sound was awful, and adrenaline pumped into his blood as he realized you were hurt. Swinging around he didn’t see you for a moment before registering you had sat down, hard, and were clutching your wrist. There was a thick line, throbbing and an angry red – burnt.

When his knees hit the tile, he didn’t even notice the dull pain. His hands grasped yours as you tried to apologize, explaining the stove was still hot after you had turned it off. Frankie heard you, really he did, but he mind was chanting do something! And stringing Spanish curses, demanding that he protect you, that he fix it.  

He didn’t realize how close he was to you until your eyes found his. it crashed into him the realization that if he leaned forward, tilted his head a bit, and sunk a little lower onto his knees, he could have your mouth against his. 

Panic slowing, he looked at you. You were so sweet and beautiful, collapsed on the kitchen floor with him like the two of you were the only things in the world, and you were trying to tell him you were fine, that it was a silly accident. Frankie felt ridiculous, caught up in his thoughts, and he just... threw aside logic.

Time stopped, and he kissed the burn.

>>

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize

hey batter batter taglist:

@icanbeyourjedi @studyofawearymind @hnt-escape @athalien @the-witty-pen-name

[goldenchan-fx2thepeacock]

Quick AU where Danny stays in town during Girls Night Out

Yeah, random thoughts spring into brain. Danny is trans. I think that's enough background info. Also, Tumblr got a new post editor, so I'm betaing it right now.

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Danny was supposed to go fishing with his dad. But something came up. AKA, Vlad wanted him to go visit him without Danny. So Danny was in Amity Park when he was supposed to be having dad bonding time. What could he say? His dad got that dumb book and everything. It was gonna be epic. Except stupid Vlad had to go and ruin everything. Whatever. Dad said they would go next weekend.

The first big issue was when Tucker disappeared. And he didn't. Might've been a dumb ghost thing. So he and Sam went to find stuff out. Except all the men in town were gone. It was glaring. "I-I'm sure it's nothing Danny!" Sam said nervously. "Yeah. It's gotta have been a stupid mistake. Maybe I'm immune cause I'm half ghost," Except there weren't any male ghosts either. "Yeah, that's gotta be it!" That when they heard Ember. "OH YEAH! NO MORE PESKY GUYS! IT'S A GIRL'S NIGHT OUT!" "Yes. You know, I'm surprised that worked. I was afraid it might've been a ghost only thing," Spectra drawled. "Of course it worked. The superior gender always prevails," Kitty replied. "And that's obviously female," Every vein in his body was pounding. "I think you might've confused sex for gender ladies," Sam said patiently. "We're not having sex!" Ember laughed. "You do realize how invalidating this can feel for trans people?!" Sam shrieked back. "If they're still here, that means it's a she," Spectra grinned. That was the last straw. He ran. As fast as he could. And for a half ghost that was fast. Once he got home, he slammed the door.

Sam saw Danny run off and knew how this was looking for him. "Isn't this rich? The ghost boy is really a girl," Kitty grinned. "I'm surprised I didn't notice sooner," Spectra laughed. Ember stayed oddly quiet for someone who was normally boisterously loud.

Danny curled in on himself. Herself. NO! Don't second guess yourself. It change the fact that it hurt. "All the men in town are gone!" He heard Jazz yell. "I realize that Jazz. Thank goodness your father is out of town," Mom sighed. "Wait, but Danny isn't! I really hope..." She was standing in his doorway. "FUCKING GHOSTS!" Jazz didn't swear. She never swore. "What is it Jazz? Oh. Danny, I'm so sorry," Mom pulled him into a hug. "I'll be fine," He grumbled. "Do you know which ghosts?" Jazz decided to change the conversation. "Spectra, Kitty and Ember," "Great. Spectra is going to use this horribly," Jazz grumbled quiet enough that only Danny could hear. "Listen, we have to get the guys back first," "Wait, if you're, that means any trans women in Amity are stuck there," Mom said. "Can we not talk about that? I'm seriously not in the mood," "At least pesky Phantom won't be here to get in the way," Jazz and Danny exchanged a look. Sam came bursting in. "Danny! Okay, I am going to make them even deader than before," Sam cracked her knuckles. "I'm fine Sam. Let's just find a way to fix this," "I have an idea!" Jazz said. "No," Danny, Sam and Mom said in unison. "Oh come on. Don't be like that. Not all my plans are bad," Jazz protested. "Speaking from experience (of being trapped in a thermos way too much for one night), that is completely untrue," "What was that about thermoses Danny?" Mom said. "Jazz put soup in my Fenton Thermos!" "I couldn't tell them apart! We really need to label things," "Like with a massive sticker that say Fenton?" "All our stuff has those!" "Fair enough," Danny conceded. It was the plan if anyone caught them talking about getting trapped in thermoses. It made sense because it actually happened. "Well, since Jazz's plan is out, I opt that we figure out how this whole thing happened," Mom said. "It's a combo between Kitty and Ember. Kitty has this thing that makes men disappear into another dimension. And Ember must've used her guitar to make it cover all of Amity. If we don't get them out in twelve hours, they'll be stuck there forever," "And I will have to resign to a life of raging dysphoria," "You were gonna have that anyways," "Times ten. This won't help anyways, but it won't be all bad," "Let's stop talking about you being trans. Danny, you're staying here," Jazz winked. He knew what that meant. They would get all the men back and Danny would keep the ghosts at bay. "Okay. So, from what they were blabbing, all we have to do is get them to do it again," Sam said. Once they had a plan in place, all they had to do was implement it. They left and Danny quickly transformed. Praying that Spectra wouldn't find a way to use this against him, he sped off. "Hey! Poo faces! I'm not gone, and it semi pisses me off!" He screamed. "Oh now sweety. Why would you want to leave behind the superior gender?" Spectra said. "Because it makes me feel horrible and like I was born wrong," "You were, weren't you," Don't let Spectra sink her claws in Fenturd! "Yeah, maybe I was, but if I work hard enough I can fix it," "How is Danny Phantom still here?" He heard Paulina say. Nope, not listening. "They're all going to know. You can't do anything about that," Spectra laughed evilly. "Now girls, follow the recipe! You too now," "I'm. NOT A GIRL!" The wail was probably ill planned, but Danny wasn't thinking straight. Shit, humans. He cut himself off. "Oh come on now. No matter how many times you tell yourself that, you still have to cover parts of yourself. Don't tell me you don't wake up every morning and wish you were a real boy?" "I am. I am a real boy. I just have to take a few extra steps to get there," "Oh come on now. Stop lying to yourself. Maddie, how can you possibly call these eggs? They're green," Okay, maybe dealing with Spectra first was a bad idea. But she was also taunting his mom. Deal with Ember. She must be better than this.

So he flew to a stage. Ember was rocking out with a bunch of girls. Sam was in the background. This was probably one of the less dangerous problems. "Listen, if you're going to taunt me for the fact that I'm still here, do it already," "Hey, listen kid. I'm not actually going to taunt you. Kitty and Spectra are being complete jerks, but I'm not going to judge you for being trans," "Y-you're not?" "Heck no! I'm doing this because I wanted to have a fun night without guys. You included. I'll just have to take a few extra steps to get rid of you!" Danny dodged the guitar strum easily. "Are you planning on bringing them back at the end of the night?" "That's really up to Kitty," "I guess," Sam could deal with Ember.

Next up was Kitty. Oh great, makeup. (I honestly forget what Kitty was doing, so makeup works) "Now girls. All you gotta do is apply the bronzer like so!" "Kitty! How would Johnny feel if he knew you were doing this?" "Oh come on now Ghost girl, you can't be serious. Johnny is having a guys night in all due time," "HEY! Don't you dare. Transphobia doesn't help anyone," Jazz yelled. "Oh stop complaining. She knows she doesn't belong with the guys. From the looks of it, Spectra's already gotten to you. This'll make this so much easier,"

The plan backfired immensely. Danny and Mom were a mess, Sam didn't manage to get the guitar, and Jazz just got in a debate with Kitty. Danny, having to keep up a facade, came downstairs. "How'd it go?" "Terribly. Though, I did learn the Ghost Boy is trans," Mom said. "Fascinating," "It's, well it's oddly human. Why would a ghost even bother?" "Turns out gender dysphoria comes to the grave," "Danny, this is no time for one of your morbid jokes," Yeah, maybe it was morbid, but it wasn't a joke. "Whatever. I guess we get to use Jazz's plan," "All we gotta do is convince them that a cis guy is still in town. Like wandered in after the disappearing act," "Great plan. Sam can't pretend to be me though," "How did you know I was going to do that?" "Lucky guess,"

So that's how Jazz ended up wearing a baseball cap and a pair of men's jeans into Ember's concert. "Did we really have to use a pair of dad's jeans? These barely fit," "You know, the fact that they fit at all should be surprising. Dad was skinny at one point in his life. Which means that one of us could be on his end of the gene pool," "It's probably you," "Don't make me think about that. Hiding what little chest I have is hard enough. If I got dad's genes, I'd honestly be terrified," "We haven't seen the women on his side of the family. And besides, you got the blue eyes black hair thing," "You are honestly scaring me. Now, I gotta scram before someone sees me talking to you. Mom or the ghosts," "Fair,"

And thus, the plan worked. Kitty, adamant that no men be left in Amity, blew another kiss. Ember amplified it. The men came back. The three got thermosed. Jazz laughed at their faces when they honestly though she was from out of town. Danny once again didn't get taken, even in ghost form.

Tucker and Sam found him curled up in his bed. "Hey man. I know this has gotta be tough for you," Tucker said. "Spectra had no right!" Sam continued. "Thanks guys. But I think I'm gonna take a few days off school," The trio heard Dash's voice outside. "Hey mom. I know what happened was scary. And I know it must've felt really bad, but I still see you as my mom," "Thanks Dash. I can always count on you to make me feel better," A woman's voice rang out. Danny looked over the window sill. "See Danny. It's not horribly weird. Just a few transphobic ghosts," Tucker laughed. "A couple," "What?" Sam and Tucker said in unison. "Ember isn't," "How do you know that?" "I talked to her," "Hey Fenturd! Don't you dare tell anyone about my mom! And don't be mean to her! I'm sure you wouldn't get it," "You'd be surprised Dash!" He grabbed his trans flag and hung it out the window. "I get it more than you seem to think!" Dash's mom smiled at him. "Y-you're trans? I thought you were just a loser!" "Yeah, and I had to talk to the transphobic ghosts. So I won't invalidate your mom!" Dash stared up at him. "Holy shit,"

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Praying that this uploads, cause I've got shoddy internet rn. And I'm working on my Gravity Falls crossover fic. I just had this pop into my mind. Prolly just gonna be a oneshot. I might make another fic about Jack's side of the family later, that's connected to this one.

[writefightandflightclub]

Gone(r) in 60 seconds

Summary: Santi meets you in a bar + you both agree hooking-up would be a Very Bad Idea.

Author’s note: this is a super short lil blurb / dialogue. If you have any other ideas for “minute Santi scenes” hmu!

Word count: super short

Warnings: language, bc it’s Santi. Suggestive but not explicit. Rated TEEN.

Tagging: @aellynera @damerondjarin @lostgirlheather @phoenixhalliwell @blushingwueen @itsamedeemoney @iamthe-shadow-on-the-wall @holybatflapexpert @himbopoes @arabellathorne @yourbucky084 @mandoplease @mylifeliterally @arkofblake @multifandomlife22 @yougottakeeponkeepinon @justrunamok @aisling-beatha

GIF: by @boydswan

“We shouldn’t,” Santi cautions, even as he fucks you with his eyes and purses his full lips, knowing exactly what he’s doing to you. “Shouldn’t even think about it.”

“Definitely not,” you agree, a dark amusement in your eyes, writhing yourself involuntarily against the seat of your barstool as a heat ignites in-between your legs.

“We’re probably not compatible,” Santi muses, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip as his gaze follows the subtle arching of your back all the way down to your rump as you stir in place.

“Nothing in common,” you agree, your eyes darkening. A gulp trails down your throat as the shift of his head reveals more of his corded neck and the tantalising trail of his tags disappearing under his midnight blue shirt. You’re not sure that a neck should be capable of making your heart quicken, and yet here you are.

“I could be a complete fucking dickhead,” he intones, voice like sandpaper, looking intently at your lips as you release your beer bottle after a masking swig.

“You look like one.” you smirk, a teasing glint dancing in your eyes, drawing his lust-blown pupils back to yours, so big and dark they could be Dracula’s dinner plates. “You could be just another bad decision.”

His mouth twitches up at the corners, and you realise that you’ve unconsciously shifted in your seat to face him, his sturdy thigh now brushing against yours, his body heat finding you even through his jeans.

“Holy shit. Maybe,” he nods in accord before a smugness blooms over his face. Then, he leans in towards you, sharing your air. God, he smells as good as he looks. “Plus, I could be such a mind-blowing fuck that you can never forget me. I could fucking ruin you for life.”

He deliberately pulls back from you, making you miss him after only moments, the dickhead. “Besides, the military fucked my knees-“ he takes a casual swig of his drink “-so you’d probably have to get on top and ride me fucking senseless.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He doesn’t flinch as he says it, his brazen, dark eyes hyper-focussed on yours like a sniper scope. Lethal yet captivating.

Desire twists in the pit of you like you are being wrung-out, a warmth suffusing through your whole body. Somehow, you still manage to form words, even though your voice comes out a lot more husky and wanton than you’ve ever heard it before. “It could be a really bad idea, then. You’re probably right, we shouldn’t.”

You challenge him right back with lustful, half-moon eyes, even as he reaches out to brush his finger along the seam of your jeans, slowly inching from your knee to your thigh as if he follows a fuse line to your core. It is the barest of touches, and you still have to stifle a moan blooming in your throat from this alone.

“But do you wanna?” Santi asks, a smug, lazy and irresistible smile on his face. Ever so subtly, slowly, he spreads his thick thighs further apart until your gaze is drawn to the bulge between his legs. He already knows the answer.

“Fuck. Let’s get out of here, Bad Idea.”

You shrug on your jacket quicker than you have ever done anything in your life and grab him by the arm. Santi frantically palms some bills from his pocket and throws far too much money at the bartender in his haste, before letting you practically drag him towards the exit.

Santi makes sure to turn and catch the slack-jawed expressions of the boys before he goes, who have watched events unfold from their vantage point across the room. The looks they give him are equal parts awed and envious. Santi takes it in his stride, as he does most things, pumping his eyebrows and allowing a smug grin to inch over his face. Then, his attention is fully focussed on you as he keenly watches your rather captivating ass sway in front of him.

“How long did that take?” Will asks, utterly bemused.

“Sixty fucking seconds,” Benny states, looking down in disbelief at his stopwatch.

At that, Frankie wraps his arms around himself and chuckles throatily.

“What’s so fucking funny, Fish?” Will asks, batting the baseball cap from the pilot’s head as Frankie’s shoulders continue to shake in inexplicable mirth.

“Boys,” Frankie grins. “That’s not even his record.”

[heli0s-writes]

III. Paralysis*

Summary: “I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around Bucky’s bicep, his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

A/N: 9.8k words. OOF.

Warnings: Language, robots v. monsters violence, Big Time angst and comfort, smutty bits (dry-humping, thigh riding).

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

He leaves around sunset. Hair combed neatly to the side and freshly shaven, Steve’s dashing in a fitted suit and tie. 

In the middle of passing around a basketball, Erik Killmonger, in all his subtlety, whistles, “Looking fresh, white boy!”

Steve smirks, smoothing the front of his jacket, “This monkey suit? I’d rather be in circuitry.”

He’s been laying low since Siegehook, since Bucky’s arm, and since you. But now the story’s changed and he’s gotta get his narrative straight— he’s introducing a new character, changing the players, and guiding the spotlight exactly where it needs to go.

Jimmy Fallon— Kimmel? One of the Jimmies personally flew into Hong Kong for a special taping of his late-night show. Orion racked up eleven kills; it’s another record and the people want what they want.

Fury called the three you of into his office after the network reached out for the umpteenth time. He strategized shrewdly to have Steve on this particular broadcast because it’s not as serious as a news report and not as wordy as an interview. Too many things can go wrong in both: cross-examinations, misquoting, scrutiny after the fact.

Steve works best in front of a live audience. He’ll sit down tonight—broad and tall—smile at the camera and the host, make a few charming quips, and then he’ll let the world know.

James has been hurt. The next breach will overlap his recovery time—don’t worry, everybody, fortunately, there’s a pilot available to step in and fill his place until he’s fully healed. And yes, he’ll be back soon, both in the Jaeger and on the show— I know you miss him, he’s even more popular than me, huh? Broody and quiet, right, ladies? He’s a hit!

Then he’ll laugh and field some questions about his new partner—but keep it vague for both yours and Bucky’s sake.

It didn’t need to be said. You didn’t want to be named, Steve didn’t want to make any assumptions for the future, and Bucky didn’t want to know if anyone thought he couldn’t pilot anymore.

Erik passes and you catch, sidestepping Thor and shooting over his figure which is no easy feat considering his massive height and the way Steve is staring you down. You don’t have to be hooked up to his brain to know what he’s wondering. 

Since the trial run, you’ve been feeling the after-effects of the drift in oscillating waves. Sometimes you catch yourself standing ramrod straight, physically feeling heavier, knowing it’s him.

You okay? We talked about this. Yes, you are. No, you aren’t. It’s complicated. He’s fixes his tie the same time you spot a wrinkle. After-effects.

Erik jumps for a rebound when you miss the next basket, getting it knocked away by Thor’s enormous hand. Steve’s already gone when you look back, but Erik is passing again, and your next shot sinks through the net.

“That’s fuckin’ right!” He knocks his elbow into yours proudly, pushing sleeves over elbows until you can see the patterns of scarification up his arms. Feet back and forth on the scuffed concrete with distracted rhythm, you dribble, thoughts still on Steve.

“Hey,” a voice calls over the sound of the slamming ball. Barnes toes the edge of the makeshift court. A jacket is tucked under his arm, baseball cap atop his dark head. “Come on, it’s Friday night and you’re thinking too much. I wanna show you a place.”

-

He leads with confidence, directing the taxi in practiced Cantonese picked up over the last two years. Then, once disembarked, he peeks back every few minutes on the street to check if you’re still following. Your gait is awkward—steps firm, but lopsided. All off kilter and wound up like a spring.

It’s okay. In Bucky’s experience, food always helps. He’s taking you to his favorite restaurant—hole-in-the-wall Sichuan. He hollers over his shoulder, "You better be prepared for spice!”

-

Red lacquered doors open with a tinkering sound, a tiny overhead bell signaling new arrivals. A hostess steers through a path of similarly varnished tables and decorated chairs when Bucky asks for a quiet corner. Fish tanks of koi gleam green and blue. Chandelier scatters gold and white diamond shapes on a ceiling painted like a cloudy sky.

Hot tea first, and he sips carefully, gaze moving up to the T.V. behind your back when you’re busy flipping through the menu. A few more minutes pass of your furrowed brow sinking deeper and Bucky’s hand slides quickly across the tablecloth, nudging the booklet from your clutch.

“I got this.” And relief washes over your entire body like rain.

-

The appearance of entrees breaks your trance. Mai Gai, Char Siu Bao, Dan Dan noodles, and eggplant in garlic sauce—you’re trying to tell him it’s too much, wondering when he even ordered, but he ignores you. Not his fault you spaced out, he says, catch, and a napkin flies directly into your chest.

It makes you laugh, and Bucky secretly wants to tell you that it wouldn’t kill you to do it more often. Why the hell not, anyway? He’s tired of being upset about something that was largely inevitable. He knew the risk of death when they signed up to be Rangers so on the bright side, at least it’s his arm and not his head. At least it’s his arm and not his co-pilot’s. You’ve proven to be more than capable and proven to be someone he can trust with Steve’s life.

If Bucky had any doubts about whether or not that damned Rogers determination would see them through—they’ve been dispelled now.

The drift was sound. When Steve stepped out from the loading dock, he was lighter like half his weight had been sloughed off. When you followed, helmet pulled from your face, Bucky could see where it landed. Your hips, your shoulders, your jaw, all defiant—even if temporarily—coming down from the high of the handshake. Squared and strong, you looked at Bucky and certainty gleamed from your eyes.

You are Orion’s new pilot. He’s gotta give it up. It could be worse.

Bucky’s fingers shift as he unsnaps chopsticks and grabs spoons, the plates on his left clicking quietly, flexing his pointer when it sticks. Sometimes the prosthetic is a little glitchy because nothing’s perfect, but Stark and Shuri are constantly making updates. They use technology from the spinal clamp to connect his synapses, running tests on its reaction time, sensitivity, and functionality. He can feel pressure, but not pain, and wouldn’t it be nice if it applied elsewhere, too?

He passes your utensils over, wrapped loosely in a napkin. It could be worse.

“Hey Barnes,” you call earnestly, running your fingers over an embossed floral pattern on the paper, “Thanks.”

He’s not looking at you yet, firmly on a mission for soy sauce and chili oil. He makes a well of it in a ceramic dish and stirs with a chopstick, moving it to the center of the table, finding distraction in small tasks.

“...Barnes?”

“It’s Bucky,” he says finally, flicking his eyes to your hopeful face, “You can call me Bucky, alright? Usually that’s just for Steve, but you’ve been in his head—know me now, I guess. So you might as well. Hold your horses—I’ll serve you.”

Speechless, you put your hands in your lap and observe him scoop food, the syllables of his offered nickname tapping like a metronome over your curious tongue.

