#just to get engagement and attention for your half hearted and miserable attempts at hate messages

[djarinova]

people still make hate accounts in the year 2024.... like... they're fully reblogging posts about someone they claim to hate, from fan accounts of said person, just to say shit like "x does it better" or "these fans are so stupid they think this is art" .... why

[thatsamericano]

I Know My Love Should Be Celebrated, But You Tolerate It

Pairing: America/Romano, human AU

Ratings/Warnings: Teen, mild angst and some homophobia from human OCs.

Word Count: 2100

Summary: Alfred needs to tell his mother he’s engaged, but he knows she won’t be happy for him the way Matthew was when he got the news.

Alfred was sitting on the couch with his hand clasped in Savino’s, staring at the cell phone that was resting on the coffee table. Part of him didn’t want to pick it up to tell his mother that he was engaged now, because he knew she wouldn’t have the reaction he was hoping for.

Last night, he’d called Mattie only a few minutes after Savino had proposed. Matthew said congratulations, told Alfred he was happy for him, and most importantly, sounded completely sincere and not just like he was saying what he was supposed to. He listened while Alfred gushed about the proposal and possible wedding plans and chuckled quietly at some of Alfred’s more outlandish ideas. He was just as amused as he would’ve been if they’d been there in person and he’d been able to see Savino curled up into his side, blushing and with that fond, disbelieving grin only Alfred could put on his face. They talked for an hour and a half until Savino pointed out that it was past midnight, and Matthew might need to end the call so he could get enough sleep before he had to go into work the next day.

Alfred knew that his mother wouldn’t react like that. The first time he’d brought Vinny home to meet his family, his father shook his head and walked out of the room while muttering under his breath. Alfred had heard the car starting up outside as his mom gave them an extremely fake smile and asked them if they’d like something to drink. Later, she’d pulled Alfred aside to scold him for not “warning” his parents ahead of time that Savino was his boyfriend, not just his friend. She asked about his sexuality, and he hadn’t been able to answer to her satisfaction, because to him it wasn’t a question of men vs. women. It was a question of Savino vs. every other human being on the planet. If he couldn’t be with Vinny, he’d rather be with no one at all.

It had been two years since then, but Alfred could still vividly remember the look his mom gave him, which was identical to the look she’d give Baxter when he was a puppy and peed on the carpet. Like she loved him, because Alfred was her son and she had no other choice, but was deeply, deeply disappointed in him.

Alfred stared at the phone and jiggled his leg nervously. Savino squeezed his hand.

“You’ll have to pick up the phone eventually, tesoro.”

Alfred heaved out a sigh. “I know. It’s not like I don’t wanna tell her. I wanna tell everybody. Last night, when you asked me to marry you, was the happiest moment of my life. But I know if I tell her, she’s gonna try to make me change my mind.”

Savino smiled weakly. “But she’s not going to be able to, is she?”

Alfred shook his head and glanced back at his cell phone. “No. Nothing could ever make me change my mind.”

Vinny rubbed his hand over the back of Alfred’s hand. “I’ll be here when you call her. You won’t have to do this alone.”

He could do it. With Vinny holding his hand, he could swallow down his anxiety and tell his parents. Alfred picked up his cell phone, went to his contacts, and called his mom.

The phone rang twice before his mom answered. “Hello, Alfred.”

“Hey, Mom. I’ve got some big news to share with you.” He figured it was best to tell her right away. He glanced over at his fiancé, who was nodding in approval.

“Is it good news?”

“The best news. I’m engaged. Vinny asked me to marry him last night.” Alfred grinned, because it felt amazing to say that out loud. Some part of Alfred still couldn’t believe it was real. He was gonna marry Vinny, who was smirking because he knew it was taking every ounce of Alfred’s self-control to avoid squealing or screaming down the phone line like he had when he called Mattie the night before. Savino was adorable 24/7, but especially when he smirked like that, like he was the lucky one in this relationship. Alfred would’ve kissed him if he wasn’t waiting to hear his mom’s reaction.

He waited. And he waited. As he waited, the grin gradually fell away from his face. Alfred hadn’t been expecting anything different, but the way she couldn’t even feign a congratulations hurt.

“Oh,” she finally said. “I suppose you won’t be holding the, uh, ceremony, in a church, will you?”

“I don’t know. Vinny and I haven’t talked about that yet.” He knew they couldn’t get married in the church Alfred had been raised in, and that they couldn’t have a Catholic wedding either. Alfred noticed how she had avoided the word wedding but pretended everything was still fine.

“Will there be a gift registry?”

Alfred frowned. “Like I said, I don’t know. We just got engaged last night.”

“Then why did you call me?” His mom sounded irritated, like she had when he was five and wanted to show her a drawing he did in kindergarten and ran in while she was in the middle of doing work in her home office. That dismissal had hurt at the time, but not as much as telling his mom he was engaged and getting the same kind of reaction as a little kid clamoring for attention while their parent had something more important to focus on.

Alfred shrunk down mentally to that same age. “I just wanted to tell you because you’re my mom. I’m happy, so I thought maybe you’d be happy for me, even if you can’t be proud of me.” Tears were pricking at his eyes, and Alfred bit his lip so his mother couldn’t hear how upset he was. Savino scooted closer, so that he was pressed up against Alfred’s side. He couldn’t be closer without crawling onto Alfred’s lap.

His mother sighed, and she sounded so tired. Tired of him more than anything else. “Alfred, your father and I have been patient about this. We’ve been as tolerant as we can be.”

Alfred laughed miserably. “Sure. Dad won’t even acknowledge Vinny exists, and you tell all your snooty friends that Vinny is my roommate instead of my boyfriend. But you haven’t disowned me yet, so I’m supposed to be grateful, right?”

“There’s no need for you to get so hostile.”

Right. Because it wasn’t hostile for his parents to treat his fiancé like shit and to act like him being in love and happy was something horrible they had to tolerate and be patient about. Alfred bit his tongue to keep those nasty thoughts inside his head, and Savino nuzzled into his neck.

“I’m so sorry she’s doing this to you, caro,” Vinny murmured. Alfred silently kissed the top of his head and listened as his mother started lecturing him again.

“You’re so young. I remember being that age. You think you know everything, but you don’t.”

“I’m older than you were when you married Dad.”

His mother ignored what he said, just like he’d known she would. “I love you, Alfie. And it’s because I love you that I’m trying to help you avoid making a mistake you’ll end up regretting someday.”

Tears were leaking out of his eyes, but Alfred was so angry that his words came out as a growl rather than pathetic blubbering. Vinny deserved better than this bullshit. “Savino is the only person I’ve ever wanted to be with. I told you that two goddamn years ago. He’s been nothing but respectful to you and dad, but you guys never even gave him a chance. He isn’t a mistake, and I don’t regret anything about being with him. The only thing I regret is listening to you put him down for so fucking long.”

“Alfred, that’s—”

“I’m done. Call me when you can at least pretend to love me for who I am, instead of who you want me to be.” Alfred hung up the phone before his mother could say anything else, and Vinny immediately shifted onto his lap and started wiping away the tears from his cheeks.

Alfred sobbed harder at Savino’s kindness. “I hate her. I hate her so much for trying to talk me out of marrying you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and the only reason she can’t see it is because you’re a guy.”

Savino kissed his face and made soothing noises. “I love you so much. I wanted to rip her to shreds the second she made you cry.”

Alfred laughed wetly. “You sound so hot when you say stuff like that.”

Savino rolled his eyes and blushed at the compliment, like he blushed every single time Alfred tried to seduce him, no matter how cheesy his attempt was. “Idiota.”

Alfred surged up to kiss his fiancé, and Savino made a muffled sound of confusion but reciprocated a second later. Vinny was being too adorable and perfect for Alfred to not kiss him, but that wasn’t the only reason. He needed to feel something real, something lasting that wasn’t the rejection of the woman who brought him into this world. Savino’s hands planted on his shoulders, the warm weight of his body on top of him, and the soft pressure of their lips pressed together made Alfred feel safe and loved in a way nothing else could.

By the time they separated, Alfred was no longer crying. He felt significantly calmer as he petted Savino’s hair. “I don’t think I want my parents at the wedding.” It wasn’t a decision he would ever feel completely okay about. In an ideal world, his parents would be there in the front row, crying nostalgic tears as they watched him get married because they were so proud of him. But Alfred didn’t live in an ideal world, and he couldn’t keep pretending that he did.

Savino pressed a tiny kiss to his temple. “If you don’t want them there, then we won’t invite them. We should invite people who can celebrate with us. Unless your parents have a miraculous change of heart, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

Alfred scoffed. “If they decided to come, they’d probably act like they were going to my funeral instead of my wedding. Or they’d try to convince me I shouldn’t marry you, and I’d lose it on them a lot worse than I did today.” Alfred had been putting up with his mother’s bullshit for far too long, and he probably would’ve continued to put up with it if she had only been insulting him and not his fiancé. Alfred could take his parents’ disapproval, but he wouldn’t listen to anyone implying that Vinny wasn’t good enough for him.

Savino hummed in consideration. “We shouldn’t tell them until after the fact. Send them a postcard when we’re on our honeymoon and it’s too late for them to do anything about it.”

Alfred chuckled. “That sounds devious. I like it.” He grinned and rubbed his hands up and down Vinny’s thighs. “You should make evil plans more often. It’s sexy as hell.”

Savino snorted in disbelief, but he was grinning in the flattered, flustered way Alfred was so familiar with as he fiddled with the top button of Alfred’s shirt. “Amore, you’re hopeless. You think the way I breathe is sexy.”

“Anyone with working eyes or ears would. Which makes me a pretty lucky guy.” Alfred winked up at him, which he’d learned early on was a good way to flirt with Vinny. He wasn’t really good at this whole flirting thing, since Vinny was the only person he’d ever wanted to flirt with. All he’d ever been able to do was be a little too honest, recite lines from TV or movies, wink, and carry heavy stuff to show off his muscles. Miraculously, his clumsy attempts had actually worked.

They were working pretty well now, obviously, because Savino was leaning in less than an inch away from his mouth. “We’re both lucky, Fredo. Ti amo.”

Hearing that made Alfred weak-kneed even though he was sitting down. When Savino leaned in the rest of the way to kiss him, a shiver swept through him, even though he wasn’t cold. He grabbed at the back of Vinny’s neck and moaned when Vinny licked his way into his mouth. His mother’s reaction to his engagement, along with any other problems he had, ceased to exist as long as his fiancé was kissing him.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

37. NanaHiko, please

37. “Because I love you goddammit!”

Consider this my sourdough starter for a Nanahiko Die Hard AU. If it ever comes into a fully-realized oneshot spectacular, well. Maybe for Christmas. Anyways, this is, believe or not, a break-up scene.

//

Fighting with Sorahiko is never pretty.

To clarify, Nana doesn’t mean physical fighting. They’ve honed that particular aspect of their partnership to near-perfection (always room for improvement), and when Nana has extricated herself from a fight, sometimes she has enough time to watch Sorahiko work his brutally efficient magic on loose ends.

That kind of fighting is pretty from a professional point of view.

Anyway, what Nana means is—having an argument with Sorahiko. It’s not the first time they’ve engaged in a war of cold shoulders and barbed words, digging up old insults and humiliating stories, resolved to leave reconciliation to the other party.

Nana has always thought it boded well that it never took a mortal injury to get either her or Sorahiko to apologize. 

She is, however, very close to inflicting a mortal injury.

Sorahiko also looks close to committing partner-cide. They are spending a break from patrol by cooling their heels on a rooftop no employee bothers to spend a cigarette break at, and for the past ten minutes, have been politely exchanging words like, “Please do this,” and, “Fuck doing that.”

A full month has passed since Nana digested the whole conspiracy theory about a supervillain controlling Japan’s underground. En’s transferral of One for All had been traumatic for all parties involved, even if Sorahiko didn’t have to witness the horror that was the shoulder socket gushing blood and the half-buried body. Why? Because the first time Nana tested out her new Quirk, she had broken her notoriously hardy partner’s arm.

… It’s been a scary month all around.

“I’m not,” her partner grits out, “going to just quit being a pro-hero.”

“I didn’t say you should ditch the license,” Nana says reasonably.

“You might as well have!”

She rolls her eyes. “Splitting up for a solo career would probably mean better pay for you,” she reiterates. “Better pay, more taiyaki. You’d be a treat by yourself, Gran Torino. Any high-profile agency would want you on the payroll.”

“The salary isn’t the point,” Sorahiko snaps. 

“And you shouldn’t conflate your position as a pro-hero with your position at the Eyrie! Don’t let the agency limit your ambitions!”

“What ambitions?”

“You know,” says Nana, gesturing aimlessly. She’s trapped herself with that useless encouragement. Sorahiko is so thoroughly unambitious, he would let a pet rock win an election to Prime Minister. “Whatever made you get into heroics.”

He stares at her.

“Get out there,” she adds. “Chase your dreams.”

“You’re being stupid,” he says.

“Don’t start.”

Sorahiko starts. His mouth twists into a snarl, eyebrows drawing together under the mask, frustration creeping into his posture. He is madder than she’s ever seen him, and Nana once witnessed Sorahiko yell bloody murder at his landlord. The landlord had been reduced to tears, and furthermore, had reduced the rent for the entire complex.

Nana does not intend to yield.

“First you inherit a transferable strength Quirk that knocks you out of commission for a week,” he says, “then you get all weird about tanking hits you know I can take, and now you’re advising I leave the Eyrie by myself? For my own good?”

“Yes,” she says, already feeling miserable.

“Are you on some kind of power trip?”

“No!”

His gloved hands curl into fists, mirroring Nana’s, or maybe she is mirroring him. Another side-effect of being friends for so long; she can’t imagine what kind of pro-hero she is without Gran Torino next to her. 

A pro-hero that won’t drag their best friend into the worst conspiracy theory to come true. 

“I won’t quit until you do,” Sorahiko swears. “Are we partners or not?”

“Partnerships dissolve.”

He flinches back for once. “You don’t mean that.”

“People sometimes grow in different ways. It doesn’t mean they’re abandoning their partner, it’s just… You don’t have any obligation to hold my hand for my entire career. If there’s a roadblock ahead, and you see it, you should be able to jump out of the car, right?” 

“Shimura. Shut up.”

“I really mean it,” Nana continues doggedly. “One for All attracts way more attention than we agreed we should aim for, so if we split paths now, you don’t have to suffer all the cameras tracking and recording your moveset. Did I say cameras? I meant henchmen of some evil bastard. You didn’t sign up for this.”

“Don’t tell me what I did or didn’t sign up for,” he hisses.

“Well, I have to guess,” she says, “considering I never saw your origin story, haha!”

His face goes a blotchy pink, starting with his ears. Sorahiko’s jaw visibly clenches. Nana, however, is one-hundred percent serious. Despite being friends with Sorahiko from primary school up till now (excusing the few years of junior high), Nana still has no idea what drives Sorahiko to be Gran Torino.

Reuniting in Class 1-A of U.A. High had felt a bit like fate. 

“You have to guess?” he grits out, sounding slightly incredulous.

“You’re a very private person. Ah, don’t tell me I’ve somehow forgot it.” Nana puts her hands at her hips, trying to drag this fight back into friendly banter. “Not for the applause. Not for the legacy, assuming the Commission ever gets their memorial site set up. Are you sure it wasn’t for the money?”

“Shimura.”

“C’mon,” she says coaxingly. “What’s the dream-goal, Gran Torino? Why heroics?”

“Shimura.”

“Don’t worry about harming my feelings! Oh! It’s for your namesake, huh? Ah, Sorahiko, you really gotta let that one go, I don’t think you’d have any fun driving around these streets. You’ll just scare all the pedestrians into throwing tomatoes at your precious baby—”

“Because I love you goddammit!” Sorahiko shouts, barking it loud enough to frighten some voyeuristic pigeons. 

“What,” Nana says. She has to process his words even though they ring in her ears. His confession is a curse. Typical Sorahiko, Nana thinks hysterically, except this is not typical at all. Torino Sorahiko, admitting to love? 

Torino Sorahiko, not being done yet, rails on. “Because you’re my best friend, and I like myself when I’m with you, so stop trying to cut me out of your life! If you—if you hate me, then just say it! Say I’m annoying! Clingy! Useless! Don’t just tell me to step out the front door and leave you behind!”

Oh, he’s properly mad now.

Thing is, Nana’s mad too.

“Don’t you use that against me,” she says, fury seeping in, because how dare he? Like confessing to loving her settles this argument, some deus ex-machina device that will defuse Nana’s very sincere attempt to prevent Sorahiko from being murdered. She can’t believe the nerve of her partner, trying to manipulate the part of her that’s a hopeless romantic. “Don’t lie.”

“Lie?” Sorahiko echoes, enraged. “You think—?”

“I think you would do a lot of things to win a fight,” Nana seethes.

“You’re impossible.”

She wants to punch his stupid face so badly, but Sorahiko’s hands are already scrabbling at his domino mask, ripping it off. After blinking several times to reorient his senses, he refocuses his glare at her.

“What part of that confession sounded fake?” he demands, crumpling the black silk-composite in one fist.

“The timing. The whole concept. Everything!”

“You don’t think I’m capable of it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Nana objects, but her immediate gut reaction had been to say, I’m not worthy of it. She has a name for Gran Torino’s behavior now—his loyalty, devotion, affection—he tied himself to her so long ago, and Nana never even knew she was holding a leash. How unfair to him, how stupid and shortsighted of her.

Sorahiko takes a step into Nana’s personal bubble. He persists. “Say you hate me.”

She can see where Sorahiko wants to take this.

“Do you hate me, Shimura?”

Nana bites her tongue from its reflexive denial; when she tries to lie, it sticks in her throat.

“Do you really want me to go?” Sorahiko asks, and without his mask, he looks vulnerable. Pale brown eyes catching the sunset, gleaming gold. How much of Sorahiko’s life has been deferring his dreams to follow hers? What has he given up that Nana’s never asked about? Does he have any commitments outside of heroics? 

“I think,” Nana finally forces out, “we need some time apart.”

One beat of silence. Two.

“You’re not joking.”

“No.”

Sorahiko breathes, a steady and barely audible sound, and Nana finds herself mirroring it. She crosses her arms and looks to the horizon. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sorahiko slowly uncrumpling his mask, smoothing out wrinkles with his forefinger and thumb. Methodical for a nervous tic.

“It’s not that you’ve done something wrong.”

“Spare me the bullshit,” he says. The bitter tone sends a chill through Nana’s heart, but she steels herself. “How long?”

“Long as we need,” she deflects.

“What’s the goal here?”

Nana glances at Gran Torino, notes the grim set of his expression, and restrains herself from poking at the down-turned twist to his frown. Instead, she says, “You said you like who you are when you’re with me. I don’t think you’ve ever really been without me, so… Figure yourself out, Gran Torino.”

“And Sky High?”

“We’ll shelve the idea for a later time,” says Nana weakly, as though running an agency together hasn’t been their—her?—dream since high school.

He grunts in acknowledgment.

Together, they survey the cityscape. They will finish the day’s patrol. Gran Torino will, for the first time, clock out early and storm home.

And Nana will quietly file her two-week notice.

There’s an international pro-hero exchange program being organized with the United States, and Nana intends to join. The probation period is a year; if Nana can make it through that, then she can apply to be a mentor to aspiring pro-heroes, all the while cultivating One for All on the side.

(She doesn’t mean to forget the confession. But then again, who knows if that’s really what Sorahiko felt for her?)

[darker-soft-starker]

Starker High School AU, Pt 3 (Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 4, Pt 5)

-----

There were two things in life that Peter was unequivocally certain were true.

Number one was that Monday mornings were a universally despised, unpleasant experience that no weekend could ever ease the pain of having to endure.

And number two: Sit-ups were a specific and profound mechanism of torture that no person should ever be required to engage in, recreationally or mandated.

Of course, it would be just his luck that the two were combined on this very Monday morning.

It was cruel and unusual is what it was, Peter thought, hands curled at his temples as he pushes himself into a sitting position, falling back onto the dewy grass with a thud that steals the breath from his chest.

Bucky, holding his ankles, encourages him to complete his set.

“I can’t,” Peter gasps, his stomach trembling as he pulls himself up again. “I - oh fuck - I hate this. I hate exercise.”

Bucky squeezes his ankles tighter. “C’mon, Parker, only three more. You can do it.”

Peter shakes his head, even as he pulls himself up again with a pained groan.

“No, I can’t. Make it stop.”

“Two more. You got it. Sit-ups are not the boss of you.”

“Yes - ahh - they are!”

“One more!”

Sweat pours down his neck and his muscles protest as he pulls himself up for the last time. He gets probably only most of the way up before his gravity slams to the ground.

Bucky slaps his bare calf encouragingly as Peter stares up into the glaring morning sun, arms splayed out, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Oh, god. Never again. That was the worst. 

Covering his eyes with his quivering arms he wonders if maybe coach will indulge him just this once. Maybe he can stay here until training is over, perhaps curl up into a ball and try to blend in with the grass so that no one sees him or subjects him to any more exercise. 

Except Coach Danvers is already yelling at him to get off the ground and get moving.

He smacks his hands over his ears but it’s no use.

“Get up Parker, last warning!”

“Respite!” He yells back pleadingly, curling in tighter upon himself. “Please!”

Her whistle pierces the air.

“Now!”

Coach has been on edge all morning. Her harsh has turned razor edged in the face of their upcoming match against Kingston this Thursday, reminding the team of her expectations, tolerating nothing other than complete dedication.

Which, whatever.

Peter’s dedicated, okay? It’s Monday. He dragged his ass out of bed to be here at an unholy hour, exhausted and bloated from his indulgent weekend, didn’t he?

Erring on the margin of spite towards Danvers and self motivation, which he suspects is her aim, he pushes himself back up. Taking each of Bucky’s ankles in his grip, he starts counting as Bucky begins his set. 

Not that he needs the assistance, Bucky proves his strength by ripping through the set like a bull stampeding through a brick wall. He doesn’t even break a sweat. Dude’s crazy athletic.

It’s really not fair.

As he mentally counts the reps, Peter thinks Bucky’s the kind of fit that Peter both hoped and never hoped to be. He’s effortlessly capable at any physical task, but he works hard for it, harder than Peter would ever dream of working, dedicating hours to gym time and conditioning. Bucky’s not even out of breath when he strikes up conversation. 

“How was your weekend, PP?”

“S’okay. Played Mario Kart with my Aunt all weekend.”

Bucky grins as his upper half rises to meet his knees. “Oh, party animal. She doing okay?”

“Yeah, she’s good,” Peter grins wryly, taking one of his hands from the other’s ankle to push the sweat-damp hair from his eyes. “Kicked my ass though. She always takes Toad.”

“Switch?”

“Nah, GameCube. How was your weekend?”

“Boring. Parents were home all weekend and wanted some ‘family time’.”

“So, you just watched The Voice all weekend?”

“Yup.”

“Nat sneak in after?”

“Yup. How’d it go with Stark on Friday?” Bucky accepts Peter’s hand as he finishes his set. Peter pulls him up and pats him on the back.

The set off in a jog to complete a lap of the field, Coach yells that only five minutes are left, urging them to pick up speed. Peter’s lungs burn when he speaks.

“It was fine.”

Bucky looks at him dubiously, flyaways whipping at his face.

“Well not like, fine-fine, but no bloodshed. See? All limbs intact.” He holds his arms out mid-sprint. 

“Wow, so you’re basically best friends now.”

“No.”

“Did you hold hands and braid each other’s hair?”

Incensed, Peter shoves at Bucky to the sound of his snickering,

“Ew, stop, I just had breakfast. Look, the first experience was painful enough. Can we move on? I really don’t want to talk about it.”

---

“And then he hit on my Aunt,” Peter complains in the showers, soaping up his chest. “Literally right in front of me. Who does that?”

“Did she flirt back?” Bucky asks, dipping his head into the spray. 

“What? No. He said he was just trying to get under my skin,” he puts his head beneath his own shower head, the water pleasantly lukewarm against his heated skin. “I mean, what kind of psychopath does that?”

“Yeah, but your aunt is super hot though,” Wilson says to his right. “Stark’s an asshole, but he’s not crazy.”

There is a general murmur of agreement around the showers. 

“I’m going to need you all to shut up right now,” Peter warns, turning to point at them all. “Keep my aunts name out of your mouth while you’re washing your balls, alright?”

“You heard him, move on,” Rogers cuts in, offering Peter a sympathetic smile. 

He nods gratefully as conversation quickly turns to girls, grades and the upcoming Thanksgiving holidays. There was a reason why Peter was on Roger’s side all these weeks ago, he thinks, observing how the entire team respects his command without query. The guy was just interested in doing the right thing, and that’s pretty cool.

By the time they’re all dried and dressed, the topic is forgotten, much to Peter’s relief. He’s nearly late to first period though, too busy watching Wilson and Barnes smack each other with wet towels and attempting to tame his unruly curls into something resembling neatness. He’s not proud of the amount of gel it takes, but it’s what he’s got to work with. 

It’s not that he’s obsessed with his appearance or anything, but he has a routine that he sticks to. Gel and lots of it.

Once, in third grade, Flash pulled one of Peter’s tightly coiled ringlet between his fingers, pulled on it and said oink. Peter still had some lingering baby fat at the time and so, as cruel as children can be, Peter was donned Piggy Parker for a time afterwards. Sometimes Porky Parker. They’re friends now, but the oinking and snuffling that followed him around the playground still haunts him.

Anyway.

On the way to first period Rogers walks alongside him down the hall. They have English together, but usually make their way separately. It kind of weirded Peter out for a moment because while they’re team-mates, they’re not really friends. 

“Heard you got paired with Stark for an assignment,” the other boy says, his wry smile caught between amused and sympathetic. “That’s shit luck, Parker.” 

“You’re telling me,” Peter agrees, waving to Ned and Betty as they pass. “Dude’s a freakin’ prick.”

Rogers bumps their shoulders together.

“You said it. Want me to have a word with him, get him to back off?”

“Nah,” Peter shakes his head. “I can handle Stark, he’s just some bored rich kid looking for a fight. Besides,” he gives Rogers a once-over, “pretty sure you’re supposed to keep your distance after your last brawl with him.”

“True,” he concedes, clamping Peter’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze as they stop before their room. “But we’re a team, alright? Just say the word and I’ll encourage some sense into him. Promise to be gentle.”

Peter clamps his hands over his heart with a flair of drama, despite being truly touched. “You’re my hero, Captain Rogers.”

Rogers rolls his eyes and shoves him into the classroom.

“Alright, smartass. Let’s go.”

Inside, he smiles sheepishly at Mrs Perez who glowers at them for their lateness and takes his usual seat between Clint and Shuri. He signs a good morning to the former and smiles at the latter, who is staring down at her desk with disdain.

“What’s wrong?” He nudges her chair with his foot to grab her attention.

“The curriculum.” She raises her head and points to the board miserably. It reads Lord of the Flies.

Oh, great. He could use the nap.

Peter smiles sympathetically, opening his nearly full notebook up to a blank page. “How was your weekend?”

“Meh.”

“Meh?”

“Mmm,” She nods, gesturing airily. “You know, eh. Oh, oh! I heard you spent the weekend getting cosy with Stark,” Shuri follows, pretending to search through their textbook. “Wow, that’s a three-sixty, PP. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What?” Peter hisses, voice lowering when their teacher looks around as roll-call commences. “That’s not -- ”

“Parker!” Perez yells for roll call.

“Present!”

Shuri snickers as Peter’s hand shoots up.

Lucky for him it’s the last he hears of it.

Kinda.

---

His next class is Bio with MJ who, thankfully, says very little through class. She inspects him with bleary eyes when he enters, nursing a coffee in her hands, always earlier than Peter who has to come from the other side of the school.

Peter’s grateful for the reprieve. When she does speak to him, it’s to borrow a pen or to offer him a sip of her coffee. It’s not a lab class today, only note-taking and listening to their teacher drone on about plant anatomy in the same monotone, so he accepts the bitter black coffee without hesitation.

It’s only then that he ventures to initiate conversation.

“So,” he begins precariously, doodling in his notebook, “how was your weekend?”

She shrugs, appearing more awake than earlier. “It was okay. You?”

“It was okay.”

And that was that, he’s relieved to note, companionable silence falling between again as they turn their attention to their teacher again. It’s not until they’re packing up their books at the end of class that MJ speaks to him again.

“See you at lunch?”

“Yeah, dude. Save us a table?”

“You bet. Oh, and by the way, I heard Stark is gonna be your new step-daddy. Congrats.”

Peter groans.

“How do you -- you know what, no,” he says, pulling his backpack over his shoulders and making a x with his arms. “Nope. No more talking about Stark, he is persona non grata. I’m traumatised enough.”

MJ pushes his glasses up after they slipped precariously down his nose during his declaration. “You’re so dramatic, dude.”

He bumps their shoulders together on the way out of the room and shakes his head.

“Why do people keep saying that?”

---

Ned texts him during recess; Peter is taking an extended break in the bathroom despite not needing to be there, but he’s definitely not hiding, nope. He’s just chilling in the cubicle.

< heard stark spent the weekend < lol wtf < plz verify < actually i don’t want to know < no wait i do tell me < dude

< hello?

----

Traitors, all of them.

He wonders if he should leave this school and start anew elsewhere.

---

Here’s the thing.

As much as Peter loves his friends, he has limits to how long he can spend with them before needing a time out.

They’re his motley crew of village idiots. Some he’s known since first grade, like Ned and Flash, others only since he came to the school and subsequently, the football team.

This school headhunted him because of his academic merit. With his pursuit of scholastic excellence - and the fact that some of his best friends would be attending the school, he applied for and was awarded a scholarship. It was a no-brainer - he had big dreams and even bigger expectations of himself to achieve them and he wanted May to be proud of him.

Which was why when it was suggested that he try out for JV, having exhibited some physicality during gym class, he decided to give it a try. It would look great to have on his applications, he was assured.

So he did. Somehow his wiry frame and years of gymnastics was considered an asset and he was promptly recruited by Coach Danvers. At first he deeply regretted the additional commitment -- the early hours, the soreness, adapting to the internal culture within the team. But he’s persevered and he’s glad that he did. 

And for the most part, he copes okay. He can juggle football obligations and after-school activities and the odd tutoring jobs here and there and stay sane, right?

Sort of.

Because as grateful as he was for his broad circle of friends, Peter was still, at heart, an introvert. And right now, his social energy is running on fumes. 

It’s because of this - and nothing to do with the relentless questions about Stark - that Peter retreats to the library at lunch that day. 

Nestled away in the dusty, back corner, near the collection of old encyclopaedias that nobody reads, are an assortment of bean bags. It’s away from the main area, quiet and disregarded by most. It used to be a thriving recreational area way before Peter’s time, but there wasn’t any maintenance to it over the years. Now the bags are old, terribly lumpy and are speckled with suspicious stains, the fabric is thinning and aged. Most people purposefully avoid the old rec area, which is why Peter likes this spot best. It’s his secret hiding space.

He prepares to disassociate for the next forty minutes by getting comfortable on his favorite bean bag and popping his earphones in. 

Next, he retrieves his slightly soggy ham-tomato sandwich from his bag and takes a large bite after unwrapping it. The first burst of tomato hits his tongue at the same time as the music begins. 

Ah, to be alone.

Closing his eyes, he allows his body to sink into the bag and for his thoughts to wander freely.

Of course, because his luck is as poor as he is, his seclusion lasts all of three songs before someone else enters into his space. Well it’s not his space, technically, but it should be. 

When Peter creaks an eye open to see who is intruding he’s surprised to see Thor perched on the bean-chair opposite him. They catch each others stare and smile.

Well, alone time is overrated. 

Maybe his luck isn’t down the drain after all - because this is his opportunity to prove he isn’t a total fumbling loser. He doesn’t know which deity he pleased to be alone in a quiet corner of the library with Thor, but someone up there is clearly looking out for him.

He wants to say something, to strike up a conversation that might make Peter seem cool and only casually interested - something that would make him sound both smart and like, available.

But not too available. 

With little success, Peter wracks his brain for the best opening line but frets because he’s ever been cool or collected a day in his life. And great, now he’s just been sitting there smiling for like two whole minutes like an absolute weirdo. Come on, Parker, say something! 

Thor acts well before Peter has the chance to say anything, pointing at him, his mouth moving with words Peter can’t hear. 

Realising a moment too late that his earphones are still playing music from his phone, Peter hurries to tug them out if his ears, smacking himself in the face in the .

“Sorry, I was --” Peter gestures to his ears, hands shaking, cheeks going hot. God, Thor is talking to him. Him! Peter Parker! “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I said I like your shirt!” Thor replies, way more loudly than what would normally be socially acceptable for a library, but Peter does not care. Thor likes his shirt.

“This?” He asks, gesturing downwards to his shirt where crumbs are dusted at the collar. “You like Nirvana?”

“I do not know Nirvana,” Thor smiles, “but it looks very cool. Peter, right?”

“Uh yeah,” he nods, face positively flaming because again, he knows Peter’s name. Quickly sweeping the crumbs from his shirt, he extends his hand out to the older boy who shakes his hand. Holy shit. Be cool. “I’m Parker -- I mean, Peter. Yes. Nice to be here. I mean, nice to be speaking. To you.”

Even as Peter’s arm is roughly jostled with Thor’s exuberant hand-shaking embarrassment crawls up his neck, and he wants to disintegrate into the bean bag where no one has to witness his persistent, glaring awkwardness. Palms sweating, Peter has to bite his lip to stop himself from commenting on how big Thor’s hands are.

Stop it, he scolds himself, be normal, play it cool.

“Thor, right?” Peter asks, as if he didn’t doodle their initials together in his notebooks. “You were at training last week.”

“Yes, you fell on your face,” Thor nods, gesturing to the yellowed bruising on his jaw, “I saw.”

“Oh, okay, so you saw that! Uhh -- ” Peter waves a hand at his face, laughing nervously. “This? It’s nothing. I’m totally fine.”

“You are clumsy,” Thor states, not unkindly.

“Well, no -- I mean, yes --” Peter tries to come up with an explanation, but falls short. “I’m not always a klutz, promise. Just sometimes.”

“Happens to the best of us. Well, not myself, but you know, generally speaking. In any case, I’m happy to see you’re okay.” 

Thor unzips his backpack then and from within it retrieves a truly gargantuan protein shake, followed by a sub wrapped in foil so large it could be the same size as Peter’s forearm. Sneaking a look down at the remainder of his own lunch, his pickings look pretty slim in comparison. 

“Sorry,” Thor says. “Just peckish for a snack.”

Peter watches, dazed, as the older boy consumes half his sub in a single bite, washing it down with several mouthfuls of his shake.

A snack.

“You’re fine. Anyway, football isn’t really my forte,” he admits after a moment, drawing his knees up. “I mean, I’m okay at it and I like it, but it’s not really what I’m best at, y’know?”

The blond boy nods, “I’m on the varsity team,” he proclaims, wiping his mouth. “Whatever that means.”

His accent is so thick it takes Peter half a moment to figure out what it was that he said. 

He’s not sure if Thor is being serious or not but the one question Peter has is why is he so fucking cute? 

A silence follows, albeit not an awkward one. It gives Peter the opportunity to inspect the older boy, nearly a man at his height and stature, of course helped along by the generous distribution of facial hair across his lower face. 

“Uh, did you play football back at home?” Peter asks, keen to keep conversation going. “Soccer?”

“Oh yes,” the boy nods. “Soccer, tennis, volleyball. Water polo. Badminton.”

“Wow,” Peter blinks, “that’s a lot of sport. You’re like the whole Olympics here.”

He’s awarded with a lazy grin for that comment. Thor, to his credit, doesn’t appear to be boastful about his physicality, seemingly a result of his passions instead of a product of vanity.

“Close enough, I suppose. What else do you play, besides football?”

“Uhh --”

Oh god. How is he supposed to respond to that when the idea of doing additional sports outside of football is abhorrent? He can’t tell Thor that. Surely he can fake a common interest. Think of something, Parker, think, think.

The first bell rings, saving him from having to provide a potentially humiliating answer, seeing as all how all that could think of was chess, or PC. Both of which are true and accurate, but not exactly something he thinks that would make him appear more attractive or endearing.

Thank god for fifth period.

“To be continued?” Peter asks as he picks up his backpack, just a little hopeful.

There’s an awkward bit of shuffling as they rush to get off the sagging bean chairs, moment filled with odd squeaks of polystyrene as they attempt to stand.

Thor nods and to Peter’s surprise, doesn’t immediately rush to get away from him. There’s an awkward bit of shuffling as they rush to get off the sagging bean chairs with, odd squeaks of polystyrene as they stand. Instead, he accompanies Peter all the way out of the library, walking alongside him into the main hallway where a flurry of students are intersecting to get to their next class, walking alongside him.