Bucky, you consider, watching the way he moves. Bucky, with his long hair pulled back and out of his cap. Bucky, his soft and worn hoodie, boots drumming gently against the table leg, eyes discreetly glazed over because he doesn’t think you notice the change in his mood.

Bucky, who made you laugh in the Jaeger hangar—even if he did threaten your life upon the first meeting. Who could have let you rot from boredom and worry, but instead took you into Hong Kong to his favorite restaurant without being asked to. Who could hate you—truly, truly hate you—for taking half his life from him, but instead is piling a mound of fragrant jasmine rice on your plate.

“What?”

“Bucky. I like it. It sounds nice.”

A clipped noise of displeasure, “Okay. Don’t fuckin’ wear it out.”

“Bucky...?” You murmur, sly. “Bu-cky. Buck-y.” The tips of his ears swell pink as you continue, emphatically pressing your lips together, letting your jaw hang open, pronouncing with precision. A bite of a steamed bun and you lick the edge of your mouth, “Bucky…hm…”

He sputters.

“Would you stop? Jesus, you’re annoying just like him— no fucking wonder— the two of you. Just fuckin’ darling.” His words are all run together with how fast his frustrated tongue moves, a healthy flush over his cheeks, spoon clinking on his plate.

It’s cute. Stoic, serious, James—Bucky Barnes– just a boy who can’t take a bit of flirting without lighting up like a candle. It’s fun. You like him, Bucky Barnes.

An unexpected ache overtakes you and suddenly Bucky looks more familiar than he ever has. Something excruciating about the soft crinkles of his brow, the way his generous lips draw back to reveal a sliver of his teeth.

He’s Bucky wiping the sweat from his collar in a dirty alleyway, jeans torn at the knees, bruises budding along his knuckles as he yanks up a troublesome blonde friend. Bucky, young and determined, helping Steve into bed every time he got sick.

Bucky, hovering pallid and broken in the drift, hurt and afraid but you felt his resolute strength in Steve’s head even as he howled in agony. Far off and shuffling in transparent layers until he was little more than a specter, but he was there.

His eyes lift again, raising to point you toward the T.V.

“There’s our boy.”

Our boy. And it keeps hurting.

You twist your torso as Steve steps out from backstage, waving and smiling, impeccably poised. He shakes Jimmy’s hand— silently mouthing thank you and hey because the cheering and yelling is too loud to hear him anyway. You try to stop thinking about Bucky anywhere but corporeal and whole across the tablecloth.

“Hey, Jimmy, how are ya?”

“Good—good, Steve. It’s so great to have you on the show again! Wow, you look great! Specimen.”

Steve chuckles modestly, tucking his chin to his chest, “Thanks, you do too.”

“Alright, no need to flatter me, we’re already in love with you, okay?”

You grin the same time Steve does, but whereas he continues to joke and enthrall two hundred people, you grow restless. Bucky refills your tea and drops a crumble of yellow rock sugar in.

“Relax,” he mutters, “It’s fine. He’s good at this. Eat your food.”

And you know this; you know him. Steve’s good when the questions get too personal and when there’s gaps in the conversation—when the cheering interrupts him or when his jaw ticks before he morphs it into a smile.

He’s good when he breaks the news to a hushed audience, gone eerily quiet like they’ve stepped on consecrated ground. Steve gives them those big blue eyes and the room immediately bursts into applause. Some people are crying. The host is shocked into wordlessness.

You feel relieved, getting what you pleaded for. No cameras. No questions. No pressure. The truth is aired, and Bucky seems pleased, too. You’re about to turn around, offer your full attention, thankful for his company, but then something else happens.

Jimmy blinks his stupor away from the blow of Steve’s confession. He takes a sip from his mug and after a short exchange of, thank you for your transparency, it must have been hard— wow I didn’t think you’d drop a bomb like that on us tonight! I thought I was the one with the ace up my sleeve— ha!

He points off-stage and says, “After that, I think you deserve a nice surprise, Steve. Ready?”

Tall, gorgeous, lightly curled hair cascading down her back—the surprise is a woman. She steps easily in heels, an off-the-shoulder red dress hugging tight to her body. Stunning. She waves to the audience and they go wild. 

Steve shoots up to meet her for a kiss in front of the host desk, shaking his head in disbelief, tangling his fingers in her silky hair. There’s cheering again and the crying keeps on.

“Oh my god— Jimmy! You sly devil!” He’s overjoyed. “Baby— how’d you—I thought you were working.”

“I can always make an exception for my favorite guy.” She showcases perfectly white teeth and the high apples of her rosy cheeks.

It’s Ophelia Reyez, Steve’s model-turned-actress girlfriend of approximately six months. Her recent appearance on the Victoria Secret fashion show blew up the internet and her last Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover sold out in every gas station you went into.

Their first meeting was at a charity event—raising awareness about pollution in the Pacific, discouraging scavengers from harvesting Kaiju parts after battles. A picture of them standing two feet away made its way through social media the next morning her PR team made contact before noon.

So of course, it was decided; it’s a beneficially mutual relationship, after all. Doesn’t matter if he hates it or not—people don’t want to know that pilots live in a metal box and play basketball on Friday nights. They want to see Rangers in a role— monogamous relationships with beautiful people, white picket fence (or gated community) future in the making, and eventually plump-faced babies in strollers.

Steve’s now back in his seat, shifted so Ophelia is sitting in his lap, turned to the side. His hands are locked around her slender waist—an incredibly believable display of public affection. She kisses his cheek, leans her head on his shoulder, beaming brightly. If you were anybody else, you’d believe it; you have before.

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” you whisper in both awe and annoyance.

“Feeling it, huh?” Bucky speaks plainly around a bite of eggplant when he notices your jaw. That habitual and microscopic signal he’s grown to spot a mile away means Steve’s irritated and pissed off, and now it means that you are, too.

“Yeah,” you admit, shaking your head. You turn back to him, thoroughly bothered, having had enough of the performance.

“Uh-huh. Everyone’s a Fly—even her.”

You sigh at the label. Jaeger Flies, is what he’s saying. Ranger groupies. Derisive titles— and maybe deserved— for men and women who are attracted to pilots solely because they’re pilots. They want the opportunity to be famous or the privilege of being elite.

Even her, Ophelia Reyes. She’ll forever look at Steve Rogers as the Ranger.

Natasha always lamented—usually as she took her earrings off after a date, heels slipping off her pale feet—about another civilian man who worshipped her, and how that would be a dream for most people, to be so adored, so revered, but you always felt her sorrow in the drift mourning a love she couldn’t have.

She wanted the white picket fence. The normal life, normal husband, normal family. Her clean break from the past where monsters could no longer chase her in Decima and nightmares could no longer chase her at night. Behind closed doors, she was all torn open at the seams. And you’d wordlessly tell her shut up because she had a family with you. You loved her too, wasn’t that worth something?

She’d spiral and spiral and nothing was ever enough.

Your stomach twists and it keeps hurting.

-

Bucky pays for dinner. He asks as he pops a mint into his mouth, “Up for dessert?”

“God, Buck.” You groan, and Bucky takes a second to run that through his head again. God, Buck. Another thing like Steve.

“C’mon, I wanna show you another place,” he says thoughtfully, “Hold on to your hat, punk.”

A lighthearted swat to your back and then he’s shoving the ballcap hanging from his chair on your head.

-

The streets are lit with all sorts of colors as you follow him through the market, peering at vendors showcasing an abundance of food and miscellaneous items. You keep telling him you’re too full and can’t eat another fucking bite, but he only commands you to walk it off. The crispiest egg waffles are somewhere down this way, and even though he can’t remember the intersection, it should be close.

Between steps and dodging passerby’s, he relates his own experiences of brief PR relationships. A Russian woman one time, and a Greek woman another time. Cross-cultural because it made the PPDC look good—and it was all about looking good. He loathed it, of course, but he’d bite down a couple of months before their representatives would release those asinine joint statements about “conscious uncoupling” – schedules too busy, still have love for each other in their hearts, though.

“Couldn’t tell you those girls’ middle names. We’d get together just long enough for some media circulation—dates where we’d pretend to be offended when pictures leaked on TMZ.”

“Well,” you muse over a vision of Bucky leaned back on Steve’s mattress, returned late and bored of another paparazzi encounter swarming him in the lobby of some hotel. You know it like a dream—his ankles crossed, shoes shucked off, cracking his neck. Fuckin’ wild, Stevie. This girl. My knees ain’t what they used to be.

“Least you got your dick plenty wet, didn’t ya?”

He makes a noise like an engine backfiring—offended like you’ve pawned off his prized possessions or something.  

“Jesus—you’re an ass.” He slams the bill of the cap down until it hits you in the nose. Another huff, more cursing, and then he’s saying fuck you before speeding off alone. 

You chase cheerily, finding his chestnut head peeking over the crowd with ease because he’s tall and hard to lose in Hong Kong. A few more blocks down with him looking back surreptitiously to make sure you’re not lost, and Bucky ends up being the one who is actually lost.

“Shit. Can’t find the stand,” he grumbles, “Don’t give me that face. These are way better than the ones we passed earlier—fucking all soft in the middle—fresh pandan leaf, alright? You don’t get it.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” you laugh, feeling your cheeks grow tired from the way they’ve been lifted all night.

A stifled, hot breeze of urban downtown mixes with a chilly gust of wind, carrying Bucky’s petulance away though the throng. Blinking, you look around, craning your neck and shuffle to the curb. Stalls with hanging lanterns. Carts lined with pickled mango. Vendors grilling skewers of pork and cleaving roast duck into chunks.

You suddenly dart from him across the busy road and barely avoid a rickshaw balancing two enormous baskets of finger bananas. When you return, you hold up matching green popsicles. One gets shoved into his mouth, other one into yours. Pandan, like he wanted.

“Hey, it’s not bad,” you give it another taste. Lingering coconut, a little bit leafy, but not unpleasant. “Oh shit—cold!”

Bucky licks his lips, stinging red from the ice. You shudder loudly as brainfreeze hits, another chatter of your teeth following when a gust of wind whips through. He shrugs his jacket from his shoulders.

-

He calls you a dumbass after an embarrassing story about the time you skinny-dipped in a pond near The Icebox in the middle of winter. A handsome man, your eager libido, and a handle of whiskey had been involved. You giggle about being bed-ridden for half a week afterwards, but you got his number and a few good nights in his bed.

“Guess you’re not as boring as I thought.”

You whistle, “Sweetheart, I got stories that’ll put some hair on your chest.”

Bucky smacks you on the shoulder. “Ass.”

-

The Shatterdome comes into view much later.

What would have normally been a three-hour excursion, at most, has unintentionally into six and you’re nowhere close to tired—not quite ready for it to end. Bucky is bright with energy, too.

The past hours have been dedicated to recalling old tales. One led to another, threads pulled from the most insignificant of mentions—your old Boston Terrier’s underbite; Bucky accidentally knocking Steve’s bottom lip into his own braces in sixth grade and it swelled up so big he could hardly talk; Natasha, unable to pronounce fucking aluminum out of all the damn words in the world; you, unable to pronounce facetious; and then Bucky, trying his own hand at it and realizing he can’t either.

“Fa—fa-shish-shush? Fascist—tus? Factitious… Ah, shit.”

“Buck,” you gasp through another fit, “Bucky—you have to shut up. Oh—Oh my god—my face hurts.”

“Christ, who fucking made this word up?” He turns the corner toward the living quarters, shaking his head. Just you and him between the rooms and his steps slow at the advent of an inbound goodnight.

Bravely, now that you’re in more secluded space, you offer, “I can tell you more... if you want. Anything. It’s only fair.”

“Yeah,” he says, going quiet and careful. “If you want to.”

So, you take a deep breath, bookended by a nervous grin because other than Steve, the only person who knows anything about you outside a confidential manila folder is dead.

“Well, it might surprise you, since I’m just so goddamn talented—"

“Oh, here we fuckin’ go.”

“Kidding. I wasn’t good at anything,” you elbow him before fishing out your key. “Other than getting into trouble.” Clicks of the cylinder and your vault door squeaks open. “Lots of fighting—I was a small kid. Had nothing but the clothes on my back and just the biggest chip on my shoulder.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Yeah. It’s funny. Steve’s alleyway fisticuffs might as well have been your own. You tell him as soon as the PPDC started recruiting again, you were in line. Their standards were confusingly specific and the tests they ran didn’t make any sense, but you passed and landed in Kodiak Island under the austere care of Stacker Pentecost. 

Flipping the light on, you invite him inside. “I’d been in and out of foster homes. Barely had a high school degree. Got into… bad work. You know— what do homeless young adults with questionable moral codes do when their 9-5 isn’t paying the bills?” It’s desperate joke to break up the tension but he doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m not judging.”

You plop down on the edge of your table— a spotty metal thing pilfered from a vacated room. He takes the single seat in front of you, moving a dusty glass of water toward the wall, expression only showing attentiveness.

“Well, anyway…” you pause, “I was in the Bay Area after Trespasser— you know, scavenging. But, well, it changes your perspective a little when you’re sneaking through government tape at 3 in morning, stepping over flowers and memorabilia for all the deaths to crouch over a monster’s fucking toenail.” 

“Hell,” a sardonic and self-deprecating grin, “I might have been a degenerate street urchin, but someone’s family got taken from them and here I was—monetizing their tragedy.”

Arching your back for more comfort, you splay your left leg over the surface, “Pentecost always said if I was lucky enough, I’d suffer brain damage or radiation poisoning, but might as well die in a Jaeger than in a ditch like I figured I always would. Son of a bitch had my number.”

Bucky’s lips are pursed lightly, eyes are tracing the path of your laces through bent hooks when you wriggle your boot back and forth. He spreads his hand over your ankle, keeping you still.

You swallow when he squeezes.

“Uh— I met Nat at Kodiak.” Bucky is warm. You oscillate between ignoring him and focusing on him, clinging to his hold instead of chasing the thought of Natasha too much. “We were… very similar. Childhood, um, troubles and all that.” You give him a pointed look and he makes a small noise of understanding with no intention to press for details, “She became my best friend. She was the first person I had. My only family.”

A nod of mock irritation and he says, “Yeah. Steve was always a part of mine. Sometimes they say they like him more than me. Can’t blame ‘em.”

“It’s the charm. They make it seem effortless, huh?”

“Fucker can’t take a bad picture to save his life.”

You laugh. “A smile like the goddamn sun!”

“One look into those stupid blue eyes and you’re a goner.”

“Criminally pretty.”

“Hah!” Bucky snorts, “Pretty enough for all of us.”

The floodlight on the wall casts darkness in the shape of your head over his shoulder. Lines of wayward hair caress his neck, tapered strands resting on his collarbones, chestnut glowing orange. His irises stipple forest green when it touches the light, smile nostalgic and lovely.  

“Don’t be stupid,” you look at him for another minute longer, “You’re pretty, too, Buck.”

A raise of his brow. Bucky’s mouth opens and closes a few times vacantly. “Thanks,” he mutters finally. Then, bashfully, “So are you.” 

Then, a cautious murmur of your name that you almost miss, and he’s peering up at you, deliberately soft. Bucky’s thumb knead small circles over the stitching of your jeans.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

You loved her, didn’t you?

The years sweep through, passing over your face in a range of rapid-fire emotions. Bucky watches them change like shadows of a bonfire. Delight, amusement, longing. Anger, despair, grief. Deep and unforgiving because she was your whole world—all you had— and she left too soon.

You inhale and it sounds like a sniffle— exhale, and it sounds like a sob. No going back now; you did promise him anything.

You loved her, didn’t you?

Of course you loved her. Natasha-fucking-goddamn-Romanoff. Yeah, of course you did.

You loved her like a sister. You loved her like a lover. You loved her in reflexive ways, like mother’s intuition, finding your motivation in the need to protect her even though she hardly ever needed protection. You loved her like precious gems. You loved her like she was made from your own rib. You loved her enough to love unreciprocated.

“Well, you spend years living with someone, in their brain, learning everything about them— every decision in and out of their control that led them up to who they ended up being. Their—all their impulses and all the things they think about themselves. How—how they hate themselves sometimes.”

You’d always said you were the stupid one. Too stupid to reflect on the past and too stupid to let it burden your conscience the way she’d let hers. A running gag whenever her hand jammed putting on a lipstick she’d worn a million times and you’d finally have to do it for her.

Cheer up, Nat. You’re too pretty to cry. You’d line her lips, pat in rouge delicately, encouragingly. And then you’d shut up because there was nothing you could tell her. A million reassurances rolled off her back because they only made her feel worse. She clung onto your care like another weapon in her chest because she couldn’t return it even though you told her you wanted nothing from her but happiness. Jesus Christ, Nat, I thought I was the stupid one.

“When you know someone like that, it’s easy, isn’t it? You see them exactly for who they are and suddenly there’s no longer the concept of good or bad. What else could I do but love her? Especially when she thought so little of her damn self—tried everything to be someone else but—Jesus, if you only knew how radiant she was—”

You shut your eyes. “A smile… like the goddamn sun. Ah, fuck—"

And now you’re crying. You haven’t cried about Natasha in almost half a year because it’s something you track like the entrance bay’s war clock. Five months. Ten days. Zero again.

You’re choking back too many words and you don’t even know why you said all of that. You start apologizing, rattling out more, too much again, desperately like a prayer, pitch escalating higher and higher. “She deserved everything. A life that was completely—solely—hers. A life that made her happy— and why— why her?”

Why not me? 

Bucky hears it in the silence. Watches it descend like a funeral shroud, weighing you down until you look as heavy as Steve on his worst days—when he stares at Bucky’s arm, like Bucky can’t see, can’t feel him there. And he knows Steve is thinking, why not me?

Bucky rises to his feet, stepping next to your uselessly dangling leg, resting his left hand on your shoulder and you grasp him, clutching achingly tight, torn to bits. And it’s too much all at once.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around his bicep, then his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

You’re smashed into little pieces, barely keeping your head above water, holding it all in, and no one recognized how you were drowning the entire time.

Solemnly, curiously, he feels like he’s seeing you for the first time but not quite, remnants of familiarity sparks in him—the filmy plastic layer of an old photograph pressing down to reveal something he once knew and finally knows again.

You make helpless noises, staring numbly ahead, tears rolling out like marbles to drop into your lap.

Bucky shakes his head, “I’m fine,” he whispers gently—frustrated—brow furrowed, his fingers rubbing the salt from your chin, “Quit your blubberin’.” He tilts your face up to the light, watching you take a shuddering breath, exhausted from unearthing buried skeletons.

It's wet when he kisses you, supple flesh chapped around the edges from anxious gnawing, swollen hot from weeping. It’s soft and quick, and then he pulls away.

“St—sorry,” he says, mouth pressing into a thin line, lips drawn in and tentatively licked. “Sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have.”

Your eyes are sad—big and vulnerable, inflamed red, confused, worried, something else weaving through the damp gaze. Your strong, small fingers are still tight on him, and even though Bucky pulled away and apologized, he rushes forward again.

His free hand curls around your neck, supporting your head. Lips part and close, pressing firmly, expertly, naturally. It feels like he’s kissed you before and missed it— like a kiss he’s been waiting on for a long time.

Banging on your door jerks him away. You careen off the tabletop, smooth the back of your hair, wipe your face and the vault creaks open.

“Marshal,” Bucky greets.

“Rangers…” Fury’s steps are suspicious, phone in his hand aglow. “I thought we had a plan.”

Your heart is beating too fast, the press of Bucky’s plush lips still warm, the scent of his skin still near. You sense it like an imprint, feel it like a brand. The room spins with an onslaught of possible scenarios—all horrendously unclear.

“Care to explain this to me?” The marshal turns his phone toward you, the lit screen displaying a photo of a dark street, illuminated by red and yellow lanterns. A thick crowd is spread around stalls of fruit and knick-knacks.

The headline reads James Barnes Spotted in Hong Kong with Mystery Woman, and the two of you are circled inside a red ring. You’re teetering off the curb of the sidewalk next to a sewer grate. It’s grainy and distorted, but Bucky’s striking features are clear.

“And this one?”

Bucky’s cap on your head, popsicle sticks between your teeth and his.

Steve Rogers on Jimmy! Jimmy Barnes on a Date!

James Barnes Officially Over Penelope Mercouri.

James Barnes’ Injury?

Fury tucks his device back into his coat. “Not that I care what you get up to on your spare time, but we had a tale to tell. It’s hard pushing an agenda when you’re pushing the wrong way.”

“We just got dinner,” you stutter, an upsurge of guilt rising. The speculation, the kiss, the gut-wrenching reflex that feels like a crime. Fury’s calculating now, looking from you to Bucky, assessing the situation with some pity because you truly look pitiful.

“What you got is PR on cleanup. Potts has been trawling Twitter for the last 20 minutes. For someone who doesn’t want to be in the public eye, you’re making a lot of noise.” He points to Bucky’s jacket still over your shoulders.

You tear it off. “It’s not—”

“Oh no—I won’t be losing sleep any over it.” The marshal’s single eye blinks calmly, “She can spin the story, but you become responsible for this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Ranger, that the spotlight is on you now. And there is nowhere to run.”

And if you didn’t think it could get any worse, footfalls down the hallway reach your ears in a pattern that you recognize immediately. Here he is, stepping into your room like it’s his own, suit jacket over his forearm, shirt halfway untucked and tie pulled loose. His lips drawn together and unreadable.

But you read it: Steve’s seen the pictures, too.

And goddamn, if you didn’t think it could get any worse— the earsplitting alarm announcing sudden movement in the breach startles you all.