Heads turn to watch them as they depart the library and enter the halls. For a moment, as kids part like the red sea to make way for them - for Thor - Peter wonders if this is what it’s like to be famous. Or to be on the arm of someone famous. It certainly feels like it, because even though the revere isn’t for Peter specifically, it seems like the weight of everyone’s awe is on them.

He doesn’t like the attention. But he likes Thor.

To his delight, the older boy follows him to his locker. Embarrassingly, it sticks when Peter tries to open it, as it usually does. He struggles with it for long, humiliating moments before Thor opens it with one hand.

“Thanks,” he says, blush creeping back up his neck. “You’re like, crazy strong, dude.”

Thor flexes and inspects his own bicep, as if seeing it for the first time.

“Perhaps,” he concedes, smiling roguishly. “Back at home I used to lift my brother for weight training.”

“You what?”

“A story for another time,” Thor shakes his head, shuffling closer to be heard over the traffic of students. “Anyway, I should be going. But there was something I have been meaning to ask you, if I may take a moment --”

Peter freezes. Oh my god, this is it, he thinks. 

It’s happening.

“-- seeing as you and I have similar interests and we seem compatible, it would please me greatly if you would agree to --”

Heart racing, Peter turns, a fervent yes already on his lips.

It dies when there is a loud call of his name in the hall.

“-- Hey, Parker!”

Whatever Thor was going to say wilts at the interruption, seemingly forgotten as he waves at the intruder. Peter turns to see who called out for him and instantly wishes he didn’t.

Heart dropping to his stomach, he squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. 

This is his luck.

Never has he wanted to melt into the floor and die like he does right now as Stark approaches the pair in quick strides.

Hands shoved into his jean pockets, Stark’s wide eyes dart between them inquisitively, a shadow of a smirk crossing his face, disappearing just as quick.

“Well, pardon me. I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Tony places a hand on his heart and leans on the locker next to Peters. “Thor, barely a pleasure as always.”

“Stark,” Thor nods.

Tony simpers, smile saccharine sweet and gestures to an uneasy Peter.

“I am just so sorry to intrude, but would you mind if I spoke to my husband here? He’s such a slippery one, aren’t you, sweetums?”

Thor looks between them, head going to and fro like a pendulum.

“He’s not my husband,” Peter rushes to assure, acutely pincered between Thor’s confusion and Tony’s mischief. “I mean he is, but it’s for an assignment. We’re not really -- it’s not real. I don’t like him.”

Tony exhales heavily, looking at Thor with dismay. “That’s not what he said in our wedding vows.”

Peter wants to punch him in the throat.

“I understand,” Thor smiles, patting each of them on the shoulder. He dips his chin and catches Peter’s eye. “To be continued?”

“Y-Yeah,” Peter nods enthusiastically, probably too enthusiastically, he thinks, as his aim is to pretend to be cool and disinterested, but he doesn’t even care because maybe not all is lost after all. “To be continued. See you.”

All of the pomp bleeds away from Tony as Thor walks away, his posture turning into a slump against the locker.

The smile drops from Peter’s face. He sends Tony a heated glare as he retrieves from his books, shoving them into his bag.

“What do you want?” he grumbles, slamming his locker shut. “You have the worst timing, you know that?”

“It’s part of my charm,” the other boy shrugs. “What can I say, I’m delightful.”

“You’re deplorable.”

Tony gasps in mock offence. “Deplorable? Good lord, Parker, is that any way to speak to your husband?”

“If the shoe fits,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, I have to go to class. Say what you want or move out of the way.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t be like that. C’mon, what were you and He-Man grunting about, hmm? Grr, me big, you tiny?”

“Unless you have a point,” Peter asks, pointing to the main hall, “I’m leaving.”

Tony puts his hands up in surrender, however the glib expression doesn’t quite leave his face. But at that moment Peter doesn’t have it within him to care, he’s not here to entertain him and sooner they get this over with, the better.

“Alright, alright, buzzkill. Come outside, I have to talk to you about the assignment.”

Peter looks at him, perturbed. 

“I need a smoke,” he explains, tutting at Peter dispiritedly. “Also, don’t lie, I know it’s your free period.”

He doesn’t wait for Peter to respond, heading straight for the double doors that lead to the courtyard at a sedate enough pace for Peter to follow. Nonetheless he jogs a few paces to catch up after debating whether or not it was a good idea to follow or if he should hide in the boys bathroom.

Again.

It’s fairly chilly out, the wind whipping through his clothes. He wishes he had a scarf or gloves or something, opting to shove his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and hooking the hood over his head.

“How do you know it’s my free period?” he queries loud enough to be heard over the wind. 

“Because,” Tony turns to walk backwards, the breeze whistling around them, “it’s also my free period and you always stink up the library so I can’t go there,” he rounds the corner to lead Peter to the shaded area behind the auditorium where a few students are lingering, most of them smoking. 

“And you take the best seat. Personally, I think it’s selfish. I can’t possibly sit there after your ass has warmed it.”

Willing himself to not rise to Tony’s level of pettiness, he crosses his arms over his chest as they come to a stop. The wind is at full force now that the surrounding buildings aren’t taking the brunt of it and it is cold as all hell, although Tony’s in a black t-shirt and doesn’t look affected at all, probably because he’s cold-blooded or warmed by hellfire.

Tony cups his hands over his lighter to protect the flame from the breeze, struggling briefly to light his cigarette. Once the end is properly alight, Tony takes a drag while staring at him. 

His hand comes to rest at his thigh, smoke rising idly from the cigarette. After a moment, he exhales the smoke in Peters direction.

“Wow. You’re disgusting,” he waves his hand in front of his face to dispel the smell. “Don’t you know second-hand smoke can kill?”

"Yes. Do you want a drag to speed up the process?”

“Don’t be a dick,” he says as Tony seems to find himself funny, offering up the cigarette in jest. Peter has half a mind to snatch it out of his hands and stomp on it. “I know that’s hard for you.”

“I’m joking, okay. I thought the wind would redirect the smoke. My bad.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure. Anyway, the assignment? Still waiting for whatever was so urgent."

Tony takes another drag, flicking ash to the ground before answering.

“I booked an appointment with a realtor for tomorrow after school.”

That has Peter’s curiosity piqued. “Really? Where?”

“LIC. One of the agents has agreed to be a reference so our domestic nightmare can be officially documented. Yay, go team.”

“Yay,” Peter deadpans. “What time?”

“Appointment’s at four-thirty,” Tony retrieves his phone from his pocket and hands it to Peter. “Give me your number and I’ll send you the details.”

Peter accepts it with a grimace. It’s warm from Tony’s body heat. Ugh.

“And now you can say: ‘thank you for being proactive, Tony, you’re so much better than me, Tony’.”

“Thank you for being proactive, Anthony, even if you’re a self-aggrandizing jerk,” Peter mutters, voice getting progressively more sarcastic. 

A wide smile blooms on Tony’s face, clearly pleased with himself. 

“You’re welcome, Parker.”

He is going to let that one go, Peter decides, feeling magnanimous on spite of the circumstances. He’d never admit it, but he’s kinda surprised by Tony’s apparent initiative, and even genuinely a little grateful that the other boy has arranged this so quickly. Or even that he thought to arrange it at all - field research was one of the highest scoring components on the rubric for this assignment.

Eyes flicking up for a moment, he assesses the other boy. Maybe he’s not as much of a slacker as Peter thought he was.

Tony, slumped against the brick wall, rubs his stomach and burps quietly. 

Or maybe he is.

Nevertheless, Peter types in his details and saves his contact in Tony’s phone as Your Better Half. 

Peter isn’t too much to look at, he knows, but he’s not the weak link here.

Tony accepts the phone back and wipes the touch screen on his shirt before pocketing it. 

“Alright then, meet me after school tomorrow in the parking lot. Don’t be late,” he flicks his cigarette to the ground and steps on it to put it out. Tony bends at the waist then to pick up the stub, clutching it in his fist for later disposal instead of leaving it as litter.

That surprises Peter a little, it’s more thoughtful, conscious a gesture than he would have expected to come from Stark. Not that he’s ever personally seen such behaviour from him, but it wouldn’t be a stretch with his devil-may-care attitude. Would it?

He’s about to make mention of heading back inside when Stark takes two purposeful steps towards Peter, bridging the gap between them. 

Peter freezes on the spot, breath caught in his chest as Tony brings them nose-to-nose.

He flicks his eyes down at Tony’s lips when his solemn expression morphs into an impish smile.

“Dude, what -- ?”

While Peter is distracted, Tony’s hands dart out to grip the strings of Peter’s hoodie, tugging them until the hood shrinks around his face.

“Do me a solid and try to wear something that doesn’t make you look like you’re a step away from lining up at a soup kitchen, okay? Y’know, something nice.”

Peter smacks his hands away furiously, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as Tony backs away, snickering.

“You really get off on being a prized piece of shit, don’t you?” he mutters, somewhat self conscious as he tries to correct the hood. “Poor jokes, that’s real nice. Sorry not all of us were born wearing Balenciaga.”

He continues to struggle with it as they move away and head back towards the main building, pushing it off his head altogether. 

“Calm down, Charlie Brown, it’s not that deep,” Tony says drily, although his flippant demeanour softens significantly. “I have no doubt that you’d still manage to look like a hobo even if you were loaded, okay. You just have that grubby vibe.” Tony claps his hands together. “So, tomorrow. Meet me in the parking lot. Yes?”

Inside, away from the wind, Peter is still helpless to quell the hurricane that is Tony Stark. He gives him a tired thumbs up.

With that Tony sets off in the opposite direction, leaving Peter to wonder what the hell just happened, and what his life has become these last few days. 

“What a jackass,” he says to himself.

Now alone, he rubs his hands up and down his face, fruitlessly attempting to scrub away the memory of Tony close to him, eyes warm with mirth, the heat of his body up close and the smell of nicotine on his breath as he quite literally tugged Peter’s strings. It takes longer than he likes to will the image away and to calm the furious beat of his heart.

Furious; a feeling Peter is becoming progressively more familiar - and uncomfortable with.

Ben used to say that being angry at someone was allowing them to take up space in your head, rent free. He was right, because it never served Peter well to house animosity when acceptance was kinder to his soul and psyche, and to others -- but he can’t help it with this guy. Tony Stark is like an ear worm of the brain. He has this completely obnoxious way of making himself front and centre despite Peter’s best efforts to cast him to the sidelines.

While he’s willing himself to move on his phone vibrates inside his pocket with a new message.

> ur not my better half, loser > why r u like this > nvm i already know lol. > remember, don’t be late 2morrow

Peter, just a little satisfied with himself for getting under Tony’s skin, saves his contact as Tiny Stank and types back quickly, eager to get back to his seat in the library - assuming Stark hasn’t already occupied it - and make the best of his remaining free period.

<  whatever helps u sleep at night < also, plz lose my number after this is over

> way ahead of u, princess > say hi to aunt may for me

Ugh, Peter cringes, pocketing his phone without replying.

That guy is the worst.

---

*

*

---

tagging: @bylerboyfriends, @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @muse-of-gods, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @plueschpop, @spideravocados, @jellybbunny,  @booktrashme, @elfkido, @mycatislickingmybedsheets, @queerghostboyo, @disneyprincessdominatrix

[kaitycole]

...Mystery Made Brunettes

Summary: Drake, Riley and Jackson continue talking to each other and Jackson tells them more about the diplomatic ball.

Word Count: 3300

Pairings: Drake x Riley, Constantine x Eleanor, Jackson x Bianca

Warnings: Mention of abuse (towards the very end), lying, 

Part 12 of WP. To catch up read here.

A/N: Hello, so in this Leo’s mother’s name is Liana. That’s all. Enjoy!

Tag List: @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore​ @kingliam2019​ @texaskitten30​ @glaimtruelovealways​ @bobasheebaby​ @bascmve01​  @burnsoslow​  @the-everlasting-dream​  @ao719​ @sirbeepsalot​  @janezillow​  @i-bloody-love-drake-walker​ @kimmiedoo5​  @choices97​ @marshmallowsaremyfavorite​ @lodberg​ @edgiestwinter​  @marshmallowsandfire​ @hopefulmoonobject​​  @iaminlovewithtrr​  

**I don’t own the characters, just borrowing them**

Drake is walking around outside, trying to wrap his head around things. Over the last couple hours, Drake learned more about his parents and Liam’s than he ever really wanted to. While he knew that his parents weren’t perfect, it still hurt seeing the obvious way Jackson’s eyes lit up when he mentioned Eleanor.

His mother crosses his mind, their last conversation having been months ago, when she went off about him so much as mentioning him. He briefly wonders if maybe she’s known, did Constantine tell her? Or was it just intuition? Or had she really left them from a broken heart? Telling Liam was hard for him, he spent his whole life wanting to protect Liam, but telling his mother could prove to be nuclear.

Riley walks up behind him, “How are you?”

“I don’t know Ri.” He sits down on the stairs and she follows.

“I think Jackson is really trying hard,” she lowers her voice, “and your being hard on him.”

“I’m not being hard on purpose. I’m reacting to what I’m learning. This isn’t some rom-com , Riley.”

“I’m not acting like it is.”

“But you are. This isn’t just something that is magically going to fix itself in an hour and a half.”

She crosses her arms, “It could be though. To just start over.”

“No, it can’t, Ri. I’m relearning who Jackson is. He went from my dead dad to a living stranger.” He shakes his head, “This is bigger than just filling in some blanks and starting new memories.”

“Drake…”

“This is bigger than just him and I. It involves Liam, Olivia, Savannah, Bartie, Leo. Numerous people’s lives were shook around and impacted by a decision made by two people, one of them being in that house. I spent my whole life blaming myself for my dad’s death and I should’ve been blaming myself for ruining my friend’s lives.” He walks off, leaving Riley sitting there, watching him increase the space between them.

“He just needs a bit more time, sweetie.” Jackson says, sitting down next to her.

She wipes her eyes, cursing her hormones for being all over the place, “I didn’t have a dad, is it wrong to want him to have his?”

“Not at all, but take it from his father, he’s gotta work through some stuff first. But he’ll come around.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he’s a Walker. Walkers always look after their own.”

Riley wants to ask him if that’s true, why’d he leave, but it’s not her place. Nor something that Jackson would probably want to tell her. At least not right now.

“I overheard Drake list some people, how are they? How’s Savannah?”

Riley is shocked to hear him say her name, this whole time never once did he ask about anyone by name. To be fair, Savannah was doing extremely well for herself: she had a son, was married and happily living in the Beaumont estate, but she knew those were things that Savannah should tell him or at least give Drake permission to tell him first.

“She’s doing extremely well. She’s really happy with everything in her life.”

“And Liam?” A mixture of guilt and regret washes over his expression. Jackson didn’t enjoy leaving his children, but he knew they were left with someone who would love them, or so he thought. But he never stopped feeling miserable over the fact that Liam and Leo in Constantine’s clutches.

“He’s been better. He’s having a really hard time with this, especially since his mother…” She doesn’t finish, she knows Jackson understands; the tears in his eyes are obvious. “But he thinks his trip here will help.”

“Trip here?”

“Yes, Liam is planning on visiting. I think there’s somethings he needs you to confirm or deny the best you can.” She gives him a smile, “He should be here in a few days.”

Jackson just nods, it was one thing to face his own son, but Liam. He wasn’t sure he could. What Liam needed wasn’t for him to sit and answer questions, he needed his mother.

Drake’s footsteps pull Jackson from his thoughts and Riley stands up. She throws her arms arounds his neck, whispering “I’m sorry” over and over. He pulls her back slightly before kissing her and smiling, letting her know all was forgiving.

“I made a promise to Liam, the day of Eleanor’s funeral, I’d protect him. I can’t do that unless I know all the fact, so tell the what else happened at this ball.”

*          * “Your husband is one of the best officers at the palace. You should be proud.” Constantine says to Bianca.

“Thank you for saying such kind words, sir.” Bianca smiles at the King. After the King had addressed the room, everyone gathered in the middle of the ballroom and began to make their rounds. To be honest, Bianca was completely lost at who to talk to and in what way to address anyone, but her husband on the other hand shined, which shocked her because he hated large events. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he grew up a noble himself.

“And who would this lovely woman be?” A male voice asks Constantine.

“This is Office Walker’s wife, Bianca Walker.”

Bianca attempts to dip into a low curtsey but trips on her own foot and the man quickly catches her before she falls. Her face is completely red and she refuses to look up at him.

“They used to say I could knock any woman off her feet, glad to see it’s still true.”

“You truly are something else, Duke Barthelemy.”

Bianca immediately curtseys again, “I’m sorry for the mishap, Your Grace.”

“I assure you, there’s no need for apologizes.” He extends his arm, “May I have this dance?”

Bianca looks around for Jackson but cannot find him before Constantine picks up on her hesitation.

“Enjoy the night, Mrs. Walker.”

Barthelemy escorts Bianca onto the dance floor and he starts leading her into the Cordonian Waltz. She quickly fell in sync with the Duke which he noticed.

“You’re a natural.”

“Thank you.”

“I was surprised to hear a guardsman would be attending such a diplomatic ball, but when I arrived and started hearing the rumors, it all made sense.” He twirls her around and pulls her back into him before spinning her back out.

“I’m not sure I know what you are referring to, Your Grace. What rumors?”

He leans closer to her, his lips brush against her ear, “The ones about the guardsman who is engaging in an inappropriate relationship with the Queen.”

Bianca lets out a gasp before composing herself and Barthelemy takes a step back, a slight smirk on his face. He watches as her eyes scan the room, finally landing on the Queen who is standing extremely close to Jackson.

“But I’m sure they are just rumors. Maids love gossiping after all.” He bows as she curtseys, ending the dance between them before Bianca rushes off to get some air.

*          * “Bianca? What are you doing out here?” Jackson asks, finally finding his wife out near the old hedge maze.

“I just needed some air.”

“Have you-- were you crying?”

“What do you care?” She scoffs, wiping her eyes once more.

“I’m your husband, it’s my job to care.”

“Why were we invited tonight?”

He’d been with Bianca for years, but he still couldn’t always keep up with her mental track. “What? You were there when Timothy brought the invitation.”

“But why? You’re just a guard.”

“I still don’t fully understand myself. But I’m sure Queen Eleanor had a reason and King Constantine agreed.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with your relationship with Queen Eleanor?”

Jackson takes a step back, shaking his head, “What are you talking about?”

“Just tell me the truth, Jack.”

“I am! I have no idea why we were invited.”

“Are you sleeping with her?”

Jackson quickly yanked his wife off the bench and pulls her away from the ears of the guards stationed outside.

“Get off me!” She pulls her arm away.

“What the hell is your problem!? I could be charged with treason and so could Queen Eleanor!”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“No, I am not! How dare you even think that!”