“Orion Bravo, report to Bay 08, Level B. Codename Polidori. Category 2 Kaiju.” Shuri’s reedy voice is collected but critical. The thin screen next to your bed blinks on primary colors, wavy lines of activity rising and falling, counting down until emergence. Three hours.

Banner streams down the hall. The ruckus drowns him out.

Fury’s dark skin is ochre beneath the lights, “Category II,” he says, “Should be achievable. Odinsons will be on standby, guarding the Miracle Mile. Maximoffs on the coastline. They’ll come to you if necessary. Shelve your personal troubles, Rangers, we’ll continue this conversation later.”

-

Circuitry. Battle armor. Helmet beneath your arm. Muscle memory cuts down the time to seven minutes until you’re set to board, but you need more. Just a few—you have to tell him—better now than later—better from your mouth than from the drift. So, you blurt, “Bucky kissed me.”

Steve turns.

“We kissed. It—it’s nothing. I just needed to tell you before we get in. Didn’t want to seem like I’m hiding anything—I’m not.” It sounds so stupid, like a child admitting fault for breaking a window with a too-hard throw. It sounds like betrayal.

His helmet is gripped tightly in the crook of his elbow. Steve’s chin juts out incrementally, chewing on the inside of his lip, the air around him gone stagnant until he makes a noise both like a scoff and a hum.

“Sure. Fine. I get it—you’re lonely.” It’s worse than any response you expected to receive. “You know what I mean.”

It must be a testament to the depth of your connection now— you knowing him, him knowing you in all the ways that can make an argument escalate into atomic warfare. Precision strikes and then the two of you walking Ground Zero in its aftermath. 

“Wait—you think I’m lonely?” You block his way out, furious. “What the fuck does that— have you met yourself? Girlfriends who will never see you for who you are. Ophelia Reyez? Katherine Lau?”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“I know exactly what I’m doing—do you? I spent all evening on T.V. for you--”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, Mister Martyr in front of a drooling audience telling white lies and screwing a Victoria’s Secret Angel in some penthouse suite— such sacrifices you’ve made in my honor.”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“What the fuck have you done lately?” Steve snaps, “Other than try to fuck my co-pilot?”

His words hit like a kick in the goddamn teeth. You slam your helmet into his chest and the polycarbonate shells knock together violently.

“I’m your fucking co-pilot,” you snarl, “You wanted me.”

Steve steadies himself, twisting until he’s snarling at you down the bridge of his nose, “Enough. We’re being hailed, I’m not breaking this record because of you, and not for a Category II. Get your shit together.”

You grind your molars when he pushes you aside, stumbling on shaking legs. Your brain feels gnarled—misshapen and bent up in sharp, jagged points—and as much as you want to stomp his goddamn face in, he’s right: you can’t feel this way. You can’t. It’s your first drop in two years with the best pilot by your side—and you’re responsible for his life. The last one proved disastrous, and you cannot risk that again.

Your suit feels heavier with each step. When you climb in after Steve, the rig feels more obstinate. Your head, chest, heart are all swollen with turmoil and hot rage.

He’s next to you, breathing deeply. You mimic, shelving personal troubles like the marshal commanded.

Out of alignment, the automated voice of the system calls, and you push it back further, grabbing the entire shelf and hurling it into the depths. Steve sends you an incisive look. A blame. You take a breath, another, and another. Fuck!

“Orion.” The heads-up display spotlights Bucky’s face in the control room, emotionless. “Focus.”

You inhale one more time, seeking reassurance in his unwavering gaze—necessary peace in the silhouette of his phantom left arm. Bucky. Steve. Natasha. You. There can be no more loss. You cannot let it happen again.

Levels stabilizing.

To your right, Steve makes a noise like he’s shaking something off.

Neural Handshake complete.

Bucky stands behind the glass, watching aircrafts lower their hooks. A nod of his dark head is the last thing you see before Orion is lifted from the hangar.

-

There would be a fucking storm.

You’ve always hated fighting in the rain because Kaiju are enormous, slippery, alien amphibians, and Orion’s left fist slides off more times than you’d like. This one’s much smaller than Orion, which allows it the slight advantage of speed, slicing through the water like a shark, corkscrewing for an extra boost of velocity before emerging with a splash from behind.

A miss when you and Steve weave away, hazarding a minor scratch to the right shoulder before Orion’s shield knocks it back.

Despite the vexing evening and the simmering hurt in the pit of your chest, the drift is steady. So, you take it for what it is, cast the rust off your bones, and the two of you do some fucking damage on this thing.

Banner named it Polidori, after the writer credited with inventing the vampire genre. K-Science sonars detected protruding fangs and petal flaps folded on its back like vestigial wings. So, Polidori, he shrugged, it’s cute.

You discover with swift horror that the flaps are neither vestigial nor cute when Polidori pulls one sliver of leathery skin free with a splat. An atrocious shriek rings over the storm as it struggles with its own body, then another shriek and the left pillar continues to stretch, knobby blunt end of its shoulder blade shooting high, ripping itself full of gaping holes in its endeavor. 

Banner was more accurate than he realized.

“Orion!” Shuri’s voice is sharp, “Bring it down! Do not let it into the air! Use your cannon!”

You’re frozen stuck, eyes squeezed shut at the sight of stretched membrane. A terrified whimper and a puncture of nauseating memory nicks at Steve’s concentration.

No! Levels spike on the HUD screen. Fuck! Steve is caught in the undertow and the rig jams beneath both your feet.

“Orion! You’re out of alignment! Orion!”

She’s here.

Natasha’s bright hair is unfurling all around you. There’s deafening splintering when the incisors of her killer punctures through Decima’s chest and both her legs. Metal grinds against metal, the sound searing itself into your eardrums—your brain—your heart. Wings are beating—wild flaps of rubbery sails against the downpour—muffling screams from Decima’s cockpit.

It’s as real and cruel as the last time you saw it.

Bi Fang, like the bird from Chinese mythology, beaked and blessed with flight to make up for its one leg. Bi Fang the Kaiju was legless, and Natasha was convinced Decima could take it. You had no reason to think otherwise; five previous kills cultivated your confidence. You had her by your side, after all. Two orphans with something to prove, proving it again and again.

Wings and fangs? No legs? Six is an auspicious number. The smirk on her lips blooms fiercely. You’re laughing when Decima hovers above the water. Alright, Tasha. Six drops.

A tremendous splash and you touch ground.

She grins. Six kills.

Polidori has one limb fully flexed, fragmenting pixels bending into the shape of Bi Fang. Natasha is bending, too, lowering her center of gravity. Her elbows are against her ribs, fists set. This is gonna hurt. Come to–

Come to me! To me!

He’s stepping in ink. In water. And then metal is beneath Steve’s feet. There are flashes of rain, lightning, and he recognizes her dead center of the storm. 

Natasha Romanoff, vibrant and joyful through the glass of her helmet. You, next to her, reciprocal smile on your face stuck in hysteria, tears streaming down your cheeks in wide stripes. Steve’s hand is reaching but going nowhere. Echoes overlap of crying and shouting. Yours. Hers. His.

Come to me!

He yells again, but you’ve chased the rabbit too far.

Come to me!

He’s trying his hardest, stretching himself like ropes to bridge the fissure. He feels your fear, your hurt, and for a flash, it eats him whole, spits him out a twisted-up way and his brain screams for Bucky.

Bucky is doing the same through the control room, reaching his will out to Steve, praying their connection still holds despite their distance. He’s yelling for you, too.

“Steve! Get the hell out of it! Steve, you need to get her!”

The ripping of his red left arm loops three times in quick succession before Steve can temper it down. Bucky is howling, crying, sobbing. Steve is breathless, stuck, rattled, steeling his entire body to witness the amputation for another inescapable replay until your frozen body smears across his blurry field of vision. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Bright whites burst behind his eyelids. Flares of panicked emotion. Bucky. Natasha. Him. You. An endless rippling chain of trauma lashing Orion open.

“Come on— Steve! It’s moving! Steve!”

“Buck! I’m— I’m okay! Just— need a second.” Steve scrambles for his sanity, latching on, knowing Bucky’s well— alive and not hurt. Shuri begins urging him to get up faster. Polidori’s moving slow, but it is moving, and it needs to be put down now. She’s calling for the Odinsons—Colossus, be prepared to walk-

The metal under Steve’s feet slides away. Water returns, ink flowering behind it—molasses and murky. His steps are unsteady, chest heaving as he advances through a field of speckled glimmers like fireflies at dusk. Each flicker reflects an agonized shard of your distorted face.

A flit of your voice rushes behind his head. Steve whips around and tries to catch it but no such luck.

Again, to the right, then gone each time he spins. It builds and builds until he feels half-deaf, frantically invoking your name into the ether where it becomes lost in dissonance. Butterfly-winged iridescence scatter and plummet, shrieking, shrieking, shrieking. 

Then, nothing.

He finds you crumpled over on Anchorage’s shore.

Decima reaches sand as a crackling mess of Jaeger parts, chest piece ripped clean off the right side. You clamber out of the rig, hugging Natasha’s mutilated corpse. Your drivesuit is split open down to the hip, the glass of your helmet fractured and splattered with blood from your nose– still dripping.

He shakes his head, attempting to free himself of your scarred clutch. You had been hooked into the rawest fear—linked up when she died— gored and broken with half your brain believing it is also dead. Chills race up his spine and breaks him out in a cold sweat. He feels strangled to his very soul.

Then, seizures take you—the casualties of solo piloting—the neural damage come to collect. Nobody know how many miles you steered Decima alone and truthfully, it should have killed you.

Your eyes roll up to the sky, body convulsing before slamming into the ground like a rag doll, shaky fingers still reaching for your co-pilot. Steve shudders quietly, flinching with each impact. A final wail and everything slackens to a dull vibration. You quiver on the sand, howling and crying for Nat.

Polidori’s right wing casts itself loose, jaw opening wide. Steve’s on a time limit; there are only a few grains left in the hourglass. He croaks your name.

A second of recognition triggers from behind the curtain and it’s miraculously enough for you to see him. It’s enough.

He begs. He begs on his goddamn knees, crawling to you.

Look at me, only at me. Come back to me, please. Please. Please.

Steve gathers you in his arms, both of you trembling and afraid. Your suit heals itself, pieces stitching back together, blood little by little disappearing from your nose. Natasha shimmers away. 

He presses the glass of your helmets together. He needs to get closer.

Steve? S-Ste-Steve—Steve?

You’re still crying. You’re breaking his heart.

Yes. I’m here.

St-Steve, what d-d-do I do?

You’ve got me now. I’m here with you. You understand?

He can see you struggling to escape, consciousness clawing with nails and teeth to return to the present.

Yeah. Y-Yes.

We have to move.

Steve—Steve—everything hurts.

Just for now. Just for a little bit—but I’ll make it better, I promise. Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. Will you hold on to me? Do you trust me?

Y-yes… Yes, yes. I trust you.

The rig lurches back to life beneath his feet. Jittery and creaking with strain, Orion rocks forward with a rumble. The drift stirs once more, noise giving way to silence.

Steve’s vision clears. You’re back in the present, precariously grounding your strength inside his guidance. You raise an unsteady left arm. He powers it up. Energy surges through the cockpit, tremors running up your side as it charges. Your hand splays. Steve’s palm takes aim.

Activating plasma cannon.

The beam pierces Polidori’s shoulder and its roar chases a simultaneous thunderclap.

A crack of lightning flushes the sky purple. Orion’s right arm lifts high above its head and slams back down, the glowing hot edge of its shield cleaving through Polidori’s skull.

-

Bucky’s grip on the control room’s railing feels like it could warp metal. Wilson is on his right, other pilots in a row next to him. All is silent.

Through the relay of Orion’s camera, Polidori’s writhes one final time. A death throe—pathetic trilling drowned by rising water, falling into deep darkness. Overhead, Kaiju clean-up advances, jet engines rumbling behind an ashy horizon. Orion’s shield retreats to its side with a wet, sloppy sound. The handshake pulled through. Steve got to you.

Abruptly, the room vibrates with the shouting of about fifty voices. Sam is banging on the railing, strong fists rocking the entire length of it, roaring with glee. The others are even wilder— shoving each other in triumph.

Bucky tunes it out, waiting for quieter confirmation. He can hear the both of you despite the racket. Steve’s steady pants, cut with throaty relief—this one, Bucky’s familiar with. Your small, weak sobs strangled with tears—this one, he’s quickly learned, but knows now in his bones.

“Twelve drops,” you announce hoarsely. Raw. “B-Buck?”

He grins, dazed comfort rushing over, your voice chasing the torture away.

“Twelve kills, sweetheart,” Bucky says, “You did it.”

-

The raucous celebration in the Shatterdome simmers down around four, sunrise just a couple hours behind the horizon. Unruliness had broken out, triggering a party that lasted from the time Orion got picked up ‘til now, and still there’s chatter in the common room. 

It’s normal; Anchorage celebrated too after most kills—as long as no one died.

You’re freshly showered and changed, barefoot as you patter it back to your room. Voices from other beds are lowered as you pass—friends taking banter back to private spaces, couples pressed up against each other. All standard-issue revelry to commemorate the endurance of life.  

It’s how these things go. Violence on a massive scale, humanity threatened with extinction—the people closest to death feel it the most. When routine becomes monotony, it’s good once in a while to be stimulated again.

Damn near two thousand people in close quarters—Rangers in perfect form, friendships assembled on the foundation of sharing an exceptionally singular purpose. Even Pentecost in all his grave formalities couldn’t ward off human nature. Plenty of pilots hooked up with each other and other staff in Anchorage and no one cared as long as it didn’t muck anything up on the job. At least the marshal could control that; mishandle your personal relationships and you’d be off the docket for your next drop.

Sex is biology. Desire is human.

It’s hard for you to feel human this morning. Exhausted by the fight and the prior evening—awake now for over 24 hours, you broke away from the commons as soon as you arrived, spending an hour simply breathing in the steam, the habit achingly comforting. Your chest still feels tight, heart bloated with invasive flashbacks.

You used to decompress with Natasha. A few drinks, tales from the cockpit, shadowboxing and putting on a show, glad to be in the company of friends— to be back safely with each other. Then you’d scatter with the crowd, meet her in the showers, and help her wash her hair in silence. Nothing but the trickle of shampoo down the drain.

She’d cry, sometimes. Catharsis, mostly. Curled up in your arms, the both of you cozy in pajamas on the floor. Then off to bed where she’d climb under your sheets, falling sleep with her head on your shoulder, your fingers in her hair.

A love unspoken. A home in the shape of a twin-sized bottom bunk. Cramped and narrow. Too brief.

You sigh. Everything hurts.

A few rooms away from yours, Steve’s door is open just enough for a line of orange to escape. You know he’s there, waiting patiently as he has been. You went near catatonic on the way back, lying down in the cockpit, no longer needing to be hooked up. You shed the armor, holed yourself into the corner of Orion’s hull, and said nothing when he sat by your side.

Walking in front of the light, he places himself in the entrance way until he’s looking at you. His face is a gentle blue shadow, resplendent halo glorious behind his head. He’s dressed in soft pants and a t-shirt damp at the collar. A droplet of water runs down his neck.

It emerges like an orchestral arrangement. Leisurely notes creep into your ears—a tune you’ve always known. Plucks of strings, escalating windchimes. It echoes, the trails on his skin, his measured breath, his percussive voice layering and pleating until there are dozens of him.

Look at me. Come to me. I need you.

You feel it all at once. A knotted, chaotic tempest. Hesitation. Confusion. Ache. Bucky. Him. You. Your eyes lock with his. A mistake and a revelation.

Steve holds out a steady hand. You take a step, terrified, pulled into his overwhelming atmosphere like magnets, your bodies humming a secret frequency, purring for each other.

The drift opened everything up, but the battle tore it all out. The both of you are laid bare, everything else fallen away.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. You’ve got me now, you understand?

You reach the shadow he casts, eclipsed entirely by his bulk. Steve threads his fingers between yours and with a tug, you surrender your worries to him.

He’s kissing you before the door is entirely shut and latched. He fumbles for the locks, wraps his arms around your waist. A click and a clatter. He moans into your mouth. 

You exhale from deep inside your chest. He inhales like it’s all the oxygen he needs.

Your hands move to one place, his hands to another. Before your bodies can savor it, the both of you have roamed on, reading each other’s minds, knowing what’s next.

More. More. More.

It’s impatient and fast and Steve picks you up with ease. You forget yourself, forget the world outside the room, outside the three-by-three tile area of where he’s got you lifted, legs wrapped tight around his hips. Fingers dive into the back of your pants, squeezing, up your shirt, pawing at your breasts.

His groans blow heat onto your neck. You arch away, giving him more skin to brand kisses onto. He nips at your throat, light, then again, rough. His voice is raw and thick, husky little clouds making their home on your body.

Gentle sucking on your bottom lip follow each kiss. He takes you to bed, dropping himself onto the mattress, you on top of him. He’s been in your head; he knows what you like. Knows where you want him. Your voice is getting higher, sounds quick and shallow.

Steve guides you with one hand on your hip and the other beneath your thigh, soft pajama bottoms pressing against his. He groans each time you rock forward, needy for more contact against his groin.

You’ve been in his head, too. He likes feeling hands in his hair, so you grip his flaxen strands. He likes hearing, so you make a little more noise. He likes seeing his partner helpless because of him, losing all control, falling apart for him.

So you do. 

Pleasure rushes from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, his name burning in your throat. It’s an incredible shock and you’re spellbound, enraptured by him drinking in the parting of your swollen lips. Quickly, he places you on his thigh, enormous and strong, needing a better position to see— to feel you on him. Hungry attention, eager eyes, pleading like a mother tongue.

“Keep coming for me. Just like this— don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

The shamelessness of it—your underwear soaked to your pants. The fever of it—his body like a fire, low, husky begging just from watching lighting up your spine. It’s extraordinary adrenaline— the heightened and profound connection of knowing one another in every way—as if you were made for each other.

Animal instinct liberated from human sentience. Desire pursuing release. Two bodies colliding and igniting.

You can’t stop the next cresting wave, crying out again.

Steve pushes you on his leg repeatedly, back and forth, solid and firm between your thighs even as you shudder and whimper, telling him it’s too much— you’re too sensitive. He kisses your neck, jaw, chin, cheek. He doesn’t stop moving.

“Hold on to me.”

A bead of sweat collects on the dip of your cupid’s bow. He looks at how sweetly your skin shimmers as you shiver, how your pupils are blown wide, how you look so perfect to him. He presses his forehead to yours, looks into your eyes like the way he did in the drift.

You reach for him and rub in quick strokes, fumbling when he rocks you back, gripping when he rocks you forward. Parted lips hover, “One more time for me—ah, please,” he begs, “Before I do.”

But he’s too late and too heated. Steve makes a mess of his sleeping pants, taken over the edge by how you feel without hardly feeling you at all. He buries a groan into your shoulder, riding it out with indelicate thrusts into your palm.

“Oh,” he murmurs, “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”

He’s blush pink and beautiful when he remembers himself again, rubbing his cheek against yours. He knows what you’re thinking— the realization in the comedown, the leaching fear of what could have been a mistake. But it isn’t, and Steve remains faithful to your body.

“Stay. I’m sorry—for hurting you. I’ll make it better.” Velvet kisses to your lips and you shake your head, apologies no longer necessary.

A whisper of his name like it’s the most radiant word. You cling to him, kissing him, answering only to him.

-

In the afternoon when Steve is still sleeping, you retreat to your room. You pause at the sight of Bucky already on your bed, caught in the bleary focus of his gaze. With lashes soaked wet, his throat constricts around a forceful swallow.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking on the syllable. He pats the space next to him and you come sit, turning your knees until they knock into his.

“Bucky…”

He laughs like you’ve told a joke, like the sound of his own name is a funny thing escaping your mouth. “Hoped I could catch you last night, before—” he laughs again. “—Before bed. Just wanted to—I guess I don’t know what I wanted to do.”

The hurt resurfaces. You find him through the rose-dappled lenses of Steve’s eyes. Those warm summers with two boys running wild, effortlessly devoted to each other. Your heart swells like you’re there, gazing at russet locks flying in the wind. Years and years between them—Bucky’s smile, lopsided and carefree. Steve’s gaze, illuminating Bucky in every memory.

“Bucky,” you say again, so wonderfully soft, he thinks, even as his chest feels stretched to bursting. “You love him.”

He places his temple on your shoulder, face hidden by the long strands of his hair.

“You’ve been in his head. He’s easy to love.”

“Yes,” you agree, touching his bangs, pushing them over his ear, streaking four affectionate lines through, “He is.”

“So are you.”

Bucky turns into your palm, smiling openly, like the truth is the simplest thing in the world.

[your-highnessmarvel]

Warm and Welcoming

Requested by Anonymous: Oooh random idea, Chris and homeless reader. She is well put together and no one would know. But Chris can read between the lines and he gets to know reader and realizes she’s living in her car until it gets repossessed. She’s frantic and then Chris offers her a place and so they get closer and one night sparks hit the roof and booom! Best night ever lol so ideas are just flying I’m the same anon that sent a request earlier today about shy reader and Chris thinking she’s “easy”. Ooh my ideas lol

AN: god i love chris. i always forget to give him a blowjob what the hell. poor chris. oh well. 

Warnings: smut, language

*gif not mine

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MASTERLIST

The door shut with such ferocity that the whole car rattled, and you had to stop to make sure nothing would come off. Like a mirror. That happened once. Or a wiper. Yep, on the highway mid snow storm. 

The phone in your pocket buzzed and you fished it out. Chris, the contact read. You sighed. How you managed to be best friends with an A-list celebrity and still be living in your 2007 Toyota Yaris was beyond you. 

You looked at yourself in the reflection before you answered. Hair was kind of a mess, but when was it not. Your shirt was fairly new, but your jeans were ripped at the knees, and not in that L.A fashion way. In a way where you slipped off your mother’s front porch in a haste to get away and scratched out the knees of your jeans. And these were your good jeans too!

“Hey!” you answered, turning towards the coffee shop. “I’m walking from my car!”

“I took the liberty to ordered your favorite!” he answered.

Your heart fell. Yes, Chris was fucking rich. Filthy rich. But you didn’t need him to buy you coffee. Yes, you were living in your car, but also yes, you’d manage to scrape up two dollars for a medium two creams. 

“Thank you,” you sighed into the phone. “Next time, it’s on me.”

“Whatever, Y/L/N.”

You hung up as you walked up the stars to the coffee shop. You spotted your friend, trying but failing to hide his identity with a baseball cap. Two men were beside his table, phones out. You waited patiently for them to finished taking pictures with him, and when you saw your friend getting up, you frowned at him.

“Too many,” he mumbled as he got to you and handed you your drink. “Let’s get out of here.” He guided you out the way you came with a gentle hand on your lower back. 

You went right back into the streets, Chris sighing out, “Where are you parked?”

You were going to answer some bullshit about being parked far because you didn’t want Chris to see all your belongings in your backseat, but he pointed beyond your head. 

“Is that the Toyota Yaris 2007?” he gushed. He began walking to it, much to your discomfort, to your need to run because, fuck, he was going to see your dirty laundry and your memories and some old socks on your dash out to dry. “So many memories in that baby.”

Yeah, you’d had that car for a while now. 

“Never get rid of it,” he chuckled, turning on his heels momentarily as you followed him reluctantly.

Yeah, that’s not about to happen soon. 

“Did you ever get that speaker fixed, you know, the one that just fucking bellowed out music while the other was quiet?”

You smiled, remembering that time when Chris busted it while the two of you were driving to Maine. “Accident” was not how you’d describe it. 

“Sure did,” you lied, because you loved to be reminded of that weekend spent in Maine with your friends, and how Chris had made your car the star of the sojourn. How he’d made you feel special in front of all his rich, glamour friends. 

He got to your car and put the tips of his fingers on the hood. Then he leaned in, examined the backseat. Your heart fell and hurt and burned, shame coursing through you like poison. 

“Y/N.” His voice was serious. Your face was taunt, eyes to the ground, letting your hair cover your face. “Are you... are you living in here?”

You shook your head, bad acting kicking in as you made a grimace. “No, of course not,” you answered. “I’m just moving my stuff.”

But he didn’t believe you. He’d known you for years, decades, and he knew the look you wore on your face when you lied. “Those are socks laid out to dry,” he pointed out. “That’s a pillow. A sleeping bag. And that’s a box full of dry food. Don’t fucking lie to me.”

You wanted to leave. Runaway in shame. Forget that your actor best friend had found out you were fucking living in your car. 

“It’s temporary,” you mumbled.

“Fuck off,” he grumbled. “There’s enough shit in there that say otherwise.”

Your eyes filled with tears. “I - I didn’t have anywhere else.” Your lower lip trembled. 

“Your mother?” he asked slowly. “She did this?”

“I lost my job,” you admitted, the sour taste of failure coating your tongue. “I couldn’t pay my rent so I asked her to spare a room for me until I get back on my feet. She gave me a month. And that wasn’t enough, so... here I am.”

He shook his head, sighed, hands clutching his coffee. You hung your head, trying not to seem pitiful, trying not to be the weak fucking woman your mother always made you out to be. The drama queen. The attention seeker. 

But then Chris put his arms around your shoulders and your forehead was against his chest and he was warm and welcoming. God knew how much you needed warm and welcoming. Your mother never was any of that. 

“I’ve got a room - “ he began.

“No, Chris,” you backed away, shaking your head, wiping your tears. “I’ve got interviews.”

“My best fucking friend is not living in her car a second more,” he said, grabbing your shoulders. Where had his coffee gone? Oh right, there it was, on the ground, after he threw it against the wall of the bank. Felon. 

You looked up at him. Blue eyes. Half ginger beard. Freckles. Crooked smile. He was your best friend. He was warm and welcoming. 

“I won’t be a nuisance,” you sniffled. “And I won’t be long.”

He draped an arm over your shoulder. “Take all the time you need.”

Yeah, living with Chris was a fucking far cry from your Yaris. He had, well, a huge house, big enough for the both of you to live almost separately. He insisted on shared dinners when the both of you were home. You had a shower big enough to fit fourteen people in. A bed wide enough to have, oh I don’t know, six threesomes in? Your walk-in closet was 98% empty because your clothes consisted mostly of folded jeans and baggy shirts. You had one pair of shoes. 

You had a whole section of the house to yourself, and Chris even lent you a spare laptop for your job search. And that was going well! You’d nailed an interview at the bank Chris threw his coffee on and guess what? Bank manager position was open to you and you started next week. 

Things were looking bright. 

When you told Chris, he was so happy he almost fell off the banister. 

And talking about Chris, living with him had its perks like a fourteen people wide shower, but also its well, down sides. This was his house and you were in no position to tell him what he couldn’t do. Like walking around shirtless after a shower. Or sitting so close to you that you could smell his cologne on every inch of yourself after. Or cooking dinner and serving it at candle light. Or sleeping with his door open so that when you woke up much earlier than him and went to pick up Dodger, you could see Chris sleeping. Or showering with the door unlocked. Yes, you’d tested that theory, so what?

You were far from uncomfortable, and maybe, maybe you were starting to feel some sexual tension. I mean, you were both grown adults, a man and a woman, living under the same roof. Single. With needs. It was normal that your hormones were telling you to get absolutely wrecked by this man. 

You shook that idea from your head as you got out of bed. Chris had texted you that he was out for the day, so you grabbed a quick breakfast, changed into your bathing suit, and headed to the pool. You needed a nice relaxing day before you started your job tomorrow. 

The sun was hot. The pool was a dazzling blue and warm as you glided in. You did a few laps, then settled onto your towel to soak in the sun. 

The back door opened and your heart raced, thinking someone had broken in. But Chris stood there with sunglasses, a wide grin on his face, waving at you. “I cut up some watermelons!” 

“Nice!”

“Come have some?”

You got up, wrapped the towel around yourself, and walked up the small path. You stood out the threshold, and Chris handed you a fresh slice. It was good. Juicy. A reddish drop stuck to the corner of your lips, but before you could get it, Chris was slowly swiping it with his thumb. 

You looked up, surprised. Chris had never touched you that way. You’d seen him on training wheels and he’d seen you in diapers. You were friends. He’d dated Jessica fucking Biel and Minka Kelly and you’d dated Brad from ninth grade English and Tyler from the college football team. 

“Is this... inappropriate?” he asked timidly. He took of his glasses, setting them onto the top of his head. His eyes reflected the sun and they were gorgeous. 

“No.”

“This?” he asked, bending forward to kiss the corner of your mouth, where his thumb had been.

“No.”

“How about this?” he asked, voice deep, before placing a chaste kiss on your lips.

You were acutely aware of how much you weren’t wearing. That your skin and hair was wet. That he was very close to taking that towel off and seeing it all for himself. 

“Y/N?” he asked when you didn’t answer.

Your eyes were closed. “This is fine.” And you reached up on your toes, cradling his face from outside the door, and deepened the kiss. You’d imagined a few times growing up what it would be like to kiss him. Especially when you were playing spin the bottle at a middle school party. Or when he started gaining fans and having all these different girls on his arm. Or when, at the end of high school, he asked you to prom when you were only a sophomore and some of his friends made fun of him for it, but he took you anyway. 

He kissed deeply, sweetly, slowly. Savoring you. Molding his mouth to yours like he knew how to kiss you since forever. And maybe he did. Had he been imagining it too, just like you had? At those parties. At his prom. When it was just the two of you and you were drunk? 

He grabbed onto your waist and hauled you in, closing the door behind you and knocking your back against it. 

“Stop me if you want,” he breathed against your mouth. “If you don’t want this, pull my hair, scratch me, I don’t care, just tell me.”

“Shut up.”

You grabbed onto the back of his hair, savoring the soft locks you’d so longed to touch. You never realized how much you needed him. How much you’d craved him for so long. 

He hauled you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist, yelping into the kiss as he wrenched you from the door and began walking. Walking? He dropped your lips to make sure he wasn’t bumping into things - and God, Dodger - and you examined him from your vantage point. It was the same Chris you knew; freckles and crooked smile and dark rim of lashes, but he was different. Rosy cheeks and parted lips and a look in his eyes, feral, that you’d never seen before. 

You realize he was going to your end of the house. To your room. 

Once there, he put you on your feet and closed the door, getting back to you with a swift kiss. Forehead against yours, he asked, “You’ve done this before?”

“Yeah.” How did you know what he was asking?

“It should have been me,” he mumbled before kissing you. He swiftly ripped the towel from your body, and pulled on the laces of your bikini top. It fell to the flop with a wet sound, and Chris backed away to see. “Wow. You’re... you’re beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes. He came back at you with a deep kiss, warm hands cupping your breasts smoothly. He wasn’t rough, or fast. He was soft and slow, as if savoring every inch. 

He pushed you gentle backwards until the edge of your bed was at the backs of your knees. His breath was on your collarbone, kissing, nipping, your hands in his hair. “You smell so good,” he hummed. 

You braced your hands at the bottom of his shirt and pulled, wrenching the garment off his shoulders and onto the floor. His chest, that you’d seen, but under this different light, different circumstance, the color of his skin and the way his veins snaked down his forearms made a new heat build between your legs.

Okay, this man was gorgeous. 

And now, you were eager. You grasped onto his belt and pulled him to you, undoing him with lightning speed. His jeans hit the floor with a deafened thud, and you could see him straining against his black boxers. 

He was searing to the touch, thick and hard behind the fabric. Your fingers inched into the band of his boxers and pulled him out, mouth almost falling to the ground at the sight of him. He was beautiful as much as he was powerful. You caught a bead of precum on your thumb and swiped it over the head, getting a low groan from Chris. 

He pushed you backwards by the shoulders until you got the message and sat on the edge of the bed. He stepped out of his underwear, throwing the glasses on his head across the room. 

“Up,” he ordered, gesturing his chin towards the head of the bed. You obeyed, watching his eyes fill with lust as they raked over your half naked body. 

He climbed in over you, spreading your knees and hooking his indexes into the wet band of your bikini bottom. He saw the goosebumps rising on your flesh and kissed your thigh. “Are you cold?”

Far from that. “No.”

He smirked against your skin, pulling your bottom down your thighs and off your ankles. He kissed your belly. Your pubic bone. And a little gasp escaped you when his nose brushed your clit. 

“Sensitive?” he teased. He didn’t wait for an answer, brushing his thumb against your bud, eliciting a quiet moan from you as you relaxed into the pillow. He could probably feel how wet you were, and not from the pool, as he dragged his thumb from your clit to your core, dipping his index enough to drag your arousal back to your clit. He made a sound with his mouth, like a low whistle, when your hips began slowly rocking against his hand. “I don’t want any other man in your bed,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” He was slowly increasing, slowly entering his middle finger into you with such ease it was almost embarrassing. 

“I don’t want any other man touching you,” he whispered, dropping to kiss your clit, causing a sharp gasp to leave your lips. “Any other man kissing you.” He darted his tongue out, giving you a bold lick as he rubbed his finger on the spot inside of you that made you see stars. “Any other man drawing these sounds from you.”

“Yes, Chris,” you breathed, grabbing onto his hair when he ducked back down to continue suckling on your clit. 

“Good,” he mumbled. 

He continued drawing out those sounds from you he loved so much until the pressure in your belly built and you were whining, gripping his hair. He encouraged you with his tongue, sucking on your clit, fucking you with his finger, and when you came all over his hand, he kissed his way up your thigh, belly, chest, until he was kissing your mouth. 

He was heavy over you. Your head spun from your orgasm, skin buzzing, eyes glittering behind closed lids. He parted your thigh with his palm, and you felt him aligning. Your grabbed onto his shoulders for support. You hadn’t done this in, well, a while, and you were sure that you’d need a moment. Especially with how big he was. 

He kissed your nose, your cheeks, until you opened your eyes. He smiled down at you, kissing you softly. Forehead against yours, he inched in, hands in fists each side of your head. He let out a grunt simultaneous to your wince, and his left hand smoothed against your cheek, lips kissing yours tenderly. 

“You feel so good, baby,” he breathed into your ear, inching in deeper, stretching you. The burn was there, but it was pleasurable because it was him. Because he was the one claiming you. He slid against your tight walls, seating himself completely to the hilt, before pulling back and sliding slowly back in. “Yeah?” he asked in a strangled moan.

You nodded, biting his shoulder, adjusting rather slowly. But it felt good. It was so strange. That mix of pain and pleasure, the coil in your belly tightening with each slow stroke from Chris. 

With a bravery you didn’t know you hand, you pushed him sideways until you could swiftly change positions. His eyes widened in surprise, hands skimming your hips as you straddled him. You could take him better this way, deeper, easier. His pelvic bone pressed against your clit, and as you ground front to back, you saw his eyes flutter shut. 

You used your knees to slide up and down, rocking like the motion of the ocean, hands on his chest. He was hitting all the right spots, rubbing against your clit, clutching your hips like he was holding on for dear life. 

He let his hands wander. Smoothing up your stomach, between your breasts, grasping them softly. He sat up quickly, popping a nipple in his mouth, and the new position made the pressure on your clit increase, and the moan that left your lips was almost pornographic.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he breathed against your collarbone. “Just like that.”

He continued nipping and suckling your clit, holding you by one arm around the waist. You were close, clenching around him the more you rocked on top of him. Your nails bit into the skin of his shoulders. Teeth scratching his neck. His lips were everywhere; breasts, chests, neck, lips. You were so lost in him that you didn’t know where you began, where you ended. It was just Chris, and the edge coming closer and closer and finally, the pressure built until you were moaning his name, clenching him, cumming on him like you’d never done before. 

He held you up with one arm, thrusting up into your tight walls sloppily, chasing his end. His mouth was open, gasping, grunting, all kinds of obscenities falling from his lips as he fucked himself right into you. You were still rocking slowly back, but you were weak from your high, pleasure making you tremble. 

Chris gave one last harsh thrust before spilling himself into you, holding you down on him as if you were his anchor. 

With a sigh, he let himself fall back onto the bed, bringing you with him. His chest was warm, sweaty, heart beating erratically. Your breathing was labored, but you managed to smile when he laced his fingers with yours, bringing them to his mouth to kiss them. 

It was a few moments of quiet breathing before you realized. “Did you cut up one piece of watermelon to get me to sleep with you?”

He laughed. “I’ve been trying to catch your attention for years, Y/N,” he admitted, the sound of his laughter reverberating in his chest. “And now that I finally have it, I’m not letting you go.”

He kissed the top of your head and you hummed. Content. Warm. Welcomed. You’d finally found a home in someone. 

[lannister-slings-and-arrows]

Hey you! Ok how about Pedro’s characters and the first time they wink at you. ILY and thank you 🙈

Hey babes! I simultaneously love and hate you for this ask because jfc winking irl is so fucking skeezy but, as with a lot of things I previously thought I despised, when Pedro does it I get a little weak in the knees lol. So now I have an excuse to comb through every gif of him winking. You know. For research. For SCIENCE. (Under the cut, cause fucking HELL. This got loooooong.)

(Gif made by @djjarindin )

Whiskey- On your very first day as a Statesman you make the dubious acquaintance of Agent Jack “Whiskey” Daniels. You’re standing at the window of your new office, flipping one of your knives in the air idly, when a handsome man in tight blue jeans and a black Stetson saunters in without so much as a by your leave. His grin is lazy, charming, and you acknowledge, in the deepest recesses of your hind brain, incredibly enticing.

“Well howdy there, darling,” he greets, thumbs hooked in the front of his belt, drawing your gaze to- is that a flask on his belt buckle? His mustache twitches up on one side as he notices that your eyes landed exactly where he had intended.

“Now what’s a pretty little thing like you doing playing with those pig stickers? You could hurt yourself with knives like that.” He steps closer to you, one hand leaving his belt to brace against the window next to your head so he can lean further into your space.

“Probably the same thing you’re doing playing with those pistols you’ve got under your jacket or that lasso at your hip,” you reply coolly, not backing away from his intrusion into your space. His raises his and he huffs a laugh through his nose.

“Well touché, kitten.” He bends a little at his knees to catch your eyes better and suggests softly in a voice that 90% of you demands you to listen to, “How’s about you and I get outta here and I can give you a tour of the place? Maybe, show you the ropes?” And he then winks at you.

That last 10% of your willpower has something to say to his blatant attempt at getting into your pants.

You slap him.

Javier Peña- You had been warned by more than one person that feminism hadn’t really made its way to Columbia yet when you accepted the portion to field agent and transferred down to the DEA office in Bogota. It was 1990 however, and you kind of expected the Americans you worked with to at least be a little more on board with the times.

That was on you, men were men it seemed, American or Columbian.

The tall blond who introduced himself as Murphy seemed nice enough, he was friendly and a little distracted, and he sounded almost apologetic as he led you further into the office to meet the other member of your team.

“Well hello there, sugar,” a man a couple of inches shorter than Steve greeted you from where he had been leaning on a desk by the door. He stood up straight and sauntered- there was really no other word for how pants that tight made a man walk- closer to the two of you, a wide smile stretched his mustache over his handsome face and showed off the dimples in his cheeks.

Oh lord. One of those men.

“Javi this is-“ Murphy started, clearly trying to diffuse a potential situation but the man interrupted him, and his hand reached for yours, holding it a little longer than necessary.

“A girl too pretty for your married ass to be talking to, Steve.” He still had your hand in between his two large warm ones and you filed that information away for use at a later, much more solitary time. He had the audacity to wink at you and you sighed and rolled your eyes. Ah well.

“I’m your new partner.” Guess feminism still has some strides to make no matter what the nationality of idiot male.

Ezra- You had been stuck on this interminably brown moon for a week and you were going stir crazy. You and your still new partner had landed in a manner that was less than gentle or correct on this nameless rock, and not only was your landing gear bent at an angle a university mathematician would have trouble describing, Ezra couldn’t get the damn thing to start again. 

You weren’t any sort of mechanic by nature, that was one of the things he brought to the table, so until Ezra managed to repair whatever was wrong with this hunk of junk the two of you were still paying off, you were stuck sitting on your hands doing nothing. You had no particular desire to go traipsing around this rock by yourself, protection was one of the other things the man added to your partnership, as you had learned early in your mining career that that generally did not end well for people like you.

So there you sat, bored, listening to the click and clank of Ezra’s tools as he did whatever it was that you needed to do to get an impulse engine working enough to take off and dock to an FTL vessel. And listening to Ezra’s constant talking.

He was currently telling you a rather long winded, even for him and that was saying something, story about how an old partner of his woke up every morning and sanitized the floor of their pod with antibac spray before he would let any of the other four men set foot on it.

“The gentleman in question was a rather odd duck, badger,” he called out to you from half way inside the pod. “Why, in all my years and in all my travels in the black, I must avow never having seen someone so resolved on keeping the extremities of his associates so unsullied. I never cognized if his time running the stars had finally fractured his wits and this was the inevitable concomitant of a life lived as we do, or if it was a tic peculiar to him for all of his life. Still and all, one advantage I did discover at the conclusion of that particular venture: the bottoms of my socks never have been cleaner.” 

An unexpectedly loud guffaw punched its way out of your mouth and you dropped the flat rock you had been attempting to balance on a piece of the aforementioned broken landing equipment. Unfortunately, Ezra decided at that exact time to shimmy his way out from under your craft and instead of falling harmlessly back to the ground where you had found it, it bounced off of his rather distracting ass on its way down. 

He stopped moving and you were about to apologize, you really hadn’t meant to basically throw a rock at him, no matter how much he annoyed you at times, when you heard his voice float up to you again, a little amused, and a little something else that you had had occasion to notice a few times before but had never thought to classify.

“Badger, did you just take your hand to my ass?” You felt your face flush and wondered if this planet’s atmosphere wasn’t as hospitable to humans as you had thought. 

“What?!” You squeaked, voice cracking when it hit a pitch normally very much out of your range.”No! I just dropped a rock!” You heard him chuckle from your feet and refused to look at him as he shuffled all the way out from under to pod and stood to his full height in front of you. He chucked you under the chin and finally you looked up into his eyes. 

“Because darling, I strongly advocate any physical contact that you might desire to have with any part of my body you so wish, at any time of your choosing,” he told you with a wink.

Catfish- You had moved to Texas to take up residence on the ranch your grandfather had left you, not out of any real desire to take up the cowboy life. You hated how hot it was, you hated how slowly everyone talked, you hated how big the entire goddamned state was, and if one more goddamned truck managed to take up three goddamned parking spaces at the grocery store one more time you were going to throw a temper tantrum that would make all their southern asses wish they had managed to secede. 

That was how you had met Catfish (”No that isn’t my real name; no one but my mama calls me Francisco”). He had been the next asshole in a truck to take up more than what your space conscious Yankee ass had deemed his due. 