“Then what are you doing that’s stirred up rumors?”

“Maids talk. Servants talk. Guards talk. Despite the romanced vision of the Crown, days tend to be long and boring so rumors sprout up daily.”

“That doesn’t explain why you were invited tonight.” Bianca crosses her arms, acting as though she’s about to catch him in a lie.

Jackson takes a step closer, lowering his voice, “It’s for my job.” He then explains to her that nobles keep tight-lipped around those in uniform, however with him and a few other guards dressed up, they could potentially hear things the monarchy should know. Especially with the formations of rebellions increasing within the last few months. Queen Eleanor had recommended him to be one of the guards used.

Her face falls, feeling foolish for even giving the rumors any attention, “I’m sorry. Just with how you’ve been acting lately, the rumor almost felt like it connected all the dots.”

“I get it. I could never do something like that though.” The lie slips off Jackson’s lips effortlessly. While he wasn’t lying about not having a physical affair with the Queen, he was lying about not having any affair with the Queen; they were having an emotional one. And given the chance, Jackson wasn’t sure he’d make a moral one.

“Not only that, but I know you’d never betray your country. It’s one of the things I love most about you: your honor.”

A normal man might have felt guilt at those words. Guilt at the words his wife just said. Honor was something a man in his position should hold himself to yet Jackson didn’t. While he heard the words she said, understood the meaning they held, his attention was focused on the elegant blonde making her way towards them.

“Your Majesty.” Jackson bows as Bianca dips into a low curtsy.

“Officer Walker. Mrs. Walker.”

“Oh please, Jackson and Bianca are perfectly fine.” She hesitates, “This is a lovely courtyard.”

“Thank you. Although I’ve always wondered what a garden would look like here instead.”

“A garden would be lovely.”

“Bianca, I was wondering if I could borrow Jackson for a moment.” Eleanor smiles her signature smile, the one that made it impossible to say no to.

“Oh. Of course. I’ll head back inside, I’m parched.”

Jackson watches his wife until she’s back inside before turning his attention to the Queen, “May I speak freely?”

“Of course.”

“Why’d you invite me tonight?”

She doesn’t answer right away, grabbing his hand and pulling him away from the few guests within earshot, “I thought Constantine told you.”

“I don’t believe that’s the only reason I’m here.” Jackson had told his wife the truth about being on duty in common clothes to see if anyone had loose lips, but him being picked never made sense. There were guards that were on the payroll for this exact event, yet he was chosen over them.

He watches her chew on her bottom lip, deep in thought, “For this, Jackson.”

“El, I’m serious.”

“As am I. If you were in uniform, I couldn’t speak to my husband’s guard so freely. But it simply looks as if I’m talking to any other guest.” She knows it’s wrong to abuse her position this way, to stand here flirting with a married man whose wife was mere feet away, but she doesn’t care. The way she feels about and around Jackson is something she can’t explain. Her marriage wasn’t entirely loveless, but she knows and always has that she doesn’t hold a candle to Leo’s mother in Constantine’s eyes. Tears fill her eyes, “Forgive me if I just wanted to be with you in public, that I hate sneaking around in the dark with you.”

Jackson knows exactly how she felt, he felt it too. He looks around, placing a hand on her cheek before he pulls her into his chest; pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. He longed for her to be in his arms like this, in the open, making it feel as if it wasn’t as dirty as it was. Sneaking around once a week, to a forgotten study where they tried to condense their weeks into just a few stolen moments.

They embrace one another for several moments before reality weighs down and Jackson remembers what Bianca told him.

“El, there’s a rumor.”

“What?” She pulls back and searches his face for clarity as she listens to him repeat what he heard.

In his whole career, he’s never once seen Eleanor as furious as she was in this moment. He didn’t think she could look more beautiful than she did, but seeing her like this proved him wrong; this was a different type of beauty.

He chases after her as she storms into the ballroom. He watches as she scans the room for Barthelemy Beaumont before finding him.

“El- your majesty. I think you should calm down.”

“Did you just tell me to calm down?” She spits through gritted teeth.

“No ma’am.”

“Lying to the Queen is an act of treason, Office Walker.” Her tone was stone cold, reminding his of Constantine and he knew to back down.

The space between Barthelemy and Eleanor shrunk the faster she walks and before long, she’s at his heels.

“Your Maj-“

“How dare you!” She shouts; the entire ballroom silences, all eyes on the Queen and Duke of Ramsford.

“What are –“

“You think you can come into my palace and spread heinous lies.”

By this time, Constantine is at Eleanor’s side, face completely masked in confusion. “Sweetie, let’s discuss this in private,” he says calmly as he gets closer to her side.

“Here is fine!” She protests.

Constantine, while wearing his diplomatic smile, discreetly grabs her arms tightly, causing her to wince. He had no idea why his wife was upset, but he refused for the courts to witness such a spectacle.

“Barthelemy, would you please join my wife and I in my study. I’m sure you’ll agree it’d be best.” The King’s words were icy, while they seemed like a request, anyone close to the royal circle could tell they were a demand. One to not be refused.

“Of course, your majesty.”

*          * Constantine leads the way to his study, Barthelemy and Eleanor behind him, but at a decent distance. Barthelemy leans close to Eleanor’s side, his voice low enough to where only should could hear him.

“I’m surprised at how calm you are about all of this.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about Duke Barthelemy.” She keeps her eyes forward, refusing to show any emotion to the Duke.

“It’s just you know how his majesty prefers action to questions, we all know how he handled the rumors that spun around after Queen Liana left.”

Eleanor remembers exactly what he’s referring to. When Liana first left, Constantine wouldn’t allow anyone to speak ill of her. He refused to let false rumors spread, even though he was in pain from her leaving. It was only a few days after her disappearance that Constantine began prosecuting anyone found speaking wrongly of Queen Liana, many say that was the day his heart finally turned to ice.

He leans close to Eleanor’s ear again, just as they get ready to walk into Constantine’s study, “Do you want to risk your lover’s safety?”

She freezes as he brushes pass her and into the room. She’s never been one to back down, but she knew the Duke wasn’t telling her anything that wasn’t true. Constantine would stop listening when he heard the rumor instead of hearing out all the facts. She had to think about how to handle this now that she calmed down.

The guards shut the door after she walks in, closing the three of them in the study.

“Now, Eleanor, would you care to tell me why you decided to cause a scene?”

“Yes, your majesty, what is it you were trying to accuse me of?” Barthelemy smirks at her; he truly enjoyed watching her squirm.

Eleanor knows if she doesn’t tell Constantine the truth, Barthelemy will use that against her, blackmail her with it; if she tells her husband the truth, she risks not only Jackson’s safety, but his family’s as well.

“He was telling people that Liam would be a weak ruler due to his friendship with Olivia.”

The Duke looks at Eleanor, raising his eye brow and giving a subtle nod; letting her know that he was impressed with her move and was willing to go with it. Constantine’s expression remains stoic, pressing his finger and thumb on the bridge of his nose. He really wished his wife would learn that emotions have no place in the monarchy; causing a scene like she did was uncalled for.

“Is that true, Barthelemy?”

“You have to understand where Ramsford is coming from. The Nevrakis’ plotted to overthrow the monarchy and you allow one into palace, befriending and getting close to one of the princes. It’s bad enough you allow Prince Liam to associate so closely with that Walker boy.”

Eleanor cuts her eyes to the Duke, who enjoys her reaction.

“I see. I’m sure you’re aware just how damning rumors can be, especially if they were to start about how the youngest Beaumont fell out of favor with Prince Liam.” Constantine takes a step closer to Barthelemy, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

The Duke nods, “Yes, your majesty.” He bows before Constantine and Eleanor before excusing himself from the room.

Eleanor turns to leave but is stopped, “Did you really think that a rumor about Liam really warranted such a scene?”

When Eleanor married Constantine, she knew he was only choosing to marry for one reason: produce another heir. Having just one caused unease within the country, history made it very clear that a King was to always produce at least two.

“He’s still a prince, Constantine.”

“But he’s not the Crown Prince, sweetheart, it’d do you best to remember that.”

She shakes her head before mumbling, “Who is to say Leo won’t run off like this mother.”

The next few events happen so quickly that it’s not until Constantine’s hand comes in contact with her cheek that a stunned Eleanor comprehends what happened. She immediately clutches her reddened cheek as tears begin to pool in her eyes.

He shakes his hand out as if that will undo his actions and remove the stinging sensation from his palm. He watches her, mouth slightly agape, looking at him as if he was no more than a stranger to her. And maybe he was, there was a time that he opened up to her, but it was just shortly after their wedding that he stopped. There were parts of him that he didn’t want to show anyone ever again because the last person that he showed, left him. But in this moment, her blatant disregard for Liana or Leo’s capabilities, the worst was brought out in him.

“Don’t speak of things you don’t understand, Eleanor.”

Her tight-lipped expression tells him everything he needs to know about her current state and as she slowly gains back her composure. She walks towards the door, only to have him grab her arm.

“I’ll tell everyone that you weren’t feeling well. That you were sorry to just leave but you wanted to rest.”

His grip got tighter on her arm before she finally let out a deep breath, “I’m feeling slightly lightheaded,  if you’ll excuse me.”

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Heart to Heart

Missing scene from the latest chapter of The Nanny Affair. My MC comforts Sofia after being publicly embarrassed by her father. I hated that scene, and I hate that Sofia is such a one dimensional character. 

Background MC (Luna Stafford) x Sam Dalton, but only if you tilt your head and squint.

Tags: @choices-lurker @paulfwesley @zodiacsign1 @thatysn @ermidc @badchoicesposts @senseofduties @canknot @drakewalker04

~v~

Luna can’t enjoy the fact that she’s drinking her salary in fancy champagne, enjoying a rooftop dinner with some of the richest people in the tri-state area. Any other day, this would be a dream come true, but in reality, she’s stuck in a nightmare.

For the past two hours, they’ve been forced to listen to Paolo make snide remarks on everything under the sun from her nannying skills to Sofia’s business acumen. Luna is not a fan of Paolo Russo. He seems like a miserable, stuffy old man whose only joy in life comes from whining and looking down on other people.

She casts a quick glance at Sam. The always poised and out together man looks as bored as she feels. His elbows are on the table, a finger lazily tracing the rim of his champagne flute. Gone are the manners and the fine dining etiquette that’s been drilled into him since infancy.

He looks up, sneaking a glance at her. An easy grin adorns his features as they lock eyes, and she quickly looks away, heat blooming on the apples of her cheeks. It’s rare that Sam is so unapologetic in his flirting with her, especially in the presence of his kids. 

The sound of a knife hitting the stem of a champagne flute is all it takes to pull Luna out of her thoughts. Paolo is standing at the head of the table, waiting on everyone to watch him with rapt attention.

He clears his throat obnoxiously, “Ahem. Thank you all for coming to congratulate my beautiful daughter and her future husband on their upcoming nuptials.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Luna sees Sofia sit up a bit straighter, eagerly awaiting the praise she’s sure her father is going to heap onto her.

“Sofia has been run ragged at Russo Industries for far too long,” Paolo continues. “Now she can finally fulfill her purpose to become a wife and mother. After all, a woman in a position of power in the business world is like an unstable explosive, especially around that time of the month.” The older man turns toward Sam, hoping to get a co-sign on his speech. “Right, Sam?”

Luna clenches her fist tightly underneath the table. She can’t believe the unmitigated fall that his man has. “Did he really just say that?”

Sam turns to her with a mournful expression. “Unfortunately.”

Luna isn’t the only one at the table embarrassed by Paolo’s speech. Sam’s mother Vivian leans over to her husband, whispering harshly. “Mason honey, I thought you talked to him about this.”

“I tried, but you know how it goes with Paolo.”

Luna balks at the scene unfolding in front of her. So they all just let Paolo get away with talking like this? It’s just talk, that they all chalk up to Paolo just being Paolo?

Paolo, the arrogant man, is far too caught up in his own spiel to notice that they’re all openly horrified. He just keeps going. “...A family disarms the bomb! That’s why it’s called a biological clock.”

Luna wants to scream. She wants to hit something. She wants to do anything else but listen to this man continue on with his horribly misinformed and misogynistic speech.

“Finally we’re getting to the good stuff.”

“I predict a Sofia meltdown in three...two…”

The countdown doesn’t have to finish as Sofia all but slams her champagne flute down on the table. The noise startles Luna and she flinches slightly.

“I’ve heard this speech before. I don’t need to hear it again.”

Sofia scrambles, attempting to gather her belongings. Luna notices that her hands are slightly trembling and her eyes are glossy, tears threatening to spill.

Before she can stop herself, she’s opening her mouth, “Actually Paolo, men and women have the same brains. Neurologists have been searching for differences for years, but nothing ever turns up. And this society makes girls lesser than men, which is a gross assumption that’s pushed by men like you.”

The admonishment causes a faint blush to appear at Paolo’s neck. “And what does that have to do with my daughter’s role at Russo Industries?”

Luna shrugs. “Even I can tell she would make a great CEO. In fact, I bet you’ve already seen gains under her management.”

“My daughter’s abilities aren’t in question. It’s a matter of right and wrong. Women belong at home. It’s why you became a nanny, right?”

“Paolo, you are way out of line,” Sam says, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically gruff tone. “I won’t have you speaking to Luna like that.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Luna sees Sofia rush off, heading back into the country club, not sticking around for any more of the conversation.

“It’s fine, Sam,” Luna says. The last thing she wants to do is cause a confrontation. It’d raise too many questions. Why is Sam so quick to defend the nanny and not his own fiancée? “This conversation is done anyway.”

Pushing her seat back, Luna throws her napkin on the table and gets up, leaving behind an awkwardly silent dinner party.

Sofia is a very fast walker, but Luna manages to keep a decent pace behind her, her platinum blonde hair making her an easy target to follow. The older woman heads to the restroom, angrily pushing open the door. Luna weaves through patrons of the club and various waiters carrying trays until she reaches the bathroom as well.

Luna is instantly swept up in just how fancy this restroom is. The lighting is dim, it smells like eucalyptus and mint, there’s soft music playing, and she’s pretty sure the faucets are made of real gold.

It isn’t until she hears a sniffle coming from one of the stalls that she is reminded of the reason she entered the restroom in the first place. Taking a peek under the stall, she sees Sofia’s signature Louboutin heels.

“Sofia, I know you’re in there.”

“Go away,” Sofia orders. Her tone doesn’t have its usual bite or chill. Luna frowns at how small she sounds. “I don’t need you here to coddle me.”

“I can’t do that. My conscience won’t let me leave a sad woman crying in the restroom alone.”

“I’m not crying!”

“Sure you’re not. But my point remains, I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

A minute ticks by and Luna is met with silence. Sofia is just as stubborn as she anticipated, maybe even more so.

She leans against the marble countertop, careful to not lean against any wet spots. “If anyone knows how you feel, it would be me.”

More silence.

“I’m a black woman in STEM,” Luna continues, not waiting for a response. “I don’t know what it’s like in the business world, but if I got a dime for every time a man, and sometimes other women, told me to not pursue chemistry, I’d probably be able to afford your shoes.”

“Really?”

Luna smiles to herself. Sofia actually responded to her! She’s making progress! “Really. I was told to focus on nursing or a social science, like sociology or anthropology by multiple teachers, classmates and counselors. Not saying there’s anything wrong with those fields, I think they’re great, but that wasn’t the path for me. I’ve always loved chemistry. I’ve had the periodic table memorized since I was in 3rd grade. Thankfully I have parents that support my passion, because everyone isn’t so lucky.”

Sofia scoffs. “Got that right. I got my BA from Yale, I graduated summa cum laude and I went to Wharton for grad school, but let my dad tell it, I simply wasted 6 years and half a million dollars in tuition costs. Those degrees mean nothing to him because he’s the stereotypical, conservative and traditional Italian man. I’m not the correct sex or gender for him. In a perfect world, I’d be the perfect song but instead, I’m his fussy daughter. I’m not supposed to do anything other than get pregnant and cook, and how dare I want anything else out of life.”

“I say this with the utmost respect, but your father is a sexist jerk,” Luna deadpans. “You can yell at me for saying it, but I don’t regret it. And I’m shocked Russo Industries is still standing because I can only imagine the HR complaints and harassment lawsuits against your father over the years.”

“There’s no need to apologize because it’s the truth. My father doesn’t respect me. He doesn’t respect women at all. My mother was never allowed to have an opinion, and mine isn’t all that valued either.”

“I thought taking the initiative and getting engaged to Sam would make him respect me,” Sofia adds. “I wanted to do this in order to prove to him that I’m worthy. I thought he’d see that I’m a go-getter, and I’m ambitious, and I want the Russo family to thrive, but he doesn’t care about the business aspect of the merger like I do. He’s just glad I found a rich husband.”

Another bout of silence falls between the two women, but this time it’s not as awkward as before. it’s almost peaceful. Luna still hears the occasional sniffle, but she doesn’t call any attention to it. Crying is too vulnerable for Sofia to be open about.

“Besides, I don’t know if things will even pan out the way I want them to,” Sofia says. “The boys aren’t that fond of me, and Sam is just so...cold. I’m trying to make this a decent transition, and I’m trying to find out where I fit in that family dynamic, but it’s not working. He didn’t want me around for his birthday, he doesn’t respect my opinion on how to raise Mickey and Mason. More times than not, it feels like he’s counting down the minutes until he has to be in my presence anymore.” The stall door opens up and Sofia steps out. Her eyes are bloodshot and her nose is red and raw. Luna averts her gaze quickly, not wanting to draw too much attention to it.

“I don’t even know if this is worth it anymore. I’m exhausted, and I’m trying to sustain a relationship all by myself. Sam can barely sustain a conversation with me, and my dad isn’t impressed, so what’s the point? What am I doing this all for?”

Luna frowns. Sofia has always seemed so...bold and intimidating, like nothing ever rattled her. But looking underneath the perfectly put together surface, Sofia is just a woman trying to fight and claw for every inch of success, despite the lack of a support system.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Luna says. “I think you’re smart, and I think you’d make an excellent CEO of Russo Industries. And I don’t think you need Sam at your side to do so.”

That shocks Sofia. Her eyebrows shoot up past her hairline at the compliment. “You really think so? You have that much faith in me?”

Luna doesn’t know if she’s giving Sofia this advice because she truly believes in it, or if a selfish part of her wants the other woman to leave Sam alone, so they can finally be together. Her stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought, full of guilt. Does this count as manipulation?