“Listen ma’am-”

“Don’t you “ma’am” me, how old are you implying I look?!”

“Sorry, miss, if you’re gonna holler at me, could we step a little further away from the truck? I just got that baby to sleep, and if she wakes up starts cryin’ again, I think I’m gonna start too.”

After a meet cute like that, it was inevitable that the two of you would hit it off as well as you did, and so a year later saw you still in a state that you were convinced was trying to kill you (hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, Republicans, and rattlesnakes???), stretched out on Catfish’s beat up couch, more than a little drunk, and a lot happier than when you had left New York to come here. 

Catfish set both new bottles of beer down on the coffee table in front of you and smiled down at you with that big grin that summoned both the dimples in his cheeks and made you feel like your heart was growing four sizes larger inside your chest. He took off his ever present beat up baseball cap and tossed it on your lap. His hair was simultaneously flattened and a mess and you were sure he couldn’t look more handsome in this moment if he had an army of Hollywood stylists attack him. 

He reached down to he hem of his grey Henley and started to pull it up. 

“Whoa there cowboy!” You exclaimed with a grin, sitting up and plopping his hat onto your head for safe keeping. “I didn’t realize I was getting a show when I came over here!” He stopped with his shirt half way off his torso and looked down at you with an eyebrow cocked. 

“It’s hot as goddamned balls in here, baby, and I’m wearin’ two of these things. One of ‘em at least is comin’ off.” He pulled it off the rest of the way and straightened his first layer that had attempted to escape with its compatriot before reaching down and grabbing his hat off of your head and flopping onto the couch next to you. 

“Hey Fish, how long do you think we have before the baby wakes up?” He shrugged, his head rolling on the back of the couch o face you. 

“I dunno, darlin’, why do you ask?” You bit your lip and smiled up at him, playing with the fingers of the hand he had settled on your thigh. 

“Oh, well, you know how watching you nearly get stuck in your shirts really does it for me.” He groaned and slapped your leg lightly as you laughed. 

“I think we’ve got time for whatever you want baby. Helicopter pilots can go straight up pretty fast you know.” He told you with a wink that you were sure was supposed to be alluring. 

Oberyn Martell- The first thing you consciously noticed about Dorne was that it was hot. This was a kind of inescapable heat that permeated your entire body and made you feel like you were cooking from the inside out. You had never before given much thought to what it would feel like to be put into an oven and roasted alive, but without a doubt this is was that feeling. When you went back home to White Harbor you weren’t ever going to complain about the cold ever again.

The second thing you noticed when you put into port in Sunspear- a city quite a bit smaller than most of the cities of the upper six kingdoms the Manderlys sent your father to trade with- was that no one seemed to be wearing a lot of clothes. Which you supposed made sense because you were positively dying in yours.

You quickly changed into a pair of your brother’s breeches and a loose shirt before practically running off the ship and into the dusty warrens of the Shadow City below the walls of the Martell’s castle, eager to stretch your legs after weeks at sea and eat something other than hard tac and salted meat and fish. You figured you had at least a few hours before you would be expected to accompany your father to the castle to haggle about prices for wood and iron and silks and citrus.

The air only got hotter the further from the sea breeze you walked, and as you meandered the twisting and winding bazaars all you could smell were foreign spices and perfumes. Your head was on a swivel trying to take in the sights and sounds of a market radically different from any you had seen before when you walked into a silk covered shoulder. The shoulder belonged to a man nearly a foot taller than you and you wouldn’t have stood a chance at remaining on your feet if two strong arms hadn’t shot out and wrapped around your waist, dragging you back from your rather embarrassing descent to the dusty street and into a warm solid chest.

“I normally have to put in at least some effort in order to sweep someone off their feet, it must be my lucky day that you seem to have decided to do all the hard work for me,” an amused, accented voice said from above you. You felt every word from where your ear was plastered to the bare skin of his chest, his yellow and orange robes belted loosely enough to leave most of his golden skin exposed. You felt your face flush as you shuffled your feet, trying to get them back under you in a way that would allow you to stand and not fall on your face. The man set you back from him gently and you finally looked up

Your savior was beautiful. There wasn’t any other word to describe a face with deep set, smiling eyes that were so deep a brown you really had to look to distinguish his pupils. His nose was curved and prominent, his jaw covered with the same black hair that was cropped closer to his head than you were used to seeing in the North. And his lips were too pretty for a man. They spread into a smile as his eyes met yours, dimples appearing in his cheeks and you were smiling back before you realized it.

“Now,” he said, eyes still laughing. “You are either the worst pick pocket I’ve ever encountered or clearly too taken with the sights around you to be trusted to walk unescorted.” You hoped he never stopped speaking. His voice was deep and rich and at the same time soft and musical and no one in the woods and wilds where you had grown up spoke like he did.

“Uh, yes,” you stuttered and felt your ears burn as he smiled wider, eyebrows in danger of disappearing into his hair. “I mean, no, I’m not a pick pocket! I just, sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going, my apologies.” You stuttered stepping further back from him, hoping maybe some more distance would restore your ability to not make an ass out of yourself in front of this handsome stranger. “Thanks for you know,” you featured vaguely at the ground.

“Oh, you’re very welcome for ‘you know’,” the man replied, somehow injecting a completely different meaning to your innocuous words than you had intended. Your face could have been used to light a campfire by now. You needed to get back and get changed before you did something truly stupid.

“Okay, well, um, sorry, again, for walking into you,” you said, backing away. “But uh, I’ve got to, uh, go...” You sort of waved and took off back the way you came, taking care not to run into any more handsome strangers.

You made it back to the ship in time for your father to lecture you about how dangerous it was to just run off in a “city full of wild Dornishmen! Don’t think that because you’re dressed like a man you’d be safe! That ‘sort of thing’ is common here, daughter!” while you dressed in clothes more suitable to both your station and a meeting with the ruling house of the kingdom.

It was somehow cooler within the sandstone walls of the castle, and you amused yourself on the walk up to the raised dais by listening to the different sounds your company’s boots made on the marble floor.

There was a woman sitting on a carved wooden seat and a tall dark haired man standing behind her, leaning indolently against her chair at the top of the steps you and your father stopped at. You listened to your father make the appropriate greetings, hoping that they could come to favorable terms of trade for items and goods they all wanted. And you felt someone staring at you. You looked up at the young woman in the chair as your father introduced you and you smiled and curtsied less gracefully than your mother would have liked. Your father turned his face to the man behind the chair and began to repeat the introduction when a familiar laughing voice interurrupted,

“Oh, I believe we’ve met already, haven’t we, little pick pocket?” Your eyes snapped up from the marble floor to lock onto those dancing brown eyes from earlier this morning. You felt your jaw drop and your face turn what you were sure was a very unattractive shade of crimson as Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne grinned and winked at you.

Din- You had been flying with the Mandalorian and his tiny green baby for about a month when you decided that hyperspace was boring and if you wanted any amusement you would have to take a page out of the little man’s book and make your own fun. You knew that stealing pieces of the ship and hiding them would not be as cute as when the baby did it, so that was out. You weren’t a tall person, but you were still bigger than the green terror so playing hide and seek was pretty close to useless. You were grasping at straws until suddenly it hit you like one of the utensils that the tiny monster liked to levitate around the cabin.

You were going to get Mando to laugh.

You had absolutely no idea how you were going to accomplish this, or even any idea at all what a near silent warrior monk that you were still not a hundred percent convinced wasn’t a droid would find funny, so you decided to just do what you did best; you opened your mouth and let the word vomit out. 

You didn’t shut up. If you were awake and not actively hunting someone, you were talking. The baby seemed to enjoy the new amount of noise and animation, but thus far you had only gotten a few sighs and what you thought were exasperated glares from your adult companion. At least, you figured they were glares. His helmet turned to face you and frankly, you were beginning to even get on your own nerves, so he was almost definitely glaring at you under that beskar. 

This went on for four days straight until one day the three of you were sitting in the cockpit, watching the stars zip by, and you decided to narrate yourself drinking a glass of water. You had just gotten to the swallowing part and were attempting to put into words what that felt like when he turned around to face you. 

“If one more word comes out of your mouth I will cut into into small enough pieces that the baby won’t notice it’s a human that he is eating for dinner tonight.”

You choked. And you definitely spat water all over the visor of his helmet. 

You coughed and stared at him, terrified, not sure if these were going to be your last few seconds as a breathing creature, but sure that if they were you at least had the image of the Mandalorian with water and spit sliding down the front of his helmet to console you. 

All three of you sat in silence for at least a minute before he leaned forward very slowly. You leaned as far back as your seat would allow. 

“That was a joke,” he told you, voice warm despite the crackle of his modulator. “You can’t see it, but I just winked.”

Screw making him mad. You were going to kill the Mandalorian. 

Tovar- This was officially one of the worst ways that you could think of to die. You sure that if you were given a few more minutes, and a few less spears pointed in your face to distract you, you could surely come up with at least five different ways that were, in fact, worse, but right now, this seemed pretty awful and didn’t seem likely to get any better. 

“I need you to trust me,” your companion murmured in your ear, his hand on your wrist, stopping you from drawing one of your long knives. You cut your eyes quickly to his normally laughing brown eyes and then back to the soldiers in front of you. 

“That never works out well for me, Tovar,” you remind him in a quiet hiss. He moves his arm from his side to around your shoulders and draws you close and tight against his much taller body. 

“Good day, gentlemen!” He calls jovially to the five armored men blocking their way on the road. You can hear the wide grin that must be plastered on his stupidly handsome face and you send up a fast prayer to God that he doesn’t manage to get you into worse trouble than you were in already. Or that at least William can manage to get you out of it again. 

“Halt,” the spear man in the middle orders, and Tovar stops walking, forcing you to as well, still tucked into his side. His left hand strokes your arm casually (you note its not his preferred sword hand which gives you some hope that he might actually have a plan), and he leans a bit more of his weight on you than you think is really called for. Is he pretending-

“Why whatever are you fine men doing in the middle of the road? Don’t you know there’s a war on! Shouldn’t you be off fighting that fierce some mercenary army?” You want to stab him. His entire left side is open and unguarded mere inches away from your favorite knife, you could slide the blade in right there between his ribs, you could have the pleasure of puncturing his lung and watching him slowly suffocate. Maybe he would finally stop talking. 

“No one is allowed past this point,” the spear man informed you, still glaring. “Who are you and what is your business here?” The other four soldiers inched closer and you stiffen. 

“Don’t,” Tovar ordered you through his clenched teeth, smile still in place. “I can get us out of this, I just need you to play along.”

“If we get out of this I am going to personally castrate you,” you inform him, a clenched tooth smile of your own on your face.

“Anything to get your hands on my cock, eh?” You elbowed him in that unprotected side you had been eyeing before he tried to bargain with the guardians of the road.

“Oh but surely sir, you wouldn’t hinder a poor man trying to get home to his farm?”The soldier looked extremely skeptical.

“If you’re a farmer, I’m the King of England.” Tovar shrugged.

“Alright, so I’m not a farmer. This rather attractive filly is, however, only paid for for another hour, and I had meant to have my way with her at least twice before my time was up. Surely you can understand my need to make all haste now?”

Nope, not castration. Castration and then you were going to make him watch as you fed his balls to goats.

“Don’t bite me please,” was all the warning you received before Tovar looked down at you, winked, and kissed you, lips surprisingly soft, and incredibly distracting. Maybe the castration could wait for a few hours.

Max Phillips- When the higher ups bring in a handsome new manager to boost sales and productivity you aren’t entirely surprised that every employee gets called one by one into his office for a “chat”. He’s new, it tracks that he’d want to get to know everybody.

You are both anticipating and dreading your own 2:30 appointment with the new boss man, you’re positive that out of all your coworkers your performance has been the most consistently decent since you were hired two years ago, but who knows. This was a new unknown element. His goal might be to shake things up to keep people on their toes.

You hear a ‘come in’ after you knock firmly on his closed door three minutes earlier than your scheduled time, and you find him working at his computer, jacket off, a pout on his lips that were frankly too pretty to be on such a distinctively masculine face, and his shirt sleeves artfully rolled up.

He doesn’t glance at you as he waves at a chair in front of his desk. You sit as instructed, and try as you might, are unable to help staring at him as he finishes whatever it is that requires such attention. You take in the tiny tattoo on his left hand with a little surprise. And you try very hard to ignore the shift and play of the muscles of his forearms under his lightly tanned skin. This is your new boss get a grip, you scold yourself, tearing your gaze away to rest on the shelves behind his head.

He sits back with a sigh and his palms hit his desk.

“I am sorry about that. I honestly hate computers, they’re just so impersonal, don’t you think?” He asks with a winning smile, eyes and attention totally on you now. You return his grin with a small, polite twitch of your own lips and raise your eyebrows questioningly at him.

“Anyways, I just wanted to get to know everybody here, you know? Know the real person behind your employee file! Find out what makes you tick, what gets you excited!” You’re only half paying attention to his spiel, but he garners your full and complete concentration when as he utters the word “excited” and he grins salaciously and winks at you.

You’re a little taken aback. You know you should call HR. At the very least that was thoughtless and at the worst, utterly inappropriate.

You are unfortunately intrigued. You know you won’t be calling anyone about this.

Maxwell Lord- You’d been working for Lord Enterprises for about a year before you were moved up to the top floor. You liked to think you were good at your job, you were a quick typist and resourceful, and you were excited about the bump in pay that accompanied your new position.

After a week of following one of the other girls around and learning the ins and out of the executive offices, you were turned loose and given your own duties and assignments. The very first of those were to take a pile of files from the desk of the most senior of the secretaries and make sure it ended up in the possession of Maxwell Lord himself. You hadn’t heard much about the the big boss one way or another, so you squared your shoulders and after knocking firmly, opened the door and entered his office.

Lord was seated behind a dark wood desk that you thought was probably a bit bigger than strictly necessary. He was in his shirt sleeves, waistcoat stretched over a bit of middle aged spread that he nonetheless wore well. His hair was thick, blond, and immaculately styled, and he was talking animatedly on the phone, gesturing with his free hand and you could see his body vibrating slightly as he bounced his leg up and down quickly.

He was a handsome man, and a lot younger than you had expected him to be. And when he looked up at you as you walked further into his office and smiled brightly at you his attractiveness only increased. His eyes were a deep, dark brown and they shone when two dimples appeared in his cheeks with his grin.

You held up the stack of folders in your hand and raised your eyebrows in a question. He gestured to the desk in front of him and you moved closer to set them gently down in front of the man. You observed him check you out from your hair down to you shoes as you walked closer and were a little surprised when no chauvinistic comment popped out of his mouth. This might have been the 80’s, but you were a secretary and knew that women’s rights only meant that you could earn your own paycheck now.

You nodded at him as you set them down and he mouthed ‘thank you’ as he continued to listen to the droning voice you could now hear over the telephone.

And then he winked at you.

Maybe this job would turn up some opportunities for you after all.

[taetaespeaches]

“I'm pretty sure we just smashed your cowboy hat”

Taehyung x Reader (or oc)

Genre: fluff; light smut (I guess)

Word count: 6.9K

a/n: Here is what initially started as a quick scenario based on a request I got about going to the club with Tae, and turned into this nearly 7,000-word tension filled whatever this is. Can you tell my ass is fully whipped for Kim Taehyung? Basically a friends (uh kinda) to lovers fic where they go to a club together, feat. a silly dance scene. I hope you all enjoy! And as always, thanks for reading! 

MUMBLED voices echoed on the opposite side of the door, the sources indistinguishable through the barrier. Looking down the hallway, you made clicking noises with your tongue, an expression of your impatience. With a sigh, you dug into your coat pocket, fishing for your lip balm. Pulling the cap off, you brought it to your lips as your other hand went to knock on the door for the third time. Just as you brought your hand forward, the door was pulled open hastily.

A winded Taehyung, dressed in a baggy t-shirt and a pair sweatpants, dodged your fist, eyes widening in surprise as you cocked your head. "About time," you huffed, stepping forward as he opened the door wider for you. Before you could recap your lip balm, Taehyung snatched it from your hands, applying it to his own lips. You tried not to gawk at his mouth as he did so, but come on, you're only human. And knowing just how good those lips felt... it was hard not to stare.

"Sorry, I didn't hear the door," he looked at you with childlike innocence. Damn him. Putting the cap on the tube of lip balm, he leaned over your frame, his lips dangerously close to your own as he dropped the tube into your coat pocket. “I’m just running a little late, sorry,” he apologized with a small smile. Grabbing your hand, he created some distance as he began leading you to his bedroom. Walking past the room next to Tae's, you spotted Jungkook leaning over Jin's body, both of their eyes glued to the desktop screen, some game claiming their attention as they both yelled to each other and the game. Running late my ass.

“Mm, running late,” you told him knowingly, causing Tae to look back at you, flashing you a guilty smile with a low chuckle. “You know you’re the one who wanted to go out tonight,” you complained as Taehyung smiled stunningly, amused. Hearing you walk past, Jungkook's head snapped to see you following behind your friend.

"Hey!" Jungkook called out, halting you and Tae. With his doe eyes on full display, Jungkook smiled as Jin took a quick glance at you, careful not to lose focus on his game, but calling out your name excitedly.

You waved, saying a quick hello, before Tae tugged you into his bedroom, leaving the other two men to shoot each other a suspicious look. Everyone was suspicious of yours and Tae’s relationship, but it didn’t seem to bother Taehyung, so you didn’t really worry about it.

“Are they the only ones here right now?” You asked Tae as he let go of your hand and you shut the bedroom door.

Making his way to the closet, he nodded, telling you, “Yeah, everyone else is gone for the night.” You hummed in response, making a mental note that the apartment was nearly empty for the entire night. It was just, uh, good to know.

Busying yourself as Tae sorted through his clothing, you spotted a book about Vincent Van Gogh’s artwork. Perusing through the pages, you only looked up when you caught Tae in your peripheral, standing in front of the mirror wearing a blue silk pajama set, sporting a cowboy hat atop his head of blue hair. Seeing your reflection in the mirror, your eyes on him, he turned his head towards you, quirked an eyebrow, and dipped his hat at you.

“Howdy,” he greeted in his low timbre.

"Absolutely not," you said bluntly. A smirk toyed on Taehyung's lips.

"What's wrong with this?" He feigned ignorance.

Rolling your eyes, you bit back a smile, setting the book back down on the desk. "A cowboy hat? The whole point is to be inconspicuous.”

"But I need the hat. My hair is blue," he took the hat off, running his fingers through the cool tinted locks, shaking it out. "That's not very inconspicuous," he teased.

Walking over to his dresser, you grabbed a baseball cap off it, stepping towards him slowly, running your fingers along the edges of the cap. Standing in front of him, you placed the accessory on his head. "That's better," you nodded.

Taehyung shot you an unsure expression as he placed the cowboy hat on your head, causing you to cock your head and smile at him. "Cute," he grinned, sending a rush of butterflies throughout your body. With the proximity of him to you, your heart raced, and to avoid the growing tension, you stepped away from him, plopping down onto the bed.

"Go get changed," you giggled as he bit his lip in frustration. "Silk pajamas aren't very inconspicuous either." Pouting his lips at you, he turned around to dig through his closet, taking his hat off for the time being.

The tension between you and Taehyung wasn’t new, but it was increasing more and more as you spent more time together. You and Taehyung were friends. Good friends. Friends who may have happened to make out a few times, you know, as good friends do.

In fact, the last time you saw him was a few days ago when you walked him to your apartment door at 1 am after you had just been straddling him on your sofa for a good portion of the evening. You were nearly ready to risk it all that night before Tae, with all his frustrating self-control, grabbed your face gently between his large palms and pulled your face from his, disconnecting your lips, giving you a sad smile. He whispered something about not wanting to fuck anything up as he guided you to set your forehead against his own.

You told him he was annoying with a playful glare and he chuckled, nodding his head in agreement. When he left, he bid you a farewell kiss before exiting down the hallway, leaving you in your blissful confusion.

Tae's humming from across the room pulled you out of your memories, bringing your focus to the man just as he slid the silk button up off his broad shoulders, his honey kissed skin exposed, your eyes greedily scanning across the expanse of his back. He remained shirtless as he pushed clothing hangers around, taking his sweet ass time searching for a top. Kissing your teeth, you shook your head, knowing exactly he what he was doing. Fucking tease.

"Tae, just pick one," you whined, pent up frustration.

"Don't call me Tae," he looked over his shoulder at you, a smirk playing on his lips. "It's Eagle Eye."

Staring at him blankly, you processed the name, confusion setting into your features.

"It's my code name," he smiled childishly. "You can be Peaches."

Pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek, you tried to fight the amused smile but to no avail. "Eagle Eye, huh? You don't think that will draw some attention?" Tae's eyes widened in question, though a knowing smile appeared on his lips. "And Peaches? All you ever call me is Peaches, that's hardly a code name."

"Hey, I like Peaches," he defended with a fond grin and a small chuckle, turning around to face you straight on, drawing your gaze to his smooth, golden chest. “And so do you.” Dragging your eyes down his soft abdomen, you took in the sight of the small tufts of hair leading to the waistline of his silk pajamas. Taehyung's deep voice cut through your heavy daze, his tone full of amusement. "What are you thinking about, Peaches?"

The movement of your eyes from his body to his own knowing orbs was delayed as you struggled to pull your eyes away from his frame. Once your gaze met his, you let out a small "huh?" only for Tae to snicker, casting his eyes to the floor, looking up at you through his fringe. "Your thoughts?"

Shooting him a glare, you both knowing his effect on you, you crossed your arms over your chest. "Your code names need some work," you smirked. "And you need to take your pants off."

Taehyung looked a bit taken back before his expression turned more intense. "Don't tease," he stared at you through narrow eyes.

"Aw but you liked to be teased," you smirked just before lying back on the bed and pulling the cowboy hat over your face. Taehyung scoffed, staring at you for a moment before turning back to his closet.

With your face in the hat, you listened to Tae hum as the clothing rustled with his movements. "How about Lucy and Ethel?" You asked him, cutting his humming off. "For code names," you elaborated, sensing his confusion. The names came straight from the classic TV sitcom, I Love Lucy. You and Tae had stayed up late one night watching reruns, dubbing yourselves as Lucy and Ethel, the best friend duo who always got caught up in silly, ridiculous, and often outrageous situations together.

"As long as I get to be Lucy," Tae said with a smile that you couldn't see but definitely heard as you knew he was thinking back to that late re-run night fondly. You let out a breathy giggle as your heart swelled with affection for this man. "You can look now by the way." Lifting the hat off your face and throwing it to the bed, you angled your chin down, popping one eye open to peak at him. "What you don't trust me?" He smiled.

"Trust you? And why would I do such a crazy think as that," you teased as you sat up, opening both of your eyes and taking in his appearance. He was dressed in black jeans that hugged his thighs just right and were tore at the knees. The black button down that hung off his shoulders was done up all the way to his neck and you couldn't help the thought that invaded your mind, what a shame. Standing up, you stretched your arms over your head, Tae's eyes bouncing down to look at your body as you twisted your core from side to side. As he blatantly stared at you, you watched his long fingers tuck his black button down into the waist of the jeans.

As he reached for the black leather belt, pulling it through the loops in his jeans, he asked rather suggestively, "How do I look?" Nodding, pretending to be unaffected, you walked towards him. "I chose black so we could blend in. Inconspicuous." Looking down at your black cami tucked into your black high-waisted jeans, you smiled, now standing right in front of the man, your eyes glued to that pesky top button.

"I think you just wanted to match with me," you whispered as your hands moved to the collar of his shirt. A wide boxy grin spread across his face as he observed your features. Your fingers dragged down the collar, meeting in the middle, causing his Adam's apple to bob as he gulped. "You look great, Lucy," you smirked as his tongue swiped out, wetting his bottom lip as his mouth formed into an amused smile. "But we're going to a club, loosen up a bit, yeah?" Your fingers undid the top button, moving to the next one. Looking up from your hands, your gaze met his own, and the stunning asshole had the audacity to quirk his eyebrow at you.

"Take me out first before undressing me, Peaches," he smirked. Heat flushing your cheek, you lightly smacked his chest, a burst of giggles leaving Taehyung’s lip. Shaking your head with a groan, you turned towards the door only for Tae to wrap his arms around your waist in a back hug, pressing his cheek to the side of your head as laughter flowed from his pretty mouth right to the shell of your ear.

"That's Ethel to you, bud," you couldn't help the smile that overtook your features as he swayed you both side to side. Taking your hand in his, he unwrapped his arms from your body and lifted your arm, spinning you to face him again.

Booping your nose, making you flinch back with a groan, he flashed you a big close-mouthed grin. "My apologies, Ethel."

By the time you left the dorm, Tae was wearing the black baseball cap you gave him, and had added a nicely fitted jean jacket and black combat boots to his outfit, his face unfortunately but necessarily covered with a white mask.

As Taehyung made his way down the hallway to the elevator, he was pushing his back flat against the wall, holding out a gun as if he was some sort of spy. Amused but not surprised by his antics, you simply giggled as you watched him sneak down the empty hallway, hiding from all the non-existent people. Making your way to the elevator, you pressed the button as Taehyung stood with his back to you, still holding his fake gun up.

“Don’t worry, Peaches, I’m keeping watch,” he whisper-shouted to you as he attentively watched the still empty hallway.

“Tae, you’re supposed to call me Ethel,” you scolded him.  

“Hey, you’re supposed to call me Lucy,” he turned to look at you, pulling down his face mask to sit underneath his chin.  

“Oh, shit,” you giggled at yourself as Tae fought back a grin. As he peered down at you with a fond gaze, you felt the tension rising up again, the ding of the elevator’s arrival coming at just the right time to distract you from your good friend Taehyung.

As you turned to enter the elevator, Taehyung suddenly stuck his arm out in front of you to halt you, and then tumbled into the elevator with a somersault, popping up into a crouching position, holding out his fake gun again.

“What the fuck?” You asked in confusion as you burst into laughter. Taehyung bit back a stupid grin as he held his arm out to hold the elevator door open for you, slowly standing up and pretending to tuck his gun into the waist of his pants.

“The coast is clear,” he nodded assuredly.

Stepping into the elevator you locked your wide eyes with his, still laughing. “Yeah I would hope so, otherwise some innocent soul would have been subjected to whatever the fuck that just was,” you joked, making Taehyung break character with an embarrassed chuckle.

He reached over to press the ground floor button, your eyes following him, taking notice of the dirt that made its way onto his black clothing from his tumbling move. “Dammit, Lucy,” you complained as you stepped towards him, swiping your hands across his shoulders and back to rid him of the debris. “You’re a mess.”

“What?” He questioned in confusion, craning his neck to try to look at his back.

“You got dirt all over yourself Mr. Action Spy,” you smiled, finding his wide-eyed confused look utterly adorable.

“What the hell?” He continued his efforts to see his back. “Why is the floor so dirty?”

“Good question,” you replied. “Remind me again, how much do you pay for this most expensive loft in Korea?” you teased, mocking all of the reports of BTS’ pricey dorm, earning a small glare from Taehyung before his features softened.

“Is it on my butt too?” He asked you in feigned innocence. This little bitch.

“No, actually, it’s not,” you shut him down, holding onto your semblance of control. “And you’re done,” you patted the top of his back a couple times, making him turn around to face you, which his face was strangely close to your own all of a sudden. You could feel his breath fan across your face, and you whispered, “All clean.”

“You sure?” He smirked. “Did you get a close look?” You stuck your tongue to the inside of your cheek in annoyance. Not annoyance at him, but annoyance at his proximity without being able to just grab his face and kiss him. Could I do that?

With the way he chewed on the inside of his lip, you could tell he was struggling just as much as you were to keep in control. And that gave you a surge of confidence. “Are you asking me if I checked you out?”

Tae’s eyes widened in response for a moment, giving away his surprise just for a second before he coolly recovered. “Maybe,” he shrugged. “Did you?”

“Depends,” you told him as your eyes fell to his lips. “Did I check you out just now? Or did I check you out back in your room while you were rudely dragging out getting dressed?”

Tae’s mouth fell open just slightly at your question, his hand coming to rest on your hip as he pushed you slowly towards the back of the elevator until your back was pressed against the wall. With the touch of his hand on you, and the intensity of his gaze, you felt your body tingle in excitement. As Taehyung scanned your face, his eyes searching for any signs of dissent, the elevator dinged again, alerting you both you had reached the ground floor.

When the elevator doors opened, Taehyung lifted his gaze to the wall behind you, letting out a frustrated sigh. Reaching forward with one hand, you squeezed the side of his waist, making him look down to you. You gave him a small smile and he took a deep breath before returning it.

Leaning forward, he left a lingering kiss to your forehead, the small but sweet gesture sending both warmth and chills throughout your body. Reaching up to his face, you gripped the facemask that sat bunched underneath his chin, pulling it up to cover the lower half of his face.

“Shall we, Lucy?” You asked with a smirk as you slid past him, exiting the elevator, a groan echoing behind you.

As you approached the front doors, you felt Taehyung grab onto your wrist, pulling you back behind him. “Let me lead, ok? Just in case someone is actually out here.” The serious but gentle tone he used had your heart racing.

You couldn’t see but two feet in front of you because of how closely Tae led you behind him, your vision being blocked by his broad back. However, when his action was halted and sent you walking right into him, an abrupt bang sounding against the glass door, your eyes widened as you stared at the back of Tae’s head.

A small smirk formed on your lips at the realization that Tae had just rammed right into a locked door. Stepping to the side of him to check on him, you watched him as he rapidly pushed and pulled against the door handle, trying to get it to budge, his gaze leaving the door to meet your amused ones.

The lower half of his face was still hidden behind the mask, but you could see his eyes shape into crescents, his lips surely curved up into a bashful smile.

“You’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember?” You teased him, only for him to dip his head in embarrassed laughter. In a series of swift motions, he had surged towards you, wrapped his arm around the back of your neck, pulled you into his body, shoved against the unlocked door, pulled you outside with him, and began walking forward, leading you backwards down the sidewalk. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his waist. The chill of the night air was counteracted by the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

“You gonna drink tonight?” He asked quietly, his lips near your ear.

Shaking your head, you told him, “I don’t really feel like it tonight.” It was the truth. You didn’t want your mind to be clouded with alcohol, instead wanting to be totally present with Taehyung. You weren’t about to tell him that though. “What about you?” You mumbled against his neck. Unbeknownst to you but very noticeable to Taehyung, your breath sent shivers across his skin.

“No,” he said simply. You weren’t going to question his answer, knowing Tae didn’t drink all that much anyway, but then he offered up an explanation all on his own. “I want to be here with you.” Halting your backward walking, you forced him to stop as well as you looked up at him, his eyes sincere. Reaching up to pull the mask down just enough so you could see his mouth, the smirk on his lips told you he knew that you knew what his words alluded to. The confidence this fucker has.

“Should I be flattered?” You sassily questioned, causing him to flash you his wide boxy smile.

“You should be,” he replied smugly, and you were. Instead of admitting to it, you pushed the mask back up his face before pulling out of his grasp, though he didn’t let you go too far, holding his arm around your shoulders as you walked side by side down the street towards the club.

The club was just a few blocks away from the dorm, so the walk didn’t take long. As the muffled music booming in the distance became clearer, the tension between you and Tae intensified, your bodies bumping into each other as you walked.

Turning the corner, the line outside the club caught your eye, stretching down the street, strangely busy for a Thursday night. “Jesus, don’t people have to work tomorrow?”

“Don’t you have to work tomorrow?” Taehyung shot back at you with a smirk.

“Shut up,” you chuckled as you made your way to the line, standing clear at the back. Taehyung removed his arm from you, turning to face you straight on so you could talk as you waited for the queue to move. “Will you hold this for me?” You held out your ID, which Taehyung coolly took out his wallet and put the card inside, tucking it back into his pocket.

Standing in silence, the air surrounding you full of pent up tension, Taehyung reached out to tickle your abdomen making you flinch back and glare at him. “Hands off bud,” you bit back a grin.

“I’m bored,” he whined, dragging out his words cutely.

“Oh, I’m sorry I bore you,” you shot back teasingly, a smirk forming on your lips. Reaching forward again, he grabbed your waist, tugging you closer to him.

“Oh shush, we both know that’s far from true,” he told you with an eye roll.

“You know, if you took your mask off for just a minute to show the bouncer who you are, we would be in there already,” you informed him sassily. The line moved just slightly, you both stepping forward.

“What, and cut this waiting time with you short? But you’re so pleasant,” he teased with a smirk, “Why would I ever want to do that?” He said sarcastically as his hand moved to your own hand, intertwining his fingers with your own. Scrunching your nose cutely, Taehyung squeezed your hand, lowly chuckling at your expression. “Why do you have to be so cute?” He asked, flashing his gaze to your entangled hands. “I can only wish you bored me,” he mumbled under his breath, the words barely recognizable to your ears. But you heard them. And your heart raced.

Stepping forward with the line again, you neared the entrance. With his free hand, Taehyung reached into his pocket to grab his wallet. Watching him struggle to dig inside it with one hand, you tried to pull yours out of his grip to offer him both of his limbs, however, he gripped your hand tighter, shooting you a stern look.

Cocking your head at him, he held the wallet out to you, smiling sweetly and saying, “help,” his smile broadening as he watched your expression turn into an amused one. Both of you using your free hands, he held the wallet open as you dug inside to fish out both of your ID cards. “Uh-uh,” he protested. “Money too.”

Shooting him a glare, you informed him, “I can pay for my own cover charge.”

Rolling his eyes, he let go of your hand to pull the money out himself. “I know you can. Just let me get this.”

“You’re annoying,” you told him with a huff, though you sported a fond smile.

“And you’re stubborn,” he replied matter-a-factly with a grin.

Winking at him, he shook his head with a low chuckle. Moving forward, you were stood in front of the bouncer, to which the man quickly checked the cards, halting as he checked Taehyung’s, looking up at your friend with widened eyes. Taehyung nodded nonchalantly as he handed the bouncer the money. Nodding back, the bouncer guided you both inside the club with a gesture of his hand.

Upon entering the club, your ear drums were raided with the pulsing beat of electronic dance music, the warmth from the bodies that filled the room hitting your skin like the sun on a hot humid summer day. However, nothing compared to the heat that spread throughout your body when Taehyung’s arm wrapped around your lower back, his hand on your hip, pulling you in close to him as a swarm of drunk men trampled past you.

Taehyung guided you to stand in front of him, your back to him, holding his hands on your hips as he gently pushed you forward, leading you further into the club. Looking around at the crowd, some people dancing, some people standing and talking with drinks in hand, others shooting their shots with a possible one-night stand, you noted how people stared at the man behind you. You were used to people staring at Taehyung, you knew people wanted him. Even with half of his face covered with a mask, his presence demanded a certain amount of attention.

Yet, as people shamelessly stole glances at your good friend, you couldn’t help the jealousy that flooded your emotions, even with his hands gripping onto your hips.

Rolling your eyes at a group of girls who were gawking at Taehyung as if he was their prey, Tae leaned in, his lips touching the shell of your ear. As if he read your mind, or maybe just your body language, he smiled, a single breathy laugh leaving his mouth. “You’re tense, calm down,” he whispered into your ear. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”

He kept his face next to yours as he awaited your response. When you turned to look at him, his eyes were wide, almost childlike. How deceiving. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Smiling stunningly, his eyes grew more intense. “Good.”

Wrapping his arms around your waist in a back hug, he moved you both towards the dance floor, both of you smiling at the affection he was showing.

Working your way through the crowd, Taehyung spun you around to face him, his hands gripping onto your hips as he started swaying you back and forth. Tucking his face into the side of your neck, you swore you could feel his lips brush against your skin in a tentative kiss, as if he didn’t know if it was ok.

Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you threaded your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, massaging and tugging as he pulled you closer to him, your hips moving together. His hands moved from your hips to your forearms, pulling your arms from around his neck, spinning you a couple of times before letting go, you both dancing on your own, circling each other, your eyes glued to each other as you felt the rhythm of the music.

Lifting your arms into the air, before slowly dragging them down to run your hands through your hair as you swayed your hips, Taehyung couldn’t help but think how fucking beautiful you looked. And when your gaze met his once again, and you flashed a stunning smile that had his heart pounding against his chest, he didn’t know for how much longer he’d be able to resist you.

Not being able to remain serious around each other for too long, you started shimmying your shoulders and hips in a silly manner. Taehyung threw his head back in laughter before easily composing himself, actor Tae making an appearance, as he straightened his form, stuck his hands in his pants pockets and began popping his hips back and forth.

Taking steps back as he popped his hips, he created more distance between you both before he exaggeratedly gestured to you to come to him with a swing of his arm. Pointing to yourself, you looked around you before mouthing, “me” to which Tae nodded, pointing at you. Suddenly, he started doing his well-known heart pounding move that he borrowed from the great content creator, Casey Frey.

Swaying your hips as you made your way to him, you laughed at his ridiculous move, reaching out to his jean jacket and pulling him to you. You turned around, continuing the movement of your hips with your back facing him, your body brushing against his. With the feeling of your backside against him in accordance to the beat of the song, he reached for your hips, pulling your flush against him as he matched your movements.

In that one simple gesture of him pulling you to him, the feeling of your bodies pressed so close, the tension reached an all time high between you both as you grinded against each other. You reached back, wrapping our arm around the back of his neck. Turning towards him, your cheek brushed against his mask covered chin and he leaned into the feeling of your face against his own, leaving a kiss through the mask to the apple of your cheek.

Spinning you around to face him, he pulled the mask down to rest underneath his chin, revealing a sexy smirk, his eyes set on your own. “What are you thinking?” He asked, his hips still swaying with yours, his hands on your waist as he held you close.

“You wanna know what I’m thinking?” You asked, quirking an eyebrow. Nodding, he waited for your answer, his eyes scanning your face briefly before falling to your lips where they lingered a moment, slowing coming to meet your gaze again. “I think everyone in here wants you.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened as he smiled widely at you. “Are you referring to all these people who keep looking at you?”

You rolled your eyes at the ridiculousness of his insinuation. “If they’re looking at me it’s only in envy that I’m the one dancing with you.”

Shaking his head at you, his grip on your waist tightened. Leaning in to whisper in your ear, he asked, “And what about you?”

Craning your neck to look at him, you scrunched your eyebrows in question. “What about me?”

Licking his lips, he smirked. “Do you want me, Peaches?” Your heart pounded at the question and the pet name in the context of your current situation. Of course you wanted him. You’ve been wanting him. Before you could tell him that, he leaned forward to press a lingering kiss to your temple. “Because I want you,” he spoke against your skin.

Your hands that were settled on his shoulders moved to grab the sides of his face, pulling him to look at you, your eyes searching his for the meaning behind his words. If they were simply lustful, you knew you couldn’t go forward with this no matter how badly you wanted to. However, as you looked into his orbs, you saw the sincerity you’ve seen a hundred times throughout your friendship with Taehyung.

Resting his forehead against yours, your thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks, he sighed. “I only want you,” he whispered, his lips hovering over yours, though he wasn’t making any moves to kiss you.

Never feeling so sure about anything before, you pushed your lips against his in a single kiss. The action caught him off guard and before he could react, you pulled away just far enough to look at him. “Take me home, Tae.”

Reaching for your hand, he hastily pulled you through the mass of club-goers, bumping into shoulders on the way out. Bursting through the door, he didn’t slow down as he led you down the street, the chilly night air sending shivers across your body. Or maybe it was the rush Taehyung was giving you.

Once the music faded back into a dull pounding, Tae scanned the sidewalk quickly, looking from side to side, making sure there were no bystanders before gripping the side of your abdomen, his other hand coming to cradle your jaw as he gently pushed you against the wall of some building, his lips greedily meeting yours. You responded by grabbing Taehyung’s hips and pulling his body flush against your own, eliciting a needy groan from the gorgeous man’s lips against your own, your mouth swallowing the sweet sound.

Taehyung reluctantly arched his back to lean away from you, unintentionally pressing his hips harder against your own. His eyes held the same emotion they did in the elevator as he searched your face. The look of adoration, hunger, and respect that showed through his features stole your breath as you stared back at him.

“Are you sure?” He asked simply, though his tone expressed his nervousness and concern. He wanted you to be sure, but he wasn’t going to push you to follow through if you decided you didn’t want this. If you didn’t want him.

“Tae,” you whispered, him hanging on the edge of your words. “Of course, I’m sure.”

Relief flooded Taehyung’s features as a small smile formed on his lips. “Do you trust me?”

“I do,” you whispered against his mouth as he left a soft kiss to your lips, a stark contrast to the way he eagerly ground his hips into yours.

“I thought that was crazy thing to do,” he smirked as he pressed a kiss to your jawline.

Craning your head to the side to allow him more access to your neck, which he greedily accepted, planting wet kisses along the sensitive skin, you cracked a smile. “It is,” you told him, grabbing the sides of his face in your hands, guiding him to look at you. “But I’m crazy about you,” you said with a goofy grin, Taehyung’s hooded eyes brightening as a wide smile spread across his face.

“Fuck that’s cute,” he said as he pressed a big kiss to your mouth.

“It’s not cheesy?” You taunted, dodging his mouth to toy with him.

“Oh, super fucking cheesy,” he giggled, finding your mouth again as he laughed into the kiss before grabbing your hand and tugging you away from the wall, dragging you to the dorm, in a hurry to get you to his room, not wanting to wait any longer.

You both couldn’t keep your hands off each other. In the elevator, he had you pushed against the wall, finally kissing you like he wanted to in that very elevator earlier that night. Down the hallway, he had his arms wrapped around your middle, walking you backwards to the apartment door, you both stumbling and tripping but not caring as you tried to get more and more of each other.

His hands made their way underneath your shirt, greedily feeling the expanse of your lower back as he backed you into the door. He only stopped kissing you so he could see the keypad. Kissing his neck, he breathily chuckled into the air, trying to not get distracted by you as he typed in the entry code.

When the pad beeped, the door unlocking, he hastily shoved it open, pulling you inside with him. Kicking the door shut, he continued backing you towards his room, his hands on the sides of your face, yours holding his wrists.

Not so gracefully pushing you against his bedroom door, you giggled, causing him to chuckle into the kiss as well. Twisting the knob, he pushed you into the room, you both slamming the door shut, completely unaware of Jungkook who stood in the door frame of his own room, pout on his face as he groaned in annoyance. Hearing the commotion you two caused on your way in, he had come out of his room to check on things when he spotted you two connected by the mouths, making your way to Taehyung’s room as quickly as possible.

He went back into his room and came out with a blanket and pillow, shuffling to the couch.

“Scoot over,” he told Jin who was slumped on the sofa, half asleep watching television.

Looking at Jungkook in confusion, Jin slowly moved over on the couch, making room for the younger man. “I thought you went to sleep.”