She swallows thickly, pushing down whatever guilt is trying to bubble to the surface and nods. “I do. You don’t need a man to be successful and fulfilled. You don’t need your dad’s approval. And you don’t need to feed into the bullshit cycle of misogyny that your dad perpetuates.”

Sofia walks over to the sink and turns the faucet. After she splashes cool water on her face, she turns back to Luna. “Thank you, I guess. No one has ever talked to my dad the way you did, especially not in defense of me. And thank you for coming in here.”

“You’re welcome. Even the rich and powerful Sofia Russos of the world need 5 minutes to vent and cry.”

“Never mention to anyone that you’ve seen me like this,” Sofia orders sharply. No one, especially people in New York high society, can know that the ice queen herself shows emotion. 

“What happens in the ladies’ room, stays in the ladies’ room. Scout’s honor.”

“Good.” Sofia sighs and straightens herself up. Luna watches the cool facade slip back into place as Sofia fixes her makeup and runs a brush through her hair. Sofia is back to being the poised, elegant woman everyone knows.

Once she’s done, she straightens out her clothes and heads to the door. Hesitating, Sofia lingers by the door. She turns back to Luna, her eyes softer than the younger woman has ever seen them. “You know what? Maybe I misjudged you. You aren’t as bad as I originally thought.”

A soft smile tugs on the corner of Luna’s mouth. “That’s high praise coming from you. I’ll take it.”

Without another word, Sofia sweeps out of the restroom, leaving Luna all alone, the sound of her heels clicking against the floors now an echo. With the presence of the other woman no longer stifling her, Luna lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding in.

She didn’t know what to expect coming in here to comfort Sofia, but now everything feels much more complicated.

[the-imagine-thot]

Nerves Michael Mell x Reader (gender neutral)

Word count: 1982

A/N: Sorry I haven’t posted in a while, but there’ll be a good ole smut coming out soon if anyone wants it.

TW: Nothing really, it’s pretty fluffy. A lot of anxious reader.

You were sitting in a chair about three rows back in the auditorium with your knees tucked underneath your chin. Your eyes were glued to the stage as though you’d be punished for looking away. Your breathing had gradually grew more shallow and frantic as all of the other students went up one at a time upon hearing their names. Your head had started to spin a little more each time a kid got up onto that stage, sang their audition piece, and returned back to their seat in the audience. There weren’t many people trying out for the musical this year, but it was still enough to make you nervous. It didn’t help that most of the soon-to-be-crew members were also sitting in the audience, watching everything unfold. Needless to say, you were an absolute mess, and you silently hoping that nobody would notice. You were never really the kind of kid that wanted to stand out, as you had always had a problem with social anxiety. You would get panic attacks often, but as high school went on, you’d learned how to better handle them. You’d even made a couple friends. You had also started to discover how to use creative activities as an outlet for all of your anxieties. Your favorite of these activities just so happened to be singing. And damn were you good at it. All of your two friends had told you about a million times in choir that it was what you were born to do. Of course, you’d always pushed their comments to the side - until the musical rolled around. Your friends spent forever convincing you to audition for your school production of Les Misérables. And now, here you were. A trembling mess in an uncomfortably cushioned chair, three rows back in the audience. You continued to reflect on the events leading up to this until a loud monotone voice interrupted your thoughts.

“(F/n) (L/n).” It took you a moment to register the words that had come out of the drama teacher’s mouth. Oh shit. That was your name. You immediately shot up from your seat, catching a few eyes as you rather awkwardly made your way up onto the stage. You stood there for a moment until you realized that you’d forgotten what to do. You attempted to swallow the lump in your throat and drown out the sound of your rapidly thumping heart as you called out with a shaky voice.

“S-sorry, what do I s-say again?” You looked out at the audience, noticing familiar faces from the halls. You started to panic even more at the thought of your peers hearing you screw up your audition. They probably didn’t even know you existed and now they were about to watch you fail miserably.

“Just say your name, grade, the roles you’re auditioning for, and the song you’re auditioning with.” You could tell by the tone of his voice that he’d probably uttered that sentence about a thousand times today. Your eyes continued to wander around the audience. You wanted to stop, but you couldn’t take your eyes away. You could practically envision every one of the faces in the crowd taunting you for the rest of the year about how bad your audition was. Giving up on your attempts to calm your nerves, you spoke.

“Oh, well… My-my name is (F/n) (L/n), I’m a junior, a-and I’ll be auditioning for the roles of Cosette, Éponine, and Fantine, b-but any role is fine. I’ll also b-be auditioning with the song ‘At the Ballet’ from A Chorus Line… so… yeah.” Your trembling voice started to trail off as you nervously cleared your throat in preparation. As you took a deep breath, your eyes kept frantically scanning the crowd. They continued to do so as you started to sing.

“Mother always said I’d be very attractive when I grew up, when I grew up.” You jumped a little in surprise. It actually wasn’t sounding that bad. You started wiping your sweaty hands on the back of your jeans as you continued to sing.

“‘Different’, she said, ‘with a special something and a very very personal- flair.’” You started to think that maybe the nerves were a good thing, as your shaky voice just sounded like some really good vibrato when you held out certain notes.

“And though I was eight or nine, though I was eight or nine, though I was eight or nine… I hated her.” You now noticed that the quiet conversations that were earlier heard further  back in the auditorium had completely dissipated. You had grabbed everyone’s full attention.

“Now ‘different’ is nice, but it sure isn’t pretty ‘pretty’ is what it’s about. I’ve never met anyone who was ‘different’ who couldn’t figure that out. So beautiful, I’d never lived to see. But it was clear. If not to her, than to me.” As you hit every note with a perfect blend of emotion and control, your eyes were still frantically searching the crowd. You had no idea what for, though.

“That everyone is beautiful at the ballet. Every prince has got to have his swan. Yes everything is beautiful-” Your eyes suddenly stopped as they met the orbs of someone who you never thought you would see in that auditorium. Five rows back sat Michael fucking Mell. You’d had a crush on him since freshman year, and just the sight of him made your heart stop. To you, he was so goddamn cool. But you never thought for one second that he was a theatre kid. Your heart started to hammer again when you noticed how invested he was in your audition. He was leaning forward, almost falling off of his chair, with his mouth loosely hanging open. His dark eyes were wide in awe as they made contact with yours. For that one fraction of a second, everything was still as you felt connected to Michael. He was staring at you and you were staring at him. That had never, not once happened before. And boy, did it send heart soaring. Suddenly, you remembered where you were and what you were doing. And- shit you had to sing the high note now. Luckily, your ‘connection’ scenario only lasted for about half of a second. It was also fortunate that that scenario also boosted your adrenaline and confidence by 80%, making the audition even more powerful. You kept eye contact with Michael as you went on went on to sing the high notes.

“At the ballet, hey.” you wanted to stop, but instead you maintained eye contact with the dark-haired geek while you finished the last line of your audition.

“I was pretty, at the ballet.” And just like that, it was over. There were a few beats of silence while the audience was trying to tell if you were finished or not. After the silence, there was an immediate applause and one or two whistles/hollers. After the short applause, you simply smiled sheepishly and stepped down off of the stage, heading back to your seat. You received  a few high fives as you sat back down in your seat, which you gladly accepted. At the moment, you were so unbelievably proud of yourself. You had just conquered one of your biggest fears, and you couldn’t wipe the smile off of your face as the drama teacher started to speak.

“Alright everyone, it seems as though that was our last audition today. I will have the cast list posted by my classroom by Monday next week, and our first rehearsal will be on Tuesday. Have a good evening.” After they were dismissed, everybody started to leave. Still grinning softly, you grabbed your backpack and started to make your way out of the auditorium. Before you could reach the door, however, you were stopped.

“Hey, wait! (Y/n), right? What you did back there was amazing. Seriously, I’ve never seen anything like it! How’d you learn to sing like that?” You turned around to see who was speaking only to find Michael fucking Mell (again). He started jogging to catch up with you as you nervously thought of what you should say.

“Th-thank you, so much, I um… I guess i-it was just years of practice y’know? But, really, it w-wasn’t anything special.” You stuttered while tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. By now, Michael was standing in front of you with a big, dorky smile that instantly made your heart melt.

“Nothing special? Are you kidding me? Pardon my french, but you’re fucking incredible, I would kill for pipes like yours! Oh, and that vibrato, that was gold!” He suddenly paused nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

“S-sorry, do I sound creepy? I don’t wanna be that guy, I-I just…” You smiled up at him as he sighed, clearly frustrated with himself.

“You’re really good.” He finished, looking down at his shoes and mentally cursing himself for acting like a weirdo in front of a cute girl. You decided to be bold for the second time today and rested your hand on his left arm.

“Thank you. It means a lot to me.” You said sincerely as he sheepishly looked up to make eye contact with you through his glasses. A light blush crept its way up onto both of your faces. You bit your bottom lip a little out of habit and removed your hand from his arm before continuing

“Hey, I don’t think I saw you audition. Are you signed up for crew, or…?” You dragged out your last sentence a little as Michael seemed like he was in some sort of trance. He suddenly snapped out of whatever that was and answered.

“Uh, yeah I-I’m actually gonna working in the sound booth, so yeah.” He laughed nervously as he tried to memorize every feature of yours. From the shade of your hair to the curve of your nose. How had he never noticed you before?

“Oh, really? That sounds so cool.” You said, genuinely interested. This led to a full on conversation lasting for about twenty minutes. By then, everyone else had left the auditorium and it was just you two, sprawled out in uncomfortable chairs and engaging in a heated discussion about video games and weed.  Michael watched how your (e/c) eyes seemed to shine as the conversation went on and he grew to understand that he couldn’t let you slip. You were just too amazing and, quite frankly, adorable.

“Hey, so, can I text you? I might need your help figuring out this new PC game that I bought, y’know?” He decided that that was a good enough excuse.

“For sure! Here, gimme your phone.” You held your hand out and Michael placed his phone in it. You immediately input all of your information, but set the name as ‘The Best’, which earned a good laugh from Michael.

“So do you need a ride home? I’ve got a pretty sweet PT Cruiser parked out back.” He offered.

“I guess a ride couldn’t hurt.” You smiled and hopped out of the auditorium seats, grabbing your backpack and phone off of the ground. Not even waiting for Michael, you bounded through the auditorium doors and into the hallway, making you way towards the back parking lot. Michael ran to catch up with you and, upon finally doing so, he grabbed your hand to keep you from walking any further as he slightly bent over and desperately tried to catch his breath.

“Jesus could you not make me run across the whole school just to catch up with you?” He uttered between pants. You simply giggled.

“My bad.” After Michael caught his breath, you two headed outside to his car. You noticed that he was still holding your hand, but you didn’t mind at all, and neither did Michael.

[theworldisourcliche]

CHAPTER 2 ✘ William

William looked into the mirror and adjusted the blue paisley tie around his neck.

He hated it. He hated the pattern, he hated how wide it was, and most of all, he hated that he couldn't get it situated right under his collar.

A moment later, he undid the fabric and re-knotted it, pulling it tighter then loosening it again. For some reason, it still didn't feel right, but he was out of time. The clock on the nightstand behind him indicated that it was already a quarter past seven and he'd be late for work if he took any longer. He'd been knotting ties for years and there was no reason he should have such a hard time with it all of a sudden, but no matter how many times he angrily mumbled that to his reflection, he still wasn't happy with the result.

The simple fact was: he hadn't gotten any sleep over the past three nights and his hands just wouldn't do what he wanted them to.

Just thinking about it forced his eyes to refocus, moving away from his shaky, white-knuckled fingers to look at his reflection. The bags under his eyes didn't do anything to disguise the fact that he was lacking sleep. The bed behind him, perfectly made on one side, unkempt and worn on the other only added to the admission that he had spent the previous night awake in his office. Again.

William pushed the thought to the back of his head and pulled himself away from the mirror, making his way out of the room, ducking in said office to grab his briefcase on the way down the hall.

When he entered the kitchen, in all its white porcelain glory, he swept over the counter, picking up his keys and stashing them in his coat pocket, then took an apple and wedged it between his teeth before reaching up to a cabinet to pull down a thermos.

"Don't take all the coffee."

He turned and tried to acknowledge Sophia's presence around the apple. When he couldn't form any kind of greeting, he reached up and removed the apple, taking a bite where his teeth had been dug into it and then talked around the mouthful.

"Since when do you drink coffee?" It came out garbled and unclear.

She barely looked up from her laptop long enough to acknowledge him. "Since I ran out of tea."

She was already put together in a slim fitting dress and heels that would probably make her too tall when she stood. Even though she wouldn't be leaving for at least another hour and a half, she was made for the day. Sitting rim-rod straight, not a hair was out of place. For some reason this struck a nerve inside him. William eyed her briefly before pouring his coffee.

"Won't you kiss me good morning?" she asked.

The way the words rolled off her tongue made him want to stay planted safely on the other side of the room, but he forced his feet to move. The reluctance he'd been feeling toward her as of late was irrational and inexplicable. In some ways. If he searched deeper, he thought he knew where it was rooted. But searching meant admitting and admitting meant he'd have to do something about it and doing something about it would take more effort than he was interested in giving.

As he stooped down to let his lips graze gently against her, she put her hand across his cheek and the diamond rock sitting atop her fourth finger caught the sunlight, sending a smattering of iridescent geometric shapes to dance along the ceiling.

Without warning, the tie he'd almost forgotten about felt like it was two times tighter. As he pulled away, he tugged at it slightly, trying to give himself room to breathe.

"Busy day?" she asked. Her sweet tone softened his heart and he was thankful to feel that familiar fondness he'd been missing creep up. "You look dashing in that shirt. I'm so glad you let me buy it for you."

It was another reminder of how uncalled for his attitude had been lately. On one hand, he couldn't help how he felt and he also couldn't help that he was getting cold feet, but on the other hand, Sophia hadn't done anything to deserve it. As he thought about whether or not his day was actually busy, or if he was just giving off that impression because his mind was so preoccupied, he let himself consider how ridiculous it was to have cold feet anyway. He was engaged, not dying...weren't weddings supposed to be happier than funerals?

After all—Sophia was beautiful. She was successful. She was arguably everything his father had ever wanted for him, an obvious fact considering he'd been the one to introduce them.

Maybe that was where some of the resentment had started. But it shouldn't still be a problem. They'd been together for years. Almost five, actually, which is what had led to the engagement in the first place.  

If his father's approval wasn't the problem, maybe the fact that he'd felt forced into proposing was... He hadn't wanted to get engaged yet. He wasn't even thirty yet. At twenty-seven, he still had three years left to be irresponsible. Three years before he'd officially be an adult with responsibility. Three years to not feel like he had to be home by 10PM. Three years to visit Ireland with Chris like they'd always planned and drink their way from one side of the country to the other. He could go on and on, because every night he'd spent not sleeping, he had instead spent making lists arguing why he shouldn't be settling down before he was thirty.

Each reason sounded more and more like an excuse. Nothing more than a means to get him out of a pretty notably binding legal commitment.

But it was really too late to be making lists. After three years of badgering, Sophia had worn him down.

He'd proposed on their last anniversary, and now, almost six months later, they were moving closer and closer to their wedding date and he could feel all the things he had yet to do relentlessly eating away at him. That was all.

William knew it was all in his head. It was just... ever since he'd asked her to marry him everything seemed different.

Any time he closed his eyes, he found himself dreaming of a blonde who was very much not Sophia.

It might have been the London tap water, finally doing something to his gut the way he'd been warned it might, or perhaps it was more to do with his impending nuptials...the idea of spending forever with one person... Either way, in just half a year's time, he'd gone from happy with a full night's sleep to miserable, cranky, and tired.

He didn't want to leave her innocent question unanswered for much longer, lest she ask what he was thinking about, so he opened his mouth and gave a short "yes" before stepping back and readjusting the briefcase in his hand.

At the same time William took note of the way the leather had finally worn perfectly beneath his fingers, Sophia eyed it and gave him a confused, rather short-tempered look. It had taken years for the leather to get this soft and he was finally happy with the way his paperwork fit inside. When they'd been shopping the other day, and she'd found a new hard-shell briefcase that she insisted on buying for him, he had known there was a problem.  

"I thought you were going to switch to the new bag..." She let the leading question-turned-statement drift into the space between them as she waited for his response. "You can't think that old, scuffed thing is still suitable to carry as someone practicing legitimate law, can you?"

His face didn't give, and she tried another tactic, laying on a sweeter, more syrupy tone as an attempt to quell the insult she'd just delivered.

"Let your famous designer fiancée doll you up—with looks as good as yours, and taste as good as mine, everyone will want you to save them from debt and financial ruin."

The emphasis she put on the word famous was in good fun and for the most part, it did the job, lightening his mood and making him forget for a moment that what she was actually doing was marking her territory.

"I just haven't taken the time," he said, even though it wasn't the truth. He'd had about nine hours the night before which would have been perfect for just the task. Of course, that was beside the point. He had no intention of using the one she'd bought him. Noora had given him the one in his hand when he'd first gotten accepted into law school. There was real sentiment behind it. And besides that, he didn't like the one she'd bought.

He had a feeling Noora was the main reason she wanted him to get rid of it but didn't think the admission of not caring for the alternative, the one she had picked out, would be any better.

"I'll do it when I get home," he added at the last second. He still didn't know if he meant it, but he thought he should at least give it a thought. Was it right to hold onto something from an old girlfriend when you were supposed to be marrying someone else? Did it matter if it was just a briefcase?

Even if the answer was no, he thought it probably mattered if said ex-girlfriend was creeping into your subconscious thoughts late at night...or any time you let your mind drift for longer than a few minutes at a time.

Sophia gave him a forgiving look and pulled him to her for one last kiss before returning to her work and sending him off.

As William closed the door to their building behind him, he let himself take a deep breath of the morning air, the soft fogginess filling his lungs and giving him what felt like a fresh start. It would only last as long as the walk to his office, but at least he was getting out of the apartment today. With Sophia having her studio built into their home, and his home office being right down the hall, getting any work done there sometimes proved hard.

It wasn't that he was intimidated by her success. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Her passion and drive when it came to designing clothes is what had first caught his attention. She worked unlike anyone he'd ever met before—throwing her whole self into everything she did, wasting no time. She always knew exactly what she wanted, and she wasn't afraid to go after it. They were praiseworthy qualities.

She had an interview scheduled with a fashion magazine, and the following week, she was expected to be on her way to a fashion show in Milan. He was happy that all her hard work would be displayed and that she'd be getting some well-deserved credit. He just hoped he could figure out his own issues by the time she returned.

Surely one week was enough time to cleanse his thoughts and refocus. Surely one week was enough time to fall back in love with Sophia.

If he didn't get his shit together soon, he knew he'd never be able to fill the hole growing inside him.

[btsjfans]

Love Me

Summary: After breaking off your 4 year romance as you make your way onto your 3rd year of college, you don’t expect to fall back in love’s grip so soon...

Namjoon x Reader, fluff, lil angst, maybe a lil smut later on

masterlist

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, Y/n I swear it’s not what it looked like it was a one time thing I’m sorry Y/n please!” Jenny, your now-former best friend cried out from behind you as you slammed the door shut, running out of the house party.

“Y/n come back!” Wonho ran out of the house, grabbing your arm. His shirt was hastily re-buttoned, and his hair was messy and wild. A pitiful attempt to act like nothing happened.

“Get off of me you..you..you bastard!” You snarled and pulled your arm away. “You cheated on me, at my own surprise party, with my best friend, and the most you do is, ‘Y/n, come back’?! You disgust me! You’re a selfish pig! You’re..you..I hate you!” You whip your hand across his cheek, landing a stinging slap.

“I..” He winces from the slap, looking at you intently, although he knows it’s a lost cause. “You really won’t take me back will you?” 

“Don’t count on it.” You tear yourself from his presence, wanting nothing more than to hide in his arms and pretend it didn’t happen, but you know you can’t. No kiss with him could ever be the same, knowing that those lips touched Jennie’s. 

You jog home, tears staining your cheeks as you push into your apartment complex, running up the stairs, bumping into people as you pass, trying to keep your head down. You make your way to your door, sniffling and wiping tears, briskly tearing through your purse trying to find the keys that evidently weren’t there. They must be in Jennie’s bag. 

You let out a quiet sob, leaning your head on the door, closing your eyes and wondering what you did to make your life go so, so wrong. 

“Hey..Y/n?” A deep voice from behind startles you from your mourning. You sniffle and look up, knowing there’s no point in pretending you weren’t crying. Behind you stood Kim Namjoon. He had been in various classes with you throughout college, and you two had worked together on a couple projects. He had never been a close friend, but he was a friend nonetheless. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Locked out?” His voice was soft and comforting, and he reached out to you. His soft, large hands found their place on your body: one on your lower back, and one on your arm. His dark eyes bore into your own, caring and deep. 

“Locked out,” You confirmed, nodding and sniffling, not wanting to talk about the other thing. 

“Well, my roommate is out of town for a little while, if you want someplace to stay for the night,” He smiled a little, brushing hair from your face. 

“That would be nice,” You smile a little back. He gently guides you down the hall towards his room, keeping a soft hand on your back as you walk. He makes small talk with you as you two make your way down the halls. Although you don’t pay much attention to his words, you find comfort in them. His voice has a deep, melodic tone, and there’s just something indescribably calming about just his mere presence. He lets go of you long enough to unlock his door, gently nudging you in. You take a look around the place as you enter; it’s extremely tidy with  a very mature style. Everything looks incredibly modern, despite having been purchased on a college student’s budget. It smells like Namjoon, with an overlying hint of cologne in the air. Surprisingly, it feels as though you’d been there a thousand times. It feels like home. “Namjoon, do you have a restroom?” You ask, breaking yourself from your observing. 

“Oh yes of course, right down the hall.” He smiles, pointing in the direction of the bathroom. You excuse yourself and quietly close the door behind you, looking at your reflection. Dark bags decorate your face under your eyes, and streaks of makeup paint your cheeks. You look haggard. But how could you not? Your boyfriend of 4 years just cheated on you with your best friend of 16 years. As of right now, it feels as if Namjoon is all you have, and yet you’ve barely spoken to him this night. You wash your face off and take a shaky breath, gripping the edges of the sink, steadying yourself. 

You soon step out into the living room once again, greeted by Namjoon who holds out a large t-shirt, presumably his, as well as some large basketball shorts. “I um know this might not be ideal, and you don’t have to take it, but changing out of clothes after a bad day often helps I find.” He smiles at you, his dimple teasing his cheek, somehow making your heart twinge even at a time like this. Honestly, you were touched by all this man was doing for you. For however limited your encounters with him were, he still was readily here for you, providing you with anything you could need and more. 

“Thank you Namjoon, I...thank you.” You smile, gingerly taking the clothes from his hands as he gently guides you down the same hall to a bedroom. This one must be his room mate’s. It was fairly simple, a bed, desk with a computer, a closet, and a bean bag. 

“This is where you can stay for the time being. My roommate, Taehyung, is away on a study abroad for the rest of the semester.” Namjoon smiles leaning on the doorway as you step in, setting the clothes down. 

“Is it okay if I use this?” you gesture to a wall charger and hold up your now dead cellphone. 

“Y/n, you don’t need to ask for anything here. My house is your house.” 

You take a quick shower, letting out a few more tears as you go, and change into Namjoon’s clothes. They hang on you several sizes too large, but surround you with a comforting smell, and a soft touch. Your phone has continually blown up with messages, primarily from Jennie, and a few from Wonho. Word of your “birthday surprise” had reached all of the party-goers, who all felt the need to text you the same, “So sorry about what happened!! I love you and I’m here for you :))))” text. You groan inwardly and slide your phone to do not disturb, and flop onto the bed staring at the ceiling. 

Where had you gone wrong?

About an hour had passed, and you were still laying on the bed staring at he ceiling, bedroom door open and lamps still on. It was nice, this feeling of peace and isolation in his house. As you lay and ponder upon your current state of affairs, you hear Namjoon’s footsteps approach. You sit up, smiling at your gracious host, who stands in the door way smiling back at you. 

“What’re you still doing up? It’s half past 12.” He leans on the door frame. 

“Just thinking. And you?” You look him over thoughtfully. He was an awfully attractive man. Tall, well built, messy light brown hair, dark eyes, and a gentle, warm smile. It was a shock to many that he was still single. In fact, throughout your 3 years here, you’d never known him to have a girlfriend. 

“The same. Mind some company?” He gazes at you with an unreadable fire in his eyes. 

“Of course.” You slide over and lean against the bed frame, patting the spot next to you. He walks over, sighing as he seats himself next to you. 

“Tell me everything.”

One hour passed, and then two. Once you had told him about tonight’s events, last night’s events, and all events forward came out. The grimy details of your relationship with Wonho, the snake-like plights of Jennie, the things you had put up with for their sake. Once you had finished, it was his turn. His story was quite different than yours. The girl he loved never noticed him, and lived an apparently socially tumultuous life. He had filled his life with misadventures with his friends, Taehyung, Jungkook, Jimin, Hoseok, Seokjin, and Yoongi. His life was relatively happy, he eased through school and life. His only plight was his unnamed lost love, while yours was filled with betrayal and strife. 

The two of you stayed up until at 4 at least, lost in the conversation. Your words drifted from your own lives, to the seemingly changing meaning of life. You lost track of when you had fallen asleep, but you knew it had been after 4, and before 6. 

You’d woken up around 8, with your head on his shoulder, his arm loosely around your waist, and his head leaning against yours. You felt safer and happier being here with him than you had with anyone for a long time in all honesty. You smiled a little as you heard him snore softly next to you, and you gently tugged a loose blanket over the two of you. You both were happy, so there was no harm in sleeping in, you thought, as you closed your eyes and drifted back into sleep’s sweet grace.

You re-awoke about an hour and a half later to Namjoon clumsily puling himself from the bad, obviously trying not to wake you, but failing miserably as he rose from the bed. You grinned a little as you watched him cringe at his mistakes. 

“Remind me not to rob a bank with you,” You chuckle as you wipe sleep from your eyes. 

“Ah shit, I was hoping I could let you sleep a little more.” He apologetically rubs the back of his neck, watching you fondly.

“Don’t blame yourself, I was already waking up anyway.” You rise from the bed, refolding the blanket. “Wanna go grab some breakfast?” 

You pull on your jeans from the night before, leaving on his shirt and pulling your hair up loosely. The two of you hit a cafe, and spend the next few hours drinking coffee, eating breakfast, and talking. The conversation between you two never dies, and keeps the both of you thoughtfully engaged, and laughing all the while. You two take a walk around campus, talking and giggling as you go. 

“Ugh, I really don’t want to go back to living with Jennie,” You sigh as you two make your way back.

“Well, uh if this isn't too rushed, you could move in with Taehyung and I. He loves new people, and we have that one spare room still. Just an option if you don’t want to go back.” He shrugs, nodding to people who pass you on the stairs. 

“Oh Joon, I would love that!!” You grin and pull him into a hug, feeling him tense for a moment before relaxing into your touch. 

“Now there is one condition,” He says as he pulls away. 

“Which is?” 

“You need to talk to Jennie about what happened. You can’t just move out, you need to face this and move on.” He gives you a very knowing look.

You sigh knowing he’s right and nod. “I’ll be back to the apartment by 3 at the latest. Okay?” He nods and gives you a quick pat before walking to the apartment. You hesitantly approach your door, sighing before knocking.

A spent Jennie answers the door, looking worse than you had last night. Tears and dark makeup stained her puffy cheeks, and her hair was unbrushed. She was still in last nights clothing.

“Oh Y/n!” She exclaims, pulling you into her arms. She still has the smell of Wonho on her clothes, and you push her off. 

“Look, I’m not here to be buddy-buddy with you again, I’m here to talk about what happened.” You close the door and kick off your shoes, walking through the apartment. This place had been your home for 2 years, after living in the on-campus dorms for one year. You two had built your home here, all excited to taste the real world. You two had been best friends for 16 years, and it honestly broke your heart you would lose this. But it needed to happen.

You take a seat in the living room, eying up what you’ll be taking when you move out. 

“I...oh Y/n,” Jennie falls to the couch, burying her head in her hands. “I..I don’t have an excuse. Wonho and I were both drunk and..and needy I suppose. I never was attracted to him before hand, or even after so I honestly..I just can’t explain myself. And, oh god, Y/n I can’t believe I screwed this all up oh my god,” Jennie bursts into tears, heaving as she sobs. “You’re my best friend Y/n, and I know you hate me now, fuck, I even hate me now, but you’ll never stop being my best friend. I just, I just..I’m so sorry,” She lets out a shaky breath, wiping tears from her face. You feel a stirring inside at the sight. This was Jennie. Your best friend since you were 5. She was supposed to be your best friend forever, but could you really forgive her for this? “Jennie...I need time right now. You..you both hurt me, and hey, maybe once I get over this we can be friends again, but I just can’t right now okay? I..I’m moving out as well. Maybe I’ll move back someday, but for now, I just can’t be here anymore.” You get up, hesitating as you pass her to pat her or something, but you continue on down the hall, her quiet crying getting softer as you close the door to your room.

It takes you 2 hours to pack all your things and carry them to Joon’s, and another 45 minutes to carry some of the bigger stuff. By the time you leave Jennie’s, it’s half empty. Half the furnishings, half the pots and pans and plates and utensils, half the toiletries, half the decor, all gone. Namjoon helps you arrange the room, decorating it with care. You two laugh as you put your new stuff away, telling stories and chatting as you work. By 9pm, you’re entirely moved in. 

Your room is nice, albeit simple. You just have your bed frame and bed, adorned with your simple comforter and pillows, a desk dressed up with little shelves and containers, and a vanity. “I’m not used to having such bare walls.” You muse, looking over the white walls in the amber light of your lamps. 

“Well, then it’s our job to take you on loads of adventures so you can decorate your walls with your new life. For now we can get you some fairy lights or whatever Pinterest decor you want. This is your new home Y/n, and dammit you’re gonna love it.”

You two move out to the living room, watching TV in silence as you enjoy each other’s company. As you lay down to sleep that night, you smile relishing your freedom. This is your new life. And it smells a lot like Kim Namjoon. 

[imaginetonyandbucky]

How bout a Fake Engagement AU? Bucky pretends Tony is his fiance to get Steve, Natasha & Sam off his back, about settling down. Only it backfires, because they demanded he bring Tony to the next family event, to meet his future husband. Only one tiny ity bitty problem, Tony isn't his boyfriend let alone his fiance, just Bucky's favorite bartender down at The Avenger. Bucky may also be like half in love with him. Totally unrelated. Now Bucky has ask Tony to be his finance for a week. No pressure.

Plus One

Bucky took a deep breath and pushed open the door tohis favorite bar, instinctively relaxing when the familiar smells and soundswashed over him. It was still early and The Avenger only had a few patrons,most of them regulars who Bucky knew by face or, in rare cases, by name.

Tony lit up when he caught sight of Bucky, his grinwide enough to cause an excited flutter in Bucky's chest, as always.

"What's this? Is it Christmas already?" Tonycalled from behind the bar, looking delighted as Bucky made his way toward him."Two times in a week, Buckling? I am officially the luckiest guy in NewYork."

Atrocious as the nickname was, Bucky couldn't helpsmiling as he reached the bar and slid into his usual seat.

The first time Bucky had shuffled into The Avenger,he'd done so out of sheer necessity. He'd been cold and shivering, miserableafter having spent hours outside in the rain, walking aimlessly in an attemptto chase away the darkness that tended to creep up on him when he sat alone inhis shitty apartment for too long. The soft, warm lights of the bar had calledto him, promising a sanctuary Bucky had so desperately needed.

Once inside he'd been met with dark wood, soft music,and a subtle murmur of voices, so different from the loud bars and clubs he andhis friends usually visited. There had been enough dark corners that Buckycould easily have disappeared if he so wished, the atmosphere one of politeindifference. He'd known right away that no one would bother him here — no onewould care.

Bucky could still remember how the tension he'd beencarrying — the one that had chased him out onto the streets in the first place— had bled out of him within seconds.

"And why are you so lucky?" Bucky asked,even if he knew exactly where this was going.

"Because you spoil me, Buckling," Tonyreplied, tone playful. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

"I just can't resist, doll," Bucky said. Hewas still surprised by how easy it was to banter with Tony. Ever since Buckyreturned from Afghanistan, most social interactions felt like pulling teeth andflirting had been entirely out of the question — until he met Tony. It wasalmost frighteningly easy to talk to Tony. "The thought of going one moreday without seein' your pretty face nearly broke my heart."

Tony laughed, bright and carefree, and Bucky couldbarely breathe for how beautiful Tonylooked in that moment.

(Mobile readers, watch out for the break.)

"I bet you say that to all the boys," Tonyteased.

Bucky rested his forearms against the counter and gaveTony a wink. "You're the only one for me, sweetheart. You know that."

Tony braced his hands against the bar, wide apart, andleaned closer. Bucky could smell a whiff of Tony's aftershave and see theflecks of gold in his brown eyes.

"Good," Tony said, voice low enough to senda subtle shiver down Bucky's spine. The playfulness in Tony's gaze said that hewas probably just joking, but Bucky soaked up the attention all the same."Keep it that way."

Bucky placed a hand over his heart. "You have myword."

He was rewarded with another laugh and Bucky knew he had to be grinning like alovesick idiot. He was so in over his head with this one.

It was strange to think that Bucky had only given Tonya cursory glance the first time he visited the bar. Sure, Tony had beenundeniably charming even back then, with his wide, inviting smile and sparklingeyes, but Bucky had been too preoccupied with his own misery to really care.He'd simply ordered a drink, found an empty booth, and proceeded to ignoreeveryone around him.

Bucky had sat in that booth for almost two hours, coldand wet, fingers loosely wrapped around the tumbler of whiskey and gaze staringblankly at the table in front of him. No one had bothered him or asked him ifhe was okay, and that had been fine by him.

He'd been able to breathe freely for the first time inmonths, which had been nothing short of a miracle.

It wasn't until he had gotten up to leave — asurprising but very welcome calm having settled over him sometime during thosetwo hours — that he had happened to catch Tony's gaze across the room. Onlythen had Bucky noticed how the lighting inside the bar made everything glow asoft and warm gold — including Tony.

His eyes had looked like gently burning embers,bright, mesmerizing, and breathtakingly beautiful.

After that, Bucky felt he couldn't be blamed forreturning to the bar a second time. And a third. And a fourth. He'd done sopartly because The Avenger — with its soft music and low, murmuring voices —helped put his whirring mind at ease, but mainly it was thanks to Tony. Buckywasn't sure why he found the place so soothing, but he wasn't going to complain,especially seeing how well it worked.

It wasn't until Bucky's fourth visit that he and Tonyhad started talking and — as Bucky became one of the regulars — it soon becamea habit.

They had exchanged words before, sure, when Bucky hadplaced his orders, but this was different. It was actual conversations withgently asked questions and equally careful answers. Bucky wasn't sure what itmeant — if anything at all — but he liked it. He liked talking to Tony. Theybecame friends, of sorts, even if it wasn't an entirely conventional relationship,given that Tony was working every time they met.

The fact that Bucky's feelings for Tony weren'tentirely platonic, well — Bucky kept that to himself.

"So, what can I do for you?" Tony asked,straightening a little, but not so much that he was actually out of Bucky'sreach. It was a heady feeling to have Tony that close. "You want theusual?"

And, just like that, Bucky was reminded of his reasonfor showing up at the bar. He'd actually managed to forget his currentpredicament, if only for a little while.

He cleared his throat, feeling his stomach twist fromnerves. "Uh, yeah. Sure," he croaked, almost wincing at how not smooth that response had been.

Tony did pause for a second — his concern easy to spotin the sudden sharpness of his gaze — but he clearly knew Bucky well enough totell that this wasn't one of his bad nights. Not like Bucky's first couple ofvisits to The Avenger, when he'd barely been able breathe through the panic andPTSD.

"Coming right up, Buckling," Tony repliedeasily.

Bucky could tell that Tony was giving him time togather his thoughts, but that he would eventually ask why Bucky seemed sonervous. That was one of Tony's best qualities — over the one and a half yearsthey had known each other, he'd learned when to wait Bucky out and when to pushfor answers.

Surprisingly, Bucky did most of the talking in theirrelationship. He wasn't sure how that had happened; not even Steve managed tocoax as many honest answers out of him as Tony did. Bucky wasn't the kind ofperson who liked to share — he kept his problems to himself — but every singletime that Tony tilted his head to the side and asked that one simple question,the words just came pouring out.

"Want to talkabout it?"

Bucky didwant to talk about it. He'd had no idea how much he wanted to talk about thingsuntil he met Tony. It was in that dimly lit bar, fingers holding on to a glassof booze he rarely ever finished, that he spoke freely for the first time inhis life. Bucky wasn't sure why — what Tony did to make Bucky trust him to thatdegree — but it was such a relief.

He told Tony about his anger over losing his arm,about the slow and agonizing recovery and the infernal prosthetic he wasexpected to wear, about his family, and about Steve, Sam, and Natasha. Buckytold Tony things he hadn't even told Steve, though those weren't many.