“The lovebirds just got back,” Jungkook said in a grumpy tone. “They just barged in, did you really miss all of that? They literally just stormed through here.” Jin looked at Jungkook with the same confused expression, Jungkook groaning in response. “They were kissing.”

“Oh,” Jin easily accepted the explanation. A moment went by before Jin’s eyes bugged out of his head, turning to Jungkook in shock. “Wait, they were what?”

You and Tae were in the bedroom, ripping clothes off, throwing them carelessly around the room. Your shirt was the first to go, followed by his. As you tugged on his belt, pulling it through the pant loops, he grinned devilishly at you, pushing you down onto the bed. He rid himself of his pants, leaving you to stare at the exposed skin in awe. Honey kissed from head to toe, he was truly a sight to see.

He chuckled knowingly as your eyes hungrily drank in his form, the way his broad shoulders met is defined collar bones, leading to his smooth chest. Your eyes ran along his soft tummy, down the small patch of hair that disappeared underneath his boxer briefs.

Crawling on top of you, he easily found the button of your jeans, opening them up and feasting his eyes on your black panties. Biting his bottom lip, he sat up on his knees as he tugged the tight material down your legs, his gaze latched onto your limbs.  

Moving to hover over top of you, he lowered his head to kiss your lips tenderly. “You’re so beautiful.” Pulling him to lay flat against your body, you used all your strength to roll him over, a crunching sound resounding from underneath Taehyung. Straddling his hips, you registered the sound, cocking your head. Taehyung’s eyebrows pulled together at the feeling of something foreign beneath his back.

Realization dawned on you as Taehyung arched his back, his hips rolling into yours unintentionally as result, making you both release small moans. “I’m pretty sure we just smashed your cowboy hat,” you said breathily with a small giggle, pressing your hips harder against his.

Pulling the hat out from underneath him he held it out to the side as you both inspected it in its crunched form. “Do you think it’s a goner?” He asked as his hand came to rest on your ass, pulling you to meet his hips in another rolling motion.

“Fuck, Baby,” you whined. Your tone and the pet name had him groaning, tossing the hat onto the floor as he sat up, you falling into a sitting position on his lap, wrapping your legs around his waist.

Kissing you hard, he pulled away for a moment, inspecting your face, taking in your features. “You owe me a new hat, Peaches.”

Giggling into a kiss, you used your weight to push him back onto the mattress, you following him, chasing his lips. Your hands caressing his neck, you mumbled into the kiss. “In your dreams, Cowboy.”

Flipping you suddenly, you trailed kisses along his neck as he ground his hips into yours, letting out deep growls at the feeling of your mouth on his skin. His hand reached up to tug on the cup of your lace bra, his palm flattening against your breast as he squeezed, you moaning into his mouth.  

“Wait, I have a question,” Taehyung interrupted, your heart sinking to your stomach in concern. He looked down at you, noticing your wide eyes and instantly feeling guilty for worrying you. “Oh, no no no, Peaches,” he brought his hand to cradle your jaw, his thumb gently brushing over your lips. “I was just wondering if this would be considered Lucy and Ethel antics.”

Relief flooded your body, an exhale leaving your lips as you complained, “Oh my god, Tae,” reaching up to smack his arm lightly.

“Is it?” He insisted, a wide childlike smile spread across his face.

“Falling for your best friend and then hooking up with them?” You asked as you mouth slowly formed into a smile. Nodding, he giggled, lowering his head to place a soft kiss to your collar bone, trailing them up to your shoulder before he nuzzled his face in your neck, rubbing his nose against the sensitive area where your neck curved into your jaw. “I think the show would have been a lot more interesting if Lucy and Ethel fucked, don’t you think? Platonically of course,” you joked, dipping your head as he looked up at you, you catching his lips with your own, Taehyung immediately deepening it as his hand reached down to your panties, his fingers digging underneath the waist band.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” he replied as his hand slid further underneath the material. Smirking against your lips as you gasped. “Everyone loves a little platonic friendship.”

[silveraccent]

Running From The Pasta || Grace & Connor

TIMING: After this solo, a week or so ago. PARTIES: @connorspiracy SUMMARY: Grace and Connor run into one another while Grace is covered in pasta sauce. They run into some rancid ghost vibes and make a break for it, but not until they reveal a bit of their traumas to each other. TRIGGER: Death, blood, minor car accident. 

Grace wasn’t sure what she saw. It couldn’t have been Renee. She wouldn’t let herself believe that it was. That was something else, bent and broken-- years of distance put between them, albeit forced, unnecessary, heart breaking. The farther she ran, the more angry she felt. What kind of cruel trick? Grace finally found it in herself to stop running, to sit at a bench, faded greens and silvers, the paint having been chipped away by years of wear and tear. The sky was still a deep violet, and the fog made it hard for her to see beyond five feet. It hung in the air, and Grace swore it would swallow her whole. She hung her head in her hands, the heels of her hands digging into her eyes. The smell of pasta sauce burned her nose, and made her feel sick. Taking a deep breath, she leaned back against the bench and stared up at the sky before she rounded her gaze to land on somebody-- a familiar face that she had seen online. “Connor, right?” She called to him as she glanced at the camera in his hand. “Are you filming this?” Though, could she blame him? It was unbelievable, the way the town looked right now. 

Strange things happening in White Crest was the norm. So much so that Connor wondered if they could even be called strange at all. Regardless, it was always a little alarming when a terrified girl covered in a sticky red substance runs past you, seemingly holding back sobs of fear. He followed a few steps as she half-collapsed on a bench, only realising when she pointed it out that he was still holding his camera. “I was filming the fog.” He closed his lens cap, crouching near her to get a better look. Now that he was closer, he could smell the overwhelming and almost putrid scent of tomato. At least it wasn’t blood. “I thought you were bleeding. Are you okay?” 

“The fog. Right.” Grace dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, a move to make what she had seen flit from her vision. She still couldn’t believe her eyes. She bit back another whimper mixed with tears as she looked up at him. “I’m not bleeding, no…” She looked down at her hands and wiped them against her pants, tomato sauce seen despite the dark clothes. “It’s pasta sauce.” She laughed, and she realized how stupid she now sounded. “I’m fine, I just… dropped something and it scared the shit out of me.” She looked up to meet Connor’s gaze. “I look weird, right? I mean, I’d prefer people think I’m running around covered in blood, not pasta sauce, because…” she trailed off. 

“Whoa, whoa, it’s alright, love. Slow down.” Connor stepped closer to her, taking a seat next to her on the bench. “Sort of puts all the weird shit in perspective when someone tells you they’d rather be covered in blood than pasta sauce,” he said with a slight chuckle, just trying to make light of a weird, difficult situation. “I think I have an overnight bag with some spare clothes in the car, if you wanna change…” He did his best to not make that sound creepy. “People have been talking about all sorts of weird things popping up and scaring them recently. If it helps, you’re not alone.” 

“Does it?” Grace let out a shaky laugh. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say. The joke would go over the heads of most. She leaned into the bench and looked over at him, her eyebrows pulled up at his words. “Am I not? Did something happen to you?” Grace looked down at her bag, its usual tan fabric now smeared red. She frowned slightly. She could still feel the burn in her eyes from her crying fit, but Connor’s general concerned nature overlapped her fear, and she let it. “I think I’ll take you up on the clothes change,” Grace nodded slowly. They’d be big on her, but she wasn’t ready to go home yet. She could go to the office, maybe. Sleep on her floor. She had an extra pair of clothes there. “If it’s okay.” She looked back over at him and offered a smile, though she wasn’t sure if it was genuine. 

“I mean, most people would just pick the other option, I think,” Connor answered with a little chuckle. He could tell this poor girl was really shaken up. “Come on.” He gestured for her to follow, leading her to his car, a spacious Land Rover Discovery. Luckily, he always had everything on-hand that he might need if he decided to have an overnight shoot, towels, dry shampoo, baby wipes, and spare clothes. He was a smaller guy, so the clothing wouldn’t be too out of place on her. “I usually lay the back seats down flat if I’m not driving with anyone so I can have all my equipment there, so there should be plenty of room.” He unlocked the car, handing her anything he thought might be useful, then closed the door most of the way and turned his back so she could change comfortably. “So… what happened, anyway?” 

Grace followed him reluctantly. At this point, she’s not sure if she’s stupid for trusting strangers, or if she has the ability to tell if somebody genuinely means her harm. It didn’t seem like he did. As they approached his car, she raised an eyebrow. It was nicer than anything she had ever owned. Youtube must have paid nicely, or maybe he was a rich kid with a dream. She glanced over at him for a moment, then looked down as he began handing over the things that she needed to successfully get rid of her tomato sodden clothes. “Oh, thanks.” She gave him a meek smile, her eyes still burning. She slid into the car and did her best to clean herself up. “Uh…” Grace mumbled as she pulled his shirt over her head. “You know all this fog? I think it’s doing something weird to my head.” Grace wanted to tell him more, but she was hesitant. He seemed to know a lot already. Once she was finished cleaning up, she slid out of the car, her dirty clothes crumpled into her tote bag. She tucked it to her chest and offered him a smile. “I saw an old friend who I shouldn’t have seen,” Grace said after a moment as she lowered her bag to her waistline, not wanting to smell anymore of the tomato sauce. 

Connor was respectful. He kept his back turned and made sure to give her plenty of room so she could change in private and not feel as if he was hovering over her shoulder. It was probably a little weird, inviting someone he didn’t know back to her car. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d turned him down. “Like, making you see things?” She wasn’t the first person to have said something like that. Some of his regular ghosts had reported being able to be seen by all kinds of people, then there had been the Fog Fish he’d seen with Ariana. “This might be a bit personal,” he started. “But the old friend. Is she… dead?” 

“Yeah, making me see things,” Grace said after a moment. She wasn’t sure what she saw, but she knew how it made her feel. Terrified, distraught, angry. She held the bag closer to her stomach, using it as a comfort item. She looked at him warily as he asked his question. Of course he knew, it was what his entire youtube channel was about. She cleared her throat and nodded. “Yeah, she is. Has been for awhile, so why--” Grace stopped for a moment. She didn’t want to ask why Renee would still be hanging around, or if whatever was happening in White Crest just.. No, there was no explanation. “Do you know what’s going on?” Grace asked him after a pregnant pause. “The truth, if you have it.” 

“I think we’re all seeing things.” In the distance, Connor heard the galloping of horses hooves. He lifted his head to see what looked strangely like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse run through a nearby intersection, chasing down some poor bastard on a bicycle. “Ghosts, non-ghosts, other weird shit…” He shook his head. “Isn’t that just another day in White Crest? I don’t know what’s causing it, but I know it’s not just you.” 

Grace looked up just in time to see the headless horseman. Grace’s eyebrows pulled together. That couldn’t be real, right? “That…” Grace bit the inside of her cheek. She wanted to believe it, that way it’d be easier. Things would be easier if she didn’t second guess it-- there was so much evidence already that this was all real. She swallowed thickly. “I guess you’re right, it’s everyone.” It was obvious that everyone had been dealing with their own issues, that they were being chased by what seemed to be their own fears. “Have you seen anything that’s for you?” She asked as she cut her gaze away from the horse. 

Connor couldn’t help but stare. Fortunately, the horses kept going, right on past the intersection, continuing to chase the person on the bike. He cleared his throat, swallowing the large lump that resided there. “Me?” He looked at her a little dumbly, as if he didn’t understand the question. “No, no. What would I possibly have to see?” And of course, fate saw fit to answer that question for him. 

“Connor! Con-man, you little bastard,” an older man with an almost indiscernible accent called from across the street, and Connor’s eyes widened. Uncle Joe. Wielding a massive fucking baseball bat. “You exorcised me? You really fucking exorcised me, you little shit? I oughta beat you black and blue.” 

“Get in the car!” He half-shoved Grace inside, pulling the doors shut and hitting the lock button as quickly as he could. Uncle Joe was fighting his way through traffic to cross the road and get to them, and glass shattered, filling the vehicle as Connor pulled away from the curb. “Shit! Are you okay?!” 

Things seemed to be changing quickly. Grace wasn’t sure if she was allowing for Connor’s inquisitive nature to rub off on her or not, but Renee was half-forgotten. Maybe it was the fact that she changed her clothes. Grace quirked an eyebrow and simply nodded. She wasn’t sure if she’d like somebody poking into what she had seen, though she had already opened up to it. Grace turned at the sound of yelling, however, and her eyes widened at the sight of a ghostly man, baseball bat in his hands. “Uh--” Grace said under her breath, but before she could react, Connor was pushing her into his car. She obediently followed his directions and threw herself into the seat, her bag falling to the floor of the car. “I’m fine--” Grace held onto the edge of her seat. “You said you didn’t have anything to see, I’m taking that wasn’t true?” She asked as she turned in her seat to look behind her as the ghost ran after them, yelling words she couldn’t quite hear.

“Well, I didn’t think I did have anything to see!” Bloody America and their cars on the wrong side of the road. Connor was still getting used to it at the best of times, never mind when he was trying to drive through thick fog with a spirit chasing him. “Fuck sake.” He narrowly dodged another vehicle whose fog lights seemed to be failing, and he prayed for his own to hold on. A gaggle of zoo animals seemed to have escaped and were having their own little fucking circus at the interchange, and Uncle Joe was still waving his baseball bat, chasing Connor at an impossible speed for someone on foot. “I hope your fucking seatbelt is on.” He took another turn, way too harshly. “It’s my Uncle. I exorcised him. Obviously he isn’t happy about it.”

Grace stared ahead, her heart in her throat. She had wanted quiet when she moved to White Crest. Not whatever this was. She could feel fear from Connor, maybe something else, too. Grace let out a yelp as a vehicle swerved towards them, but Connor was able to avoid it. “What in the hell--” Grace twisted to look out the side window, eyes widened at the sight of the animals. Her seatbelt wasn’t on. Grace quickly clicked it over her chest and held onto it tightly. “Obviously not.” Grace let out a breath as she braced herself, half-expecting the ghostly pack of wolves to interfere with them as they drove forward, but it went through the car and they continued on their way. “How are we going to get away from that?” Grace asked as she looked in the side mirror. Her voice sounded entirely too calm for what was currently happening. 

“Fuck! Bloody fucking hell--” Connor didn’t know where the hell he was going. He just knew that they had to get the hell out of there. He took another turn, as if randomly changing directions would confuse the spirit. He didn’t exactly want to lead Uncle Joe home, but that was the only place he could think to go. Grace was right. They couldn’t outrun him. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” Connor mumbled to himself. He closed his eyes, bringing the car to a stop. Uncle Joe swung at the wing mirror, sending it flying in smashed plastic over the side of the road. “You’re not real. And you tried to kill my dad,” he said, staring at the man. “I said I was sorry.” Before the apparition could say anything else, Connor reversed back, just far enough to adjust his angle and open the driver’s side door, smashing it into Uncle Joe’s face and sending him falling in a heap of his own blood. 

“What the fuck, you little bastard!” Uncle Joe gargled through his own blood. “I taught you everything you know. Everything you have is because of me! Your dad abandoned us.” 

“You tried to kill him! You almost broke his neck!” Connor yelled, now clutching the baseball bat Uncle Joe had dropped. This wasn’t fucking real. Uncle Joe was gone, and even if he was still around, no ghost would have that much blood for him to spill. “Now I… am trying… to get this poor girl home,” Connor grunted, collapsing in frustration against a nearby bench. “So would you kindly bugger off?” 

“You’re a little bastard,” Uncle Joe murmured from his position on the concrete, trying to get to his feet. “I never shoulda appeared to you, you know that? Your damn dad and my unfinished business. I shoulda let you think you were a fucking freak.” But he got up and started walking away, and Connor let out a heavy sigh, utterly exhausted.

Grace held onto her seatbelt as Connor came to an abrupt stop. She forced herself back in her seat and turned to watch as the ghost swung his bat, plastic shattering through the air. Grace leaned into her seat, away from the two. She watched in shock and terror as Connor began to speak. Something about his dad, had she heard that right? Grace swallowed thickly and let out a small yelp as she leaned into her own door, the car reversing, and then the car door coming into contact with the man’s face. Grace’s eyes widened at the sight. This couldn’t be real, could it? There was no way-- Connor had just, he had just killed somebody. 

No, she reminded herself. This isn’t real-- it’s real, but he’s not real, he’s already dead. A fear manifested by Connor, that’s how it had been explained. Grace watched as Connor took to a nearby bench. She was unsure of what to do, but the ghost was gone. She tentatively opened the door and rounded the front of the vehicle. “Are you okay?” She asked, voice shaky. 

Connor was barely aware of Grace approaching him, but he looked up as she did. He wasn’t much of a crier, but there were a few tears threatening to make an appearance. He pushed them back, wiping his face with his hands. “Yeah, that was just really bloody weird, you know?” He looked over the wrecked car. “No wonder insurance premiums are so high in this flipping town.” He stood up, climbing back in. “Come on. Doubt anyone’s going to pull me over for a broken mirror with all this shit going on. I’ll take you home.” 

Grace wasn’t sure what to say, she wanted to say something, but she wasn’t sure how to address it. She bit the inside of her cheek and simply nodded at his words, not wanting to push it any further. Of course she wanted answers, but things were strange enough without her prompting him for answers that it was quite possible he didn’t have. “Honestly, yeah.” Grace carded her fingers through her hair, her hand shaking slightly. “Probably not,” Grace said after a moment, following him back to the car. Once they were inside, she twisted to put her seatbelt on. A tiger, or maybe it wasn’t a tiger at all-- maybe it was something else, something unseen, began to devour Uncle Joe. Grace straightened forward, her gaze on the road. Maybe she would leave that out. 

[wondersofdreaming]

Do you believe in fate?

Characters: Chris Evans x Bianca (OFC)

Word count: 2.598

Warnings: Fluff, fluff, and more fluff. Panic attack. Anxiety. Lack of confidence. Captain America to the rescue.

Author’s note: Anonymous request:

“CE x reader, reader works a office desk job and a 9-5 she’s tall/overweight and wants to lose it for her health. She hates her job and dreams of being an actress, she’s around Chris’ age and she thinks it’s too late to get started, she struggles with confidence. She also has depression and social anxiety. I have a long story idea that I’d like you to add/ change it/ complete it. I’ll number my post so the order won’t confuse you. Hope you’re up for a challenge. 😊 (pt1.)”

Read the rest of the request here.

I do not own any of the characters in this short story besides my OFC (Bianca), who is a figment of my imagination.

MASTERLIST

Tag: @katerka88​ 

Feedback is appreciated.

Another day on the job had come and gone. Bianca stretched her arms over her head, cracking her back. Having to sit down in front of a computer five days a week, was taking its toll on her body. Her mother was the best chef in the city, but her food was made with full-fat milk and lots of butter. It was sticking to her belly, thighs, ass, and face. She was getting chubbier by the minute, and the added weight was concerning her since she knew that her BMI count was way too high. Higher than it should be. And she wasn’t getting any younger either. Her mother had started pestering her about grandchildren the day she had turned 30.

Her phone chimed from the other end of her desk, indicating a text message. Probably her mother that needed her to pick up groceries on her way home.

“B, I need you to get me some garlic and onions. I’m making your favourite stew tonight.”

Bianca replied and tossed her phone back into her purse. She needed to finish editing the article that was supposed to have been done an hour ago. All her colleagues had already left the building. Some had invited her out for a drink, but she had declined. Not a big fan of large crowds, especially not in a bar or a club.

Her boss had already been busting her ass on the deadline. She wanted to finish the damn article before she left the office for the weekend. So, she quickly typed the last thousand words and sent it. Hopefully, it was good enough to be printed, else she was going to get an earful on Monday.

She drove to the supermarket closest to her home. Grabbed a cart and started finding the things her mother needed. The list having become longer since the last message. Onions, garlic, carrots, broccoli, cabbage… soon enough her cart was full of all kinds of vegetables, dried pasta in various sizes and shapes, sauces from all over the world, and the usual, eggs, milk, toilet paper etc.

She filled up her car with the paper bags of groceries and bumped into a man when she turned around with the cart. He wore a dark blue jumper, washed-out jeans, and a baseball cap on top of his head.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t think anyone was behind me. Are you alright? I do apologize. I can’t believe I did that. Are you hurt?” Bianca babbled, she kept apologizing profusely, praying she hadn’t hurt him.

“I’m okay. You should look around more carefully. You never know who you’re going to run into.” He said. His voice deep, low, sexy, panty-melting, and swoon-worthy. Bianca furrowed her brow in concern.

“I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She mumbled. Then a light went off in her head. She had heard that voice before. She knew that voice.

Fucking hell, B. This was SO not how I imagined meeting Chris Evans. Oh no, please eyes, don’t cry now!

Tears were threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes. There was a high-pitched tone in both her ears. She saw Chris’ mouth moving, but she couldn’t hear him. Her heart rate went through the roof. Her body was shaking. Her palms sweating. Her breathing was uneven, taking short breaths way too fast.

Chris grabbed her shoulders and guided her to the boot of her car, which was still open. He pushed her gently into sitting down and showed her to take deep breaths. In and out. A few minutes later the ringing quieted down, and she could hear Chris again.

“Are you alright? That was quite the panic attack you had there.” He said and rubbed her back in a soothing motion.

“I am so sorry you had to witness that. I’m okay.” Bianca told him, she tried to move, but Chris held her firmly down.

“You’re staying right there, miss. You nearly passed out. Wait here, don’t move.” He told her and walked into the store. He came back out with a bottle of water and a chocolate bar.