Occasionally, Tony shared anecdotes of his own. Hetold Bucky about his joy of tinkering, about the wild adventures he'd had withhis best friend while at MIT, and about small tidbits from his everyday lifethat Bucky treasured with embarrassing enthusiasm. Every piece of informationthat he was able to gather about Tony was precious to him and only served tomake Bucky like the man even more.

Bucky couldn't be blamed, he felt, for falling half inlove with Tony. Who wouldn't? The man was charming and kind, and listened to aone-armed veteran without a hint of impatience.

It was easy to fall for someone like that.

The fact that Bucky had managed to convince Steve,Sam, and Nat that the feeling was mutual, well — that was perhaps a bit of aproblem, on the other hand. He should never have told his friends that he had afiancé. Why on earth had he donethat?

Well, he knew why — because Bucky hated how theynagged about him needing to find someone to settle down with. He was in no moodfor dating and certainly not marriage,but that was, apparently, not a sufficient answer.

So he lied. He told them that he did, in fact, havesomeone — they were engaged, even.

Steve had been delighted, so desperate for Bucky tofind happiness, while Nat had been more skeptical. It was her questions thathad pushed Bucky to reveal more about this secret fiancé of his and, in amoment of absolute panic, he'd ended up describing the bartender at hisfavorite bar. It would have been wiser to just conjure up an imaginary person,but no, that was apparently too easy. Bucky had to go and pick someone he wasactually mooning over and then proceed to describe the man in such detail thathis friends demanded to meet him.

Bucky had done a lot of idiotic things in his life,but this might very take the cake.

He was so stupid.

A tumbler was placed in front of him and Bucky took adeep breath before looking up at Tony. "Thanks."

Tony smiled and mirrored Bucky's position with hisforearms braced against the bar between them. The light made Tony's hair glow awarm, dark gold, and he looked so effortlessly handsome that Bucky didn't knowwhether to look away or stare like a complete fool.

Bucky chose the latter, glancing down at his glass ofwhiskey when the warmth in Tony's gaze became too much.

After another couple of seconds, Tony spoke up."Are you going to make me ask?"

"Well, I dolove the sound of your voice." Bucky was just trying to buy himself time,but he was very pleased that it earned him a laugh from Tony.

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

When their gazes met, Bucky couldn't help grinning; thesmile on Tony's face made Bucky a little breathless. As nervous as he was abouthis purpose for visiting, seeing Tony never failed to make him happy.

Tony nudged Bucky's elbow with his own. "Butdon't think I didn't notice you trying to avoid the subject."

There was that wave of vague nausea again. Bucky stareddown at his tumbler of whiskey, absently rubbing his thumb against the rim ofthe glass. It was probably better to just get it over with.

He cleared his throat and forced his voice to remain steady."Can I... ask you a favor?"

"Sure. Shoot," Tony replied immediately — nohesitation or questions asked.

The trust Tony had in him was gratifying, but alsoserved to make Bucky even more nervous. This was a pretty huge favor, afterall, and he wasn't sure how Tony would react to it. Had it just been a matterof him coming along to Bucky's little sister's wedding then they might havebeen fine, but the fact that everyone there expected Bucky to bring his elusivefiancé, well — that made things difficult.

Bucky had actually refused when Steve, Nat, and Samhad tried to convince him that bringing Tony to the wedding would be a lovely idea. There were limits to howmany lies Bucky was willing to tell and he knew that he would be digginghimself into a far too deep hole with that one. If he wasn't able to get Tonyto come along, they'd know Bucky had been talking shit.

But then Becca had gotten involved, thanks to Nat'sscheming, no doubt.

While Bucky might be able to say no to his friends —even Steve, though it was embarrassingly difficult sometimes — he wasn't quiteprepared to deny his sister something she wanted for her wedding day. If onlythat thing hadn't been to meet Bucky's non-existent fiancé. Bucky couldn't evenfigure out if it would be worse to keep lying to her about said fiancé or justcome clean and admit that he was just as pathetically single as he had been forthe past two years.

Bucky only had himself to blame, he knew that, butthat didn't exactly make him feel better.

Fuck his life.

After much deliberation, Bucky had decided it wouldn'thurt to ask. The conversation wouldbe awkward, no doubt, but it probably wouldn't ruin his and Tony's friendshipentirely. If phrased correctly, Tony might even take it as a compliment.

"It's, uh... a big one. A huge one, actually." Bucky scratched his neck before lookingat Tony, already feeling like an idiot. Tony just kept smiling, patientlywaiting for Bucky to continue. Bucky cleared his throat — again — and managedto squeeze out the words: "Will you be my plus one for my little sister'swedding two months from now?"

Bucky desperately wanted to bang his head against thebar when he realized just how corny he'd made that sound. He behaved like ateenager asking his crush to the prom. Then again, that analogy wasn't entirelywithout merit, he supposed.

Tony blinked in surprise, looking quite stunned. Buckycouldn't blame him.

Bucky hurried to continue, not sure if he would havethe courage to explain the whole situation otherwise. "I know it's a strangerequest since we, well... we don't see each other outside of this bar. And itgets even weirder, too."

"Oh?" Tony seemed to have gotten over theinitial surprise, but his face remained carefully blank, as if he was waitingto show his reaction until Bucky had finished. Bucky had never seen Tony dothat before. Tony was usually very expressive, always smiling and open in hisbody language. Seeing him so contained was unnerving.

"I might have lied a little to my friends andfamily." Bucky swallowed, but forced himself to meet Tony's gaze. This wasdefinitely one of the most awkward conversations Bucky had ever had themisfortune of taking part in. "About, uh, my relationship status."

Within seconds, Tony's face broke into a wide grin.

"Ah. Ithink I know where this is going." The hesitation was gone, Tony's posturerelaxing yet again. Bucky hadn't even noticed it had tensed in the first place.

"You do?" Bucky asked incredulously. Sure,he knew that Tony was frighteningly intelligent — it hadn't taken Bucky morethan two conversations to figure that out — but this was a pretty bizarresituation.

"You lied and told them you were datingsomeone," Tony said, as if it was the most obvious and understandablething in the world, "and now they want you to bring this date of yours tothe wedding."

"Fiancé, actually," Bucky mumbled, not quitesure how to react. He'd expected to have to explain everything in detail, nothave Tony figure it out after just a couple of stumbling sentences.

"Fiancé? I like the way you think, Buckling — aimhigh, and all that." Tony tilted his head to the side, his smile almostdisturbingly excited. He was clearly enjoying this but Bucky couldn't quitetell if it was at his expense or not. "And I'm the lucky guy who gets toplay this fiancé of yours?"

To his horror, Bucky felt himself blush.

"Well, I—" He looked down at the bar andscratched his ear. "I guess? If you want to?"

"I would love to."

Bucky's gaze snapped up to look at Tony."Really?"

That was easy — a lot easier than Bucky thought itwould be.

"Yeah, sure." Tony shrugged, still smilinglike the conversation made complete sense and wasn't weird in the slightest.Bucky found himself wondering if anything could bring Tony out of balance."Who would pass up on a chance to see you all decked out in a nicesuit?"

"A lot of people," Bucky blurted out,wincing when he realized just how pathetic that made him sound. It was thetruth, though — one-armed veterans with PTSD weren't exactly in high demand.

"Their loss is my gain," Tony repliedeasily. While Tony wasn't one to give pep talks, there was something incrediblyreassuring in the way he firmly shot down Bucky's self-depreciating comments.Tony smiled and Bucky was so caught up in staring at him that he almostflinched when he felt a touch against his fingers. He glanced down to seeTony's hand gently settle over his.

"Bucky, sweetheart," Tony said, his gazedetermined, "I would be honored to be your fake fiancé at your sister'swedding."

Perhaps it was the serious tone Tony adopted or thegeneral ludicrousness of the situation, but Bucky burst out laughing. There wasa slightly manic hint to it that turned a couple of heads, sure, but Buckyignored the stares.

"There you are," Tony said with a pleasedgrin, squeezing Bucky's hand. "I like it better when you smile."

Bucky shook his head, still feeling the laughterbubble in his throat. He looked up at Tony, trying not to be distracted by theabsent little circles Tony's thumb were rubbing against the back of his hand.

"You're unbelievable," Bucky said.

"Why thank you."

When Tony pulled his hand back, Bucky tried his bestnot to miss its warmth.

"And you're takin' this surprisingly well."Not that Bucky was complaining — he just hadn't expected Tony to be soaccepting. "Have you been asked to be someone's fake date before?"

Tony grinned. "Nope. This is definitely a firstfor me. I'm just very good at adapting."

"I'd say." Bucky took a couple of deepbreaths, feeling his shoulders lower. He'd been so tense and nervous about thiswhole thing that he almost wanted to slump from relief. "You sure you'reup for it? It's a week-long thing. With family get-togethers and socializin'and a wedding reception and shit like that."

"Yes, Buckling," Tony replied patiently,"I'm sure. I'm flattered, actually. This means I must have done somethingright."

That was certainly true. There weren't many people Buckytrusted enough to ask, and few of those knew him as well as Tony did. There weresome details they still hadn't covered, sure — Bucky didn't know Tony'ssurname, now that he thought about it — but the foundation was there. Tony wasaware of the PTSD and Bucky's triggers, and hopefully remembered enough aboutBucky's family and friends not to walk in blind. Admittedly, Bucky knew lessabout Tony than the other way around, but still enough to call them friends.

Still enough to know that when it came down to it,there was no one else Bucky could or wanted to ask.

Bucky tried to swallow the lump of gratefulnessbuilding in his throat, with only marginal success. "Thank you."

"It's my pleasure, Bucky."

"You might change your mind when faced with myfriends and family," Bucky warned, but he couldn't help the soft smilespreading on his lips. Tony had heard enough stories to know a lot about them,sure, but meeting someone in person was quite different, especially people likeNatasha or Steve. "They're a handful."

While Tony was exceedingly charming, Steve wouldn't befooled by a pretty face, and neither would Becca or Nat.

Tony, being who he was, winked, of all things. "Good. I like a challenge."

Bucky snorted on a laugh. "I think I regret thisalready."

"Are you breaking up with me, Buckling?"Tony teased, his eyes sparkling. "We didn't even make it to thewedding."

There was only one way Bucky could respond to that.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again,doll." He reached out and carefully laced their fingers together, giving agentle squeeze. "You're the only one for me."

For the first time since they had gotten to know eachother, Tony looked a little speechless. As much as the two of them flirted witheach other, they rarely touched. Bucky wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps it wasthe literal barrier of the bar between them or maybe Tony thought Bucky didn'tlike physical contact considering how rarely he initiated it.

While taking Tony's hand didn't seem all thatadventurous — Tony had touched him first, after all, just a couple of minutesago — Bucky had time to start wondering if he had crossed a line. Or maybe itwasn't the touching that had made Tony fall silent. Perhaps Bucky had saidthose words with a little too much conviction, unintentionally revealing thatthey weren't quite as fake as he pretended that they were.

An anxious knot started growing in Bucky chest and hewas just about to pull back and apologize when Tony smiled, warm and fond, likealways.

"And that's why I'm the luckiest guy in NewYork," Tony said, voice soft.

Bucky felt his heart squeeze, pleased when Tony seemedperfectly content to let their entwined hands continue to rest on top of thebar. They hadn't even started yet and Bucky could already tell that he was goingto be toeing a very dangerous line.Pretending to be engaged to Tony without making it obvious that Bucky was, infact, genuinely in love with the man was going to be tricky, but he was toorelieved to really care in that moment.

Bucky exhaled, squeezing Tony's fingers. "Thankyou. Again."

Tony smiled. "Anytime, Buckling."

There were a lot of technical details to take care ofinvolving the wedding — not to mention that he and Tony had to agree on variousdetails to make their story believable — but that could wait. They probablyshouldn't discuss those things in the middle of the bar anyway. In some weirdway, Bucky was actually beginning to look forward to the whole thing.

For one whole week, he'd get to pretend that Tony washis.

That probably made him all kinds of creepy, but Buckycouldn't help it. He had been in love with the man for so long and he wasembarrassingly eager to see what it would be like to be Tony's fiancé, even ifit was all pretend. Bucky would take whatever he could get.

In fact, a week was more than Bucky could ever havehoped for, and he would make sure to treasure it. For one whole week, Buckywould get to be Tony's fiancé.

Bucky couldn't believe his luck.

A/N: I would LOVE to continue this at some point and write the actual wedding, but because of deadlines and my semi-writer’s block I’m afraid this is all you’ll get this time around. Still, I hope you like it!

- Amethystina

[dassala]

In Focus

Rated M - Chapter 3/? (Ch. 1, Ch. 2)

Emma Swan’s CEO fiance Graham Humbert has hired a wedding photographer to capture every aspect of the wedding planning process. Killian Jones usually hates these stuck-up, spoiled rich brides he captures on film, but Emma is different.

Disclaimer: This fic contains elements that may be squicky or disturbing to some of the CS audience. I want you to know that both Emma and Killian have sexual relationships with other characters in this fic. They also both get very drunk at different times throughout the story. So if you have an aversion to alcohol abuse (especially as a crutch), and you can’t stand the idea of Emma and Killian being with other people, this may not be the story for you. However, that said, you should know that I never write CS fic without a happy ending. :) So if you can stick it out, I promise satisfaction.

Psst. @awkwardnessandbaseball is an incredible beta! <3 Thank you, babe!

Read it on AO3

Three months into the planning process and Emma Swan was already completely wiped out. She felt overloaded with orders and deliveries and do-it-yourself wedding favors. At this point, she deeply regretted not hiring a wedding planner to do most of the work for her, but she’d considered it a personal challenge. Graham was generally busy with work, so why not throw herself into this particular project?

The week had been taxing, and Emma was not only tired from a combination of work and wedding planning; she was sick. She had wanted to spend some time getting crazy with Ruby to blow off a bit of steam, but the girls’ night out was canceled when Emma’s sniffles and sinus pressure got out of control.

Emma flipped through the offerings on Netflix, clicking past Action/Adventure and Drama, and cruising into the Romance section. On the rare night that Graham was able to sit still for two hours, they leaned toward a Jason Bourne-type flick. Tonight, he was out schmoozing with Japanese clients, and she was relegated to the sofa with a box of tissues and a steaming-hot mug of chicken soup.

As she tapped her way through the romance section, her phone dinged. Emma raised it and opened the video she had been sent.

Killian was singing his heart out on stage. Ruby had keenly placed a few heart-eyes emojis around him in the frame. With a laugh, Emma shook her head and replied with some text and a photo.

Looks like fun. And hearts? Are you telling me this is going past just screwing around? The photo she included was her best attempt at a slightly-less-than-miserable face.

Message from Ruby: He’s an 11 in bed, if you know what I mean. ;) But he seems like something’s holding him back from considering it a relationship. Might be your wedding, but not worried. I’m here to have a good time, and so is he. He’s just fucking gorgeous.

Emma was unable to disagree. She had noticed it the first time she met him. His deep blue eyes were quite alluring. If she hadn’t been an engaged woman...well, she would not have a wedding photographer, so that was just a silly thing to think. She groaned to think about him being good in bed. If he could please Ruby, he could please anyone.  And if she was being honest with herself, she hadn’t been properly pleased in months. The spark had gone out of her love life with Graham. In the past, the fire was hot and it burned quite often. But now there was...nothing. And she was committing herself to a lifetime of nothing.

Enjoy! She sent back to her friend before tossing the phone on the table and cuddling down into the pillows on the sofa.

--

Registry day. Emma was armed with a scanner-gun-thingy and a list of items she wanted from the high-end boutique. Graham was at her side, thumbing texts into his phone and half-heartedly paying attention to her ramblings about china patterns.

“I think the blue on that one clashes with our carpet. I mean, the pattern itself is nice, but the color is all wrong. Why don’t we do like...all white, or something?” Emma turned over a bone china serving platter and examined its size.

“You’re right,” Graham muttered. He tapped a few more words into the phone as Emma went silent and stared across the section. The photographer had just arrived. Killian was hurrying past a stack of over-priced bathroom towels. He smiled at Emma. She felt her stomach do a little flip and swallowed hard, pushing the feelings away.

“Hey, there he is,” Emma grinned.

“Seriously, I’m never taking an Uber again in this city. All Yellow Cabs for me,” Killian chuckled. “Sorry, guys.”

“No, it’s fine. We haven’t really done much,” Graham muttered. He looked up from his phone and finally tucked it into his pocket. “And yeah, I do Yellow. Uber seems...difficult in the city.”

“Indeed,” Killian pulled his camera strap around his neck and lifted it. “Scan away.”

Graham reached for the scanner, taking it out of Emma’s hands. She blinked and watched as he slid around the display, scanning six barcodes without stopping to ask for her opinion.

“Uh,” Emma jumped into his path and held up her hands, “Easy cowboy. Remember, there’s like...stuff we actually need and stuff we don’t. Like those.”

She pointed to a set of fancy, battery-operated, chrome plated salt and pepper shakers that her fiance had just scanned. Graham pursed his lips and looked back at his fiancee.

“What do you mean? I like those.”

“They’re stupid,” Emma sighed. “We have salt and pepper shakers already. They’re very nice.”

“Yeah,” Graham wrinkled his nose, “but I mean the whole point of getting married is so people buy you stuff, right? So why not register for newer, cooler ones?”

Emma’s gaze narrowed and Graham physically stepped backward. “Okay, so not the whole point, but...why not?”

“We don’t need them,” she reiterated, placing her hands on her hips. Killian stood by silently, glancing around the store as if he wasn’t hearing them disagreeing again. “And maybe try asking my opinion before you just...scan everything?”

“Emma,” Graham laughed, “they’re gifts. Just let me scan. Okay? We’ll take back what we don’t want or need. But I want the salt and pepper shakers.”

“Fine. Then I’m getting the all-white China,” Emma conceded, sighing.

Graham halted and cocked his head to the side. “We have dishes. We don’t really need more dishes. They’re good dishes. My Mum sent them from Ireland. Remember? The one broke and we had to get it replaced and it took bloody ages…”

“Let me get this straight, if we have a perfectly good set of something we shouldn’t replace it, unless you want it?” Emma’s eyebrow cocked. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Killian grimace, trying to hide it behind his camera.

“Don’t start,” Graham grumbled and pushed past her. “Just scan things, okay?”

Emma found the scanner shoved back into her hand. Graham meandered away, pulling out his phone once more. Closing her eyes, she took in a deep breath and tried desperately to control her temper, feeling it rising up her body.

“I think they’re stupid, too,” Killian finally chimed in, “for what it’s worth.”

“The plates?”