“Thank you. You didn’t need to go through the trouble.” She said nervously as he handed her the water.

“It’s no trouble at all. Panic attacks are horrible to go through alone. Is there someone I can call to come to get you?” He asked. She shook her head. Chris opened the chocolate bar, motioning for her to take a bite of it. She held the bar, noticing it was her favourite, before taking a bite.

“No, I live close by. I’ll manage to get home. Thank you so much for your kindness.” She smiled at him. Chris nodded and moved towards his car. He turned around to see if Bianca had moved. She hadn’t. She hid her head in her hands, her elbows on her knees.

Chris sighed and walked back towards her. He heard her take in deep breaths, mumbling something to herself. He heard a few negative laden words that criticized her. Before he could stop himself or even think, he had wrapped his arms around her trembling body.

Bianca gasped, but she leaned into Chris’ embrace. She could feel his warmth seeping through her thin white jumper. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes, but she kept them at bay, not wanting to look like a weepy woman in front of her idol.

She collected her thoughts and got enough courage to move away from Chris. His eyes were still concerned, but she managed a soft smile.

“I’m really okay. Thank you though.” She said and gathered her purse. She stood from the boot and walked the empty cart to its station. Chris was still waiting for her.

“Are you sure that you can get home?” He asked.

“Absolutely. Thank you again, Mr Evans.”

“Call me Chris. Do you want to go out for coffee? To talk this through?” He asked, fidgeting with the edge of his jumper.

“Ehm. I really need to get back home, to my mum.” Bianca mumbled.

“Alright, how about we exchange phone numbers, then we can set a date for coffee later.”

Bianca fished out her phone from her purse and handed it to him, before a single thought you prevent her. Chris typed a text message to himself and handed the phone back. His own phone chimed in his pocket, signalling that the message had been received.

“You can call me anytime. I’ll see you around… I’m sorry, I never asked for your name.”

“It’s Bianca.”

“Bianca. I like that name. I’ll call you for that coffee, Bianca.”

Her name rolled off his tongue so perfectly. She was ready to pass out, this time not from a panic attack, but by how Chris freaking Evans was saying her name. Chris walked back to his car, while Bianca went to sit behind the steering wheel. She fanned her face, having begun blushing really hard after Chris had said her name, not once but twice. Bianca drove home, feeling a lot better than she had an hour earlier, not even her mother’s nagging about her coming home late could ruin her good mood.

A week later

Chris had sent her a text message, asking if she was free for that coffee he’d promised. She wrote back that she had Saturday off, in which Chris replied that he would love to occupy her time that day.

Saturday came and Bianca was throwing on clothing, nothing seemed to fit her perfectly, neither did they even look good on her. The only thing she felt comfortable in was a pair of old jeans and a loose fit navy blouse. She felt too casual, but the outfit had to do since she was out of time. Her alarm rung initiating that she was supposed to be out the door that instant.

“Bye ma! I’ll see you later,” she yelled across the house and walked towards her car in a fast tempo, so her mother wouldn’t keep her with questions or small-talk.

She drove to a nearby diner, where they had agreed to meet. It was placed outside the city, looked like a hazardous place from the outside, but every local knew that place was golden inside.

Chris was already sitting in a booth furthest away from the front entrance. He smiled when he and Bianca got eye contact. She couldn’t contain herself and gave him the happiest smile back. She hadn’t felt like smiling nor being happy in a long time.

“Bianca, I’m glad you came.” He chuckled nervously and held out his hand. She shook it and sat down opposite him.

“Glad you texted.”

A waitress walked over with her notepad and a pen that had been chewed on at the end.

“Hi Chris, long time no see.” She smiled.

“You know me, Carol, always either travelling or working.” Chris laughed.

“And who is this young lady? Haven’t seen you here before.”

“I’m Bianca. My mum used to be a chef in the city, so she would never let me eat anything else but her food. Me being here is almost sacrilegious.” Bianca answered.

“Huh, I’ll keep my mouth shut if you do. Now, what can I get you, youngsters?”

Chris ordered without looking at the menu, while Bianca chose crepes with chocolate sauce and whipped cream, and a strawberry milkshake. It was a bit awkward, to begin with, but Chris quickly loosened her up by telling her that he was just a man having coffee and waffles with a woman. She had blushed so hard when he commented on how pretty she loved in navy.

“What kind of job do you have?” Chris asked curiously.

“I write articles for a motivational blog.” She answered, blushing again. “Not as exciting as yours, but it’s a job.”

“My job has its ups and downs as well. Don’t you like yours?”

“No really. But it’s better than nothing.”

“What is your dream job then?”

“I would love to write movie manuscripts. I got a foot inside years ago, but then my mum got sick and I had to move back home.”

“You can still write scripts from home.”

“I’ve tried. Nobody wants to hire me, I’m too un-experienced or my writing is just not good enough.”

“You really shouldn’t let yourself down like that. How about I look at some of the things you’ve written? Then you can let me be the judge on the fact if your writing is good or bad.”

Bianca tried putting her work down, again. She didn’t want anyone to ever read her scripts ever again. Someone had already done that and shot them down, brutally was the kindest word she could think of.

Chris was relentless. It took him a few months, but he finally got you to send him a manuscript you had written years ago. He read everything you sent and gave you some positive and negative feedback. A year into your friendship he got you a meeting with a famous scriptwriter, who wanted you to come work for him, so you quit your old boring job and finally started doing what you loved.

It took another year before Bianca could move out of her mother’s house, and it took a lot of convincing before her mother would let her leave, but you succeeded by promising to come home for Sunday dinners.

Life couldn’t be any better, except for the growing feelings you had for Chris. Your support, your friend, your mentor. He had helped you so much over the past two years that you were unsure of how to tell him about your feelings.

“Hey B, earth to B.” Chris chuckled and waved a hand in front of her face. Bianca snapped out of the dream she was having.

“What?” She asked.

“You zoned out pretty hard, went to outer space or something?”

“Or something.” She mumbled and took a gulp of her iced coffee. “I’m sorry, what did you want to ask me?”

“My mom is having a barbecue on Saturday; would you like to come?”

“Of course, what should I bring?”

“You know my mom, there’ll be plenty of food.”

Saturday

Bianca did bring her mother’s amazing potato salad to the barbecue. She was brought up that you didn’t come to a barbecue empty-handed. She laughed and enjoyed herself with Chris’ family, who all had come to love her and treated her as one of their own, which Bianca appreciated.

Chris drove her home that evening, as she had one too many glasses of wine. He helps her into her flat, which was quite hard, as she was giggling and not cooperating at all. It took him 10 minutes to get her inside, another 20 minutes to get her coaxed into bed. He put a glass of water and two aspirin on her nightstand. He looked at her sleeping form. Her lips slightly parted. Her hands resting under her cheek. He brushed a stray hair out of her face, making her face scrunch before relaxing again. He let out a small chuckle before standing to leave. Bianca grabbed his wrist in her sleep.

“Don’t go, stay with me, don’t leave me.” She mumbled. Chris smiled, but he took off his jeans and shirt to lie next to her. He gathered her into his arms, just wanting to hold her and keep her close to him. His protective instincts kicking in.

“I love you, Chris,” Bianca grumbled and moved to her other side. Chris heard her clearly. He kissed her forehead, went to sleep with a lighter heart and a smile on his lips.

The next morning

Bianca awoke with a raging headache. It felt like her head was about to explode; the pounding was excruciating. Then a delicious aroma of bacon and coffee reached her nose. She noticed the water and aspirin on her nightstand. A smile spread on her face. She put on her robe and walked towards the kitchen, where Chris was preparing a batch of scrambled eggs.

“Smells amazing in here,” Bianca said and grabbed a piece of crispy bacon. Chris turned around and smiled widely.

“Anything for the snoring princess.” He teased.

“I don’t snore!”

“You sounded like a tractor. Took me forever to fall asleep.”

“You could hear me from the guest room?”

“No.”

Then it dawned on Bianca that she had asked Chris not to leave her in her drunken sleepy state.

“Oh god. What have I done?” She mumbled into her hands, hiding her blushing face. Chris just chuckled at her. He put down the spatula and moved the eggs from the heat. He wrapped his strong hands around her wrist and pulled her hands away, so he could look into her beautiful eyes.

“I love you too.” He whispered. Her eyes widened in shock. He just kept smiling and bent down so their lips were mere centimetres apart. He was letting her take the last step.

Bianca let out a big sigh, then cupped the back of Chris’ head and crashed her lips to his. It was an amazing first kiss. Heat was spreading through their bodies, the air was electric between them, and not even the thunderous storm that was beginning outside could break them apart.

“Do you believe in fate?” Bianca asked.

“That you were meant to crash into me with a supermarket cart? Definitely yes, I do believe in that specific fateful encounter.” Chris smiled, which earned him a light smack on his chest. He just kissed her senseless. “Be mine?”

“Forever.”

[reckoningss]

Mercy Springs - Four

Summary:  Mercy Booker holds these truths to be self-evident: animals are significantly more relatable than people and working as a veterinary tech in a sleepy little town is as close to the “good life” as she’s going to get. When a strange man shows up at her clinic after hours with an injured dog, she has a decision to make – go on living the quiet life she’s come to know, or open the door to the exhilarating unknown.

Pairing: Pete Castiglione/Frank Castle x OC (Mercy Booker)

Warnings: Language, Violence

Wordcount:

A/N: Sh*t’s about to get real

Four pairs of pale, bruised hands reached for her. Mercy kept swinging. She flailed, wielding the bat like the lifeline it was, only just keeping her attackers at bay. They rushed in and retreated with every arc -- ebbing and flowing -- their eyes glittering. All jagged teeth and breathy laughter like a pack of hyenas. 

That made her the prey. 

The cap of the bat met the wall, shattering one of the clinic’s many certificates and littering the floor around her sneakered feet with more glass. Something in her chest tightened; she’d swung wide, only a few inches or so but the movement was enough. One of them rushed in, his clammy heat enveloping her. Bony hands clamped down on Mercy’s tricep halting her backswing. She jerked back, threw her shoulders and center mass away from the hooded assailant, but his fingers dug into her flesh -- dimpling, bruising with a strength that his lean figure belied. 

“Gotcha.” Sour air washed over the side of her face as he hissed. 

Mercy almost flinched away, but she gritted her teeth and let loose a growl. It was deep and angry, a warning with no action to back it up, but the rumble in her chest set her blood racing. Hot. Ready. She was going to fight like an injured animal and they’d have to put her down to get out of here alive. 

Another stalked forward with arms outstretched. Mercy leaned back into her captor, her shoulder forcing air from his lungs as she kicked out as his companion. Her foot caught the interloper in the jaw -- hard --skin molding to sneaker, something in there cracking. His lips sprayed an arc of blood against the wall, one of the doctor’s diplomas dappled a vital red, and he stumbled back, clutching with shaking hands at the dripping carnage of his mouth. Beneath the gasping gurgle of his throat the clack of teeth against linoleum. 

Mercy’s heart sang. She helped things for a living-- fixed broken creatures. She’d set countless bones, stitched wounds, and administered aide without the slightest concern for all the scratches and bites. But right now, at this moment, Mercy wanted to break. To shriek and rage and tear into with her teeth.  

 “Bitch!” someone shouted. 

She lashed out again when another approached, but this one was ready and quick, wrapping long fingers around her ankle and yanking. All of Mercy’s weight came out from underneath her -- her world tilting, that weightless sinking feeling in her stomach. The bat slipped from her grasp. 

Mercy hit the ground hard, pain radiating up and down her spine. Gasping, mouth agape like a fish out of water, lungs useless and unable to take in air. A high ringing sounded in her ears, overtaking all of the sounds around her. She hurt. Ached. Pulsed. Her head, her back, her hands and feet. She could have cried her breath came back to her, flooding her lungs with air.

There was no time to cry. No sooner had she started coughing than they hauled her up, the wooden shaft of the bat beneath her chin, depressing her newly reopened esophagus. She wrapped her hands around it, trying in vain to lift it from her throat. 

“Ah ah ah.” The leader was in front of her now. His switchblade glittered as he waved it in her face. “Behave.”

Mercy knew he was aiming for intimidation; she wasn’t very adept at people, but that much was obvious. But she didn’t still against her captor’s chest out of fear, it was simple self-preservation. Survival instinct. Turning inward and delving beneath the staccato hammering of her heart, Mercy could only find the faintest layer of fear. She tried to summon it, to cultivate it, but mostly she felt anger. 

That’s not the correct response to this situation.

But she was angry.  Furious. Vengeful. And if she was going to die, she’d rather feel fire than ice. 

“We asked you nicely before,” the leader whispered, his voice rattling low like a snake. “We won’t be so nice anymore.” 

“Fuck you.” 

The words were out of Mercy’s mouth before they’d even fully conceptualized in her mind, but there they were. Hanging over her head like the blade of a guillotine. The leader’s face darkened beneath the overhang of his hood. His knife and teeth flashed.

“Have it your way.” 

Mercy had always prided herself on being particularly observant. Sure, she couldn’t always decipher all the things, but she noticed them. Which is why it came as a surprise to her when a dark figure materialized behind one of her attackers. It wasn’t there and then it was, palming the head of the young man and slamming it into the wall. One of the frames splintered with the force. Another hail of debris on the littered floor. Another body slumped among the wreckage. 

“What the fu-” 

The grip on the bat to Mercy’s throat had loosened ever so little and she took the opportunity to launch back and headbutt her captor in the nose. Pain blossomed in the the crown of her head, but she grasped the bat and wrenched it from free. 

“You fucki-” 

Mercy chocked up on the familiar grip and swung at the same time she turned. Wood crunched against the attacker’s shoulder, sending him to the floor in a yelping, agonized heap. She held the bat on him even as she craned her neck to view the chaos behind her. 

The figure had already subdued the other interlopers. The one she’d kicked lay unconscious, bleeding onto the tile. With one seemless movement, the figure slammed the leader to the floor and sank the knife into his thigh. The hooded goon howled like a wolf caught in a bear trap and promptly fainted. 

The figure stood to full height again, shoulders barely rising after the feat of fighting off three people. Mercy pointed the cap of the bat at the center of their chest. 

“Don’t come any closer!”

The figure bared its palms before raising a hand toward its head. Mercy hefted the bat onto her shoulder again. “I swear to God.”

The figure pulled the hoodie from their head, revealing a familiar face. 

“Pete?” 

His face looked austere in the dim light filtering in from the streetlamps --deep set eyes and high cheekbones. Mercy nearly dropped the bat in relief. She might’ve hugged him, but she rarely initiated physical contact, especially not of her own free will. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Are you ok?” Pete ignored her question, taking a step toward her, hands still upturned. “Did they hurt you?”

Mercy shook her head. Her back, head, and arms would disagree with her, but she’d come out of this ordeal on the winning side. “Not really, no.” 

Pete took another step forward, entering her bubble, the inner sanctum of her personal space that she kept, largely, impenetrable. Even Dr. Leibowitz knew not to invade her bubble on most days. Mercy breathed through her nose, taking in his cherry wood smell and standing stock still. He was closer than she allowed most people, but he’d just saved her life so she would tolerate his closeness. For now. 

He didn’t touch her, just looked at her intently like he was scanning her for injuries. She knew that had to be what he was doing, it didn’t make his proximity easier. His breath feathered over her face, prompting Mercy to shut her eyes. She hated his nearness but, at the same time, she liked it too. It made her feel safe. Her fingers flexed around the baseball bat, wanting to curl into the soft fleece of his jacket and pull him in. 

That has to be the adrenaline, she told herself. You were this close to losing your life and now you’re going crazy. 

“You should call the cops.” Pete’s deep voice pulled her from her thoughts. “Are they already on their way?” 

She shook her head. “I didn’t get to call them before...” Her eyes flitted over the five prone bodies on the floor, some still as the grave. 

Pete strode over to the reception desk and snatched up the landline. He extended it toward her expectantly. “Call the cops.” 

“I will.” Across the skin of his exposed forearm, a red slash. She took hold of his wrist, ignoring the phone altogether. She was surprised that her skin didn’t crawl when it contacted his. It warmed. “Let me take care of that first.”

Pete tried to shake off her grasp. “It’s nothing. You need to get the police out here.”

“You need to be gone before they get here.” 

“You expect me to leave you alone here? With them?” The disbelieving arch of a brow. 

“They’re all half dead,” Mercy exaggerated. “And I have a bat.”

“Mercy.” He said her name like a whole sentence. Mercy--full stop. She found herself looking up into his dark eyes, full of something she couldn’t quite place. She wanted to believe it was concern. And maybe fondness.

“I will call the police, but you have to be gone.” He looked as though he wanted to argue but she cut him off. “I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, Pete, but I don’t think you want the authorities poking around. I’ll tell them it was one of their own. Tell ‘em he ran off.” 

She took the phone from him, ignored the graze of her fingers against his. “Please.” 

Pete wasn’t happy about it, but he left. Steel-toed boots crunching through the splintered wood and shattered glass. Mercy watched his wide back disappear into the night after he stopped to give her one final reluctant glance. Only then did she pick up the receiver with trembling fingers and dial those three numbers.

While she waited, wiping Pete’s finger prints off the door and carefully from the handle of the knife, she found something. Crushed beneath the bulk of an overturned chair. She pulled it out with careful hands and cradled it as the telltale red and blue began to strobe across the clinic’s interior. 

A wrecked bouquet of blush-colored flowers, stems snapped and petals strewn and wilted. And tucked into the sweet smelling destruction, a card that read: 

thank you -P. 

[sophelia-moon]

body drowned

This is my drabble for Day 1 of MikaYuu Bingo 2020! Today’s prompt was “neko.” 

Rating: T (Warnings for: swearing; minor violence; possible suicidal imagery; ambiguous character fates but no on-screen death)

                                                     body drowned

Kimizuki Shihou found the cats at 8 PM on a Tuesday.

He’d stomped through every puddle from the hospital to his apartment building, fighting with the wind each step of the way, when he saw them—the poor soaked bastards. They were pressed up against the wall to the right of the main entrance, trying their best to avoid the rain. One had long white fur with caramel streaks near his face and paws; his companion was jet black with green eyes.

Shihou approached them cautiously, crouching down when he was a meter away. He held out his hand for them to sniff.

The white cat held back, but the black one slunk forward and examined him. Apparently, he found nothing objectionable. He proceeded to nuzzle Shihou’s leg, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

Shihou held back a sigh. His apartment allowed pets, but that didn’t mean he could invite strange animals in unannounced. Even so, if he left them behind to fetch them something to eat, they could vanish before he made it back.

He took off his glasses and rubbed them against the dry fabric beneath his raincoat. When he set them back on his face, his vision was clear. “Are you two going to behave?”

The black cat purred as Shihou gently deposited him into his bag.

An instant later, the white cat bit his hand.

                                                     ***

Under the current circumstances, Shihou decided it would be best to avoid the lobby. Circling around to the guest parking lot, he slipped in the back and made a beeline for the elevator. Thankfully, no one else was around.

At first, Shihou feared the white cat was going to crawl his way out, but he calmed down after the black cat gave his forehead a few licks. The real miracle was their silence; Shihou didn’t take it for granted as he ascended to the ninth floor as fast as he was able.

Once he fished out his key and shoved open the door, he couldn’t help but relax his shoulders. Setting his bag on the ground, he watched his guests crawl over each other, eager to escape and be the first to examine their temporary abode. After a moment’s thought, Shihou went and shut the screen door to the balcony; the last thing he needed was an accident.

“You guys must be hungry, right?” Shihou said, walking over to the cupboard and grabbing two cans of tuna. “I’ll have your dinner ready soon.”

Once he placed their meal on the floor, they set upon it like wolves. Shihou took the opportunity to put his own dinner in the microwave, a half smile on his face.

After the tuna was devoured, the white cat prowled around the apartment, examining every surface he could reach. The black cat was content to stay in place and groom himself, brushing a paw over his ear in quick, repetitive motions.

Considering the bite marks on his hand, Shihou figured it would be best to leave the two to their devices and sneak them out early in the morning. There was nothing he wanted more than a nice, deep sleep.

                                                     ***

Shihou woke at dawn to the sound of his fridge being opened.

There’s no way they managed that, Shihou thought, almost forgetting who “they” were. He sat up as quietly as he could, his right hand fumbling for the glasses on his nightstand. 

Sliding out of bed, Shihou crept a short distance down the hallway and peered around the corner.

A man he’d never seen before was standing in his kitchen, chugging milk straight from the carton. He was wearing a navy blue baseball cap over his black hair, along with a sweatshirt and sweatpants that looked too large for him.

He’s wearing my clothes.

This fact stunned Shihou almost as much as the sight of the white cat, resting peacefully in the stranger’s left arm.

“What the fuck?”

The man glanced at him. “Hey.”

He put the milk back in the fridge and slammed it shut.

“Hope you don’t mind if I take the cat back,” he said. “He’s all mine, and I’m not giving him up.”

It was so far from the problem that Shihou found himself lacking a response.

As it turned out, he didn’t need to reply. In a few swift steps, the man crossed over to the balcony and threw himself over the side—cat and all.

It took Shihou a few minutes to find the willpower to follow him. His hands trembled as he gripped the metal railing, still wet with rain, and looked down.

Even from this distance, he could tell: there was nothing there. No blood, no body.

Shihou sank to the ground and put his head in his hands. 

Thank God was his first thought.

Not my problem was his second. 

                                                     ***

Kimizuki Shihou crawled back to bed at 7:35 AM. In his slumber, he dreamed of cats.