“Nah, the salt and pepper shakers,” he smirked and snapped a photo of the set. “I’ll file them with ‘ugly things’.”

Emma laughed, shaking her head. He had a way of being able to erase her tension. She nodded and moved to the china set she had been eyeing. With a particular flourish to her movements, she scanned the item, then winked at the photographer. Snap. Brilliant.

--

Another few weeks passed, and Killian spent his time between his place, Ruby’s place, and working a few one-off shoots for publications or private customers. His next appointment for the Humbert wedding was at Graham and Emma’s apartment, where invitations were to be addressed. Graham had assured him it would be just a few photos, and then he could leave, as there was bound to be nothing too exciting about writing addresses.

Finishing off a coffee, Killian knocked firmly on the door to Graham’s apartment. When the door opened, the last thing he expected was exactly what he got.

Emma answered, a glass of wine in one hand. She was in sweats and a baggy t-shirt, and she looked irritated.

“Hey,” she sighed, shifting her weight, “I’m thinking maybe we should do this another time. Graham got called out on a meeting...and...we had kind of a fight about it. I’m not in the best…”

“I can focus on your hands, if you like? And...listen?” Killian shrugged, offering a friendly smile. “Not as your photographer, but...as an open ear? A friend? Or I can bugger off, either way.”

Considering it, Emma gave a nod and stepped back to allow him into the apartment. She closed the door behind him and shuffled to the coffee table, where piles upon piles of laser-cut gold lace invitations were waiting for her.

“I took calligraphy classes to learn this stuff,” Emma said with a bemused laugh. She shook her head, “I mean, I’ve always got time, right?”

Taking a seat across from her, Killian moved the chair slightly closer and put his camera bag aside. “They’re beautiful.”

She nodded and took in a shaky breath. “They never end. The meetings and the calls...It’s like I’m this person with all of these friends and this loving fiance, and...I’m lonely.”

Killian folded his hands and licked his lips before taking a deep breath, himself. “Have you talked to him about it?”

“Yep,” Emma nodded, finishing off her glass of wine before standing, “talking about it is why my mascara is running and I’m day-drinking. Want some?” She wiggled the empty glass in his direction.

“Not on the clock, thanks,” he adjusted the focus on one of his cameras, snapping off a few photos of the invites themselves.

“I’m your boss. You’re allowed to have a drink if I say so,” Emma insisted. “Or are you a beer kinda guy? Because I’ve got some of that, too.”

With a soft chuckle, Killian nodded. “I’ll have a beer then, thanks.”

Emma returned a few moments later and placed a cold bottle on the table in front of him. Her glass was very full of a deep red wine. She wiggled her fingers before picking up a pen from the table. “So how are things with Ruby?”

Killian stammered slightly and cleared his throat. “I don’t...I don’t think talking about Ruby and I is going to help…”

“I mean, I know most of it,” she laughed bitterly and shook her head, “you guys are fucking like bunnies.”

He paused with his beer halfway to his lips and swallowed hard, then took a swig from the bottle. Clearly, Emma had been drinking for a while. She was right, though. Ruby had an appetite, and she could make him forget about Milah for a few hours at a time. She served a purpose.

“C-can you maybe shift to the left a little?” He put the bottle down and picked up his camera, snapping off a couple of shots of her writing.

“She brags about you,” Emma continued. She glanced up at him. For the first time, he noticed how red and watery her eyes were. She was hurting, and it was bad.

“Emma,” he sighed, putting the camera down. “Stop.”

She paused, then dropped the pen. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands. “I’m losing it.”

He knew better. He knew he shouldn’t be involved in their personal problems. But there was no way this wedding would be a success if Emma fell to pieces. He pulled the camera from around his neck and moved closer to her. “Come here,” he whispered.

Emma leaned sideways. She fell against his chest. Killian wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to him. Right now, she needed a hug, and he was the only person who could offer that to her. “Will it help if I tell you a story?”

With a sniffle, Emma shrugged. So he began.

“Once upon a time, a young lad from England came to the United States to find himself,” he said with a soft smile, “and when he came here, he met a beautiful woman named Milah.”

Emma turned her head to look up at him slightly, her brows furrowed. Apparently, she had not expected to hear about an ex.

“He married Milah. She was fun and exciting and she had all of the joy he knew he needed in life. They moved onto a boat and made a home for themselves. The lad started taking photos of people, and they made a nice life. Milah loved his photos. She also loved his music. They were passionate and crazy and young and stupid but they did it all together,” he said, his voice steady.

Emma relaxed a bit in his arms.

“One day, Milah came home from work. Her body language was...it was all wrong. The lad wondered if maybe he’d done something wrong, as you know, lads do,” he smirked slightly. “But she told him she’d met someone else. And she wanted a divorce.”

This time, Emma sat up and pulled out of his embrace. She gazed at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his.

“So the lad gave her the divorce, and she married...someone else. And now he takes photos of other people when they get married,” he shrugged. “But she still haunts him. Every day.”

“Killian,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I had no idea. How can...how can you take photos of weddings when your own marriage fell apart?”

He chuckled. “It didn’t fall apart. It abruptly exploded. Because there were apparently things we didn’t say to each other.”

She reached up and rubbed at her cheek, pushing away tears. “So the moral of the story is...I need to talk to him or I’m going to lose it all.”

Killian thought for a moment. He licked his lips and drew in a deep breath. “Yes. You need to be clear about what you want, and what you don’t. For us, I wanted kids. Milah did not. She wanted success and she wanted money. A struggling photographer and musician who lives on a boat is hardly a suitable husband for that kind of woman.”

Emma was pensive. She reached over and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. Killian paused, then wrapped his arms around her in return. “I think you guys will be okay,” he said, his voice calm. “You’ve been together a long time, and you can work it out. I know it.”

“Thank you,” Emma breathed. She pulled back and smiled. “Ruby’s lucky to have a guy like you.”

He chuckled. “Nah, Graham is the lucky one.”

The lock to the front door beeped and opened. Graham, looking disheveled and a little put out, stepped inside. He paused as he saw Killian.

“Oh shit, I forgot all about the invitation photos,” he muttered, scrubbing his face with his hand.

“No worries, mate,” Killian stuffed his camera into his bag and stood. He gestured to the spot next to Emma. “I got a few shots. I think, um, I think I’m all set.”

Graham offered his hand and forced a smile. Killian shook it firmly. “Thank you, then. We’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Aye, sounds good,” Killian turned back to Emma and raised an eyebrow. “Have a good night then, Miss Swan.”

He stepped out of the apartment door and closed it behind him. Emma was officially closer to him than Ruby had been in the past few weeks. Ruby was a romp in the sheets. Emma...Emma made his heart flutter and his stomach twist. But she wasn’t his. She couldn’t be his. And he would never do anything to pull her away from Graham. Not ever.

--

“You’ve got yourself in a right state,” Liam Jones smirked and shoved another pint across the bar top. Killian exchanged the full glass with his empty and nodded.

“After Milah, I’d never...ever think about a woman who was married to someone else. But...what if...I think they’re not right for each other?” He drew in a deep breath. “Do I say something?”

“Do you want to get paid?” Liam raised an eyebrow and wiped his hands on a towel. He threw the cloth over his shoulder and leaned forward. The Sailor’s Inn, the bar he owned and operated near the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge, was dead this time of night.

“Of course,” Killian sighed. “But is it the right thing to do? Get paid and bugger off and leave her to a lifetime of disappointment and misery?”

Liam shook his head, “Remember, you’re only seeing a snippet of their lives together, and it happens to be a pretty busy and stressful time. There has to be a reason she agreed to marry him.”

“They’ve been together for eight years,” Killian muttered into his glass before taking a swig.

Gesturing with wide open hands, Liam shrugged. “Again, gotta be a reason.”

Killian nodded in agreement.

“Tell me about this Ruby girl,” Liam stood and moved to pour himself a beer. He flipped the switch beneath the counter which turned off the neon ‘Open’ sign near the door.

The younger brother Jones pursed his lips. “She’s hot. Insatiable. But...again, not...what I’m looking for. I think I’m gonna put an end to it. Just hope she’s not crazy enough to fuck up the wedding.”

“Want to kick her my number?”

Killian leaned his head to the side and gave Liam a look of annoyance. “You want my seconds? Sure. I thought you were seeing that girl from Jersey City.”

“Nah,” Liam shook his head, “didn’t work out. Besides, you know I’m more into blondes.”

“Then Ruby is not for you,” Killian smirked. “There is a really beautiful blonde bridesmaid, though. Elsa. No ring.”

“Yeah?” The older man grinned and laughed. “Probably not a chance. These are rich girls, eh?”

After Killian’s divorce, Liam had left his home in England and joined his younger brother in the States. Liam was undoubtedly more successful, but he was more of a working-class type of man than most girls wanted. At 35, Liam had all but given up on finding ‘The One’.

“I don’t know, mate. I think I need a change of scenery after I’m done with this gig. Fancy a trip to Boston?” Killian finished off his pint.

“I, uh, I don’t think that’s such a good plan,” Liam spoke slowly. He was obviously searching for a decent explanation, outside of the truth.

Killian’s gaze narrowed. “Why?”

With a heavy sigh, Liam turned to the back of the bar. He grabbed a tabloid and tossed it to land in front of his brother.

The front page of the supermarket rag was plastered with photos of some Kardashian or another. Killian’s brow raised. Liam flipped open to the middle of the magazine, where a blazing red headline and an accompanying photo made his gut clench.

Billionaire Robert Gold Separates from Wife New Ex Milah Jets to Boston

The photo was of Milah, caked in thick makeup, holding her hand up to fight off the oppressive flashes of the paparazzi. She and her husband Robert were not necessarily of the socialite kind, but Milah knew what she was doing when she left Killian. She had married a man of political and social influence for his money. And now, it seemed, they had separated. Killian wondered exactly why.

“I probably shouldn’t have shown you,” Liam said calmly, taking a sip from his beer. “But I didn’t want you to run into her.”

“No, it’s fine,” Killian reassured him. He pushed the magazine away and shook his head. “She’s his problem now, not mine.”

“Atta lad,” Liam poured his brother another pint and an accompanying shot of bourbon. “Let’s get pissed and forget about the women for the night, eh?”

--

He believed the proper nautical term for his condition was ‘Three Sheets to the Wind’. Roger walked alongside him as Killian meandered down the road to the docks, singing loudly to himself. His companion had a strange sense about him, wherein he usually walked on the water’s edge as if to keep Killian from stumbling into the sea.

Killian pulled his phone from his pocket and thumbed through his contacts. He paused on the docks. Roger whined and nudged him with his nose. The dog couldn’t possibly be warning him against drunk texting, could he? Nah, he was probably hungry.

Did he apologize?

He clicked send. Only then did he notice that it was 3am.

“Oops,” he muttered, continuing down the docks toward his rinky-dink houseboat.

His phone pinged. Blinking, he paused again and looked at it.

Message from Emma Swan: Yes. I think you helped a lot. We really talked for the first time in a long time. He even avoided answering a call in the middle of our discussion. You might have saved this marriage. Thank you.

Drawing in a deep breath, he paused and leaned against a light pole. Fantastic. He was the ‘troubled couple whisperer’. The phone pinged again.

Message from Emma Swan: Tell Ruby I said hi.

He frowned and thumbed a message back to her.

No Ruby here. Just me and Roger.

No response, so he tucked his phone into his pants and wandered back onto his boat, the ‘Jewel’. Once on board, he kicked off his shoes and fed Roger before collapsing onto the bed. He was going to be so hungover in the morning. It also would be a miracle if the spinning sensations stopped anytime soon. He tried the trick of placing one foot flat on the floor. No dice.

His phone pinged.

Message from Emma Swan: Oops. Um, I guess you’re not exclusive then. She said she had a date.

Killian laughed and shook his head. Not surprising.

I had a date with my brother. And Roger. We drank a lot.

I mean Rog didn’t. But I did. Hence the timing of these texts.

Sorry.

Message from Emma Swan: No worries. I like hearing from you. I think we’ll be good friends, after the wedding’s over.

Friends. He wasn’t sure he could handle being friends with Emma Swan...Emma Humbert. With her sexy smile and incredible ass and the way she had access to incredible finery but loved the simple things in life. Not if she belonged to another man. He wouldn’t tempt fate like that. He would NOT be Robert Gold.

Message from Emma Swan: Anyway. Goodnight.

“Goodnight,” he muttered aloud.

--

Emma felt Graham’s bare chest press against her back. She placed her phone down on the nightstand and sunk back against him. He muttered groggily.

“Who you talkin’ to?”

Emma shook her head. “Wedding plans.”

“At three o’clock in the mornin’?” He placed a kiss between her shoulders. “Relax. It can wait. C’mere.”

She turned to face him and gave him a kiss. It felt...hollow. There was nothing there. No longer did she have a spark when it came to Graham. Even when they did make love that night, it was more...out of obligation than desire. Something was off. Maybe it was the wedding. Maybe it was his constant need to do and be the best, despite what she actually needed. Or maybe…

She drew in a breath. “Sorry to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

But he already was. She received a soft snore in reply.

[angstymarshmallow]

Worth the Risk - Party Twin x Blake Fanfic.

Worth the Risk - Party Twin x Blake Rules of Engagement Fanfic.

[A little note: I’m a big fan of Party Twin x Blake, and I’ve been toying with the idea of doing a fanfiction for them. I’m also going to try another first - writing in second person narrative. Not sure how I feel about it, I’ve never done this before and I usually find it kind of awkward. Maybe this’ll be a good first? Thoughts? Comments? Critisms? Let me know what you think!]

[Summary: Another late night cleaning up after everyone else leaves reminds Party Twin of some unresolved feelings and memories with her boss. It doesn’t help when she realizes he feels the same].

-

You look up just in time to see the last of your fellow employees trickling out of the kitchen. You catch Carter’s grin just before he shrugs off his vest and tucks it under his arm.

It’s almost closing time and everyone else nearly out of here. But you volunteered to stay behind and help clean up. You’ve tried to convince yourself that your intentions had nothing to do with the fact that Blake usually stays here pretty late. 

“A bunch of us are going back to that nightclub we went to a couple nights ago.“ He says this expectantly. “I know you said you’re staying late, but I’m here to change your mind.” He brushes the side of your arm with intimate familiarity. He’s hoping you’ll change your mind because of the amount of fun you both had last time.

But you won’t change your mind and you aren’t in the mood. You glance down at his hand until he drops it. 

You’re too preoccupied with other things. Things you can’t dust off like the dirt and grime under your fingernails from washing dishes. 

You look up, giving him an apologetic smile. You’re used to partying and forgetting about the world around you. But you can’t do it tonight. You keep hoping to see Blake pop out of his office before you leave. He’s been in there all day. “You go ahead. I’ve still got some stuff I have to finish up here.” 

It’s barely a feasible excuse but he doesn’t press it. He looks disappointed until he quickly masks it with another easy smile. Carter knows how to keep things light. “Alright, another time then.” He playfully bumps shoulders with you as he passes by, “Just try not to work too hard alright? Or I’ll forget how much fun you are.” He winks at you before grabbing his coat.

You try not to second guess yourself as you watch him go. His words makes you feel guilty. Have you really changed that much? You can’t shake the guilt off because this isn’t the first time you’ve brushed Carter off. You’ve done it a couple times. Why can’t I just go out and forget? 

You toy with the idea and try to shake off your inner turmoil. It churns at the idea but it’s something you used to never hesitate at. You like partying, and you like Carter. But things aren’t the same anymore. Things changed. Eventually, you know you can’t pretend it didn’t happen.

Maybe you can try it again. Seeing Carter the way he stills sees you. Maybe if you get drunk enough, it won’t matter what Blake’s doing anymore. Maybe you can dull the ache long enough not to care. You reach for your phone, intending to call Carter until you see Blake making his way into the kitchen with Mira at his heels. They’re laughing about something and you instantly feel a stab of jealously. 

Your jealously is misplaced but you still can’t help it. You’re pretty sure nothing’s going on between them but the rest of your body reacts differently. You shoulders stiffen as you secretly watch them. He looks relaxed and comfortable; in a way he never is with you. You try to appear nonchalant when they finally notice you. 

“Jess,” You hear the surprise in Blake’s voice. “I thought you’d join the rest of the crew.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I had no idea you were staying behind.”

Mira’s already stepping past you, ignoring your prescence completely as she grabs her things. 

“I thought I’d stick around just in case you needed any help.” You’ve rehearsed this line a couple times in your head, but you can hear how nervous you sound. You try to play it off of course. You’re not the kind of person to get nervous. “Cleaning up I mean.” You add quickly, in case it wasn’t clear already. 

“Well, thank you.” His eyes flicker in surprise again but you can hear how grateful he sounds by the way his voice drops. He appreciates your support.

His eyes linger on you a split second longer than necessary before you look away. By the time Mira slinks her way back here, you almost forget that you’re holding a dish rag inside your hand. 

“Don’t forget what we talked about.” Mira tells Blake with a wan smile. “There’s some other ideas I’d like to run by you before we taste test them. ”

Blake nods at her solemnly. “I won’t. You’ve definitely given me a lot to think about.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully, “See you tomorrow.” 

“Goodnight.” She doesn’t say goodnight to you however. She never says goodnight to you.

“’Night to you too Mira!” You say a little bit brighter than necessary. It’s all forced of course. There’s just something about her that doesn’t rub you the right way. 

She stops for a second, her face turning into a half scowl before she says the words haughtily back to you and leaves. 

Ugh. Whatever.  Your half-attempts at being nice always seem to backfire. The two of you have never gotten along, but you can at least begrudgingly admire her tastes in cuisine. Hell, if you’re being honest with yourself - you kind of respect her. 

You sigh, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “She totally hates me.” You grumble, earning a wry smile from Blake. 

“No, she doesn’t.” At your snort he adds, “Really.” He insists, “You’re just competition to her.”

“Really? Competition?” You echo. The idea strikes you as ludicrous. You’ve never gotten that impression. Usually, Mira’s too busy barking orders and trying to change menu ideas to think about other people. You’re convinced that he’s saying this to make you feel better.

“Besides, she just doesn’t know you the way I do.”  He adds.

 A smile pokes out from the corner of your mouth. “Not a lot of people here know me the way you do. “ You tease before you can stop yourself. You freeze when you realize that you’ve said the words out loud. 

Shit.

Almost unwillingly, your mind drifts towards that night. 

When your eyes sweeps his again, you can see a faint blush on his cheeks and you know he’s thinking about it too. He looks away and changes the subject. “Anyway we should probably finish up here.” He says without looking back at you. “I wouldn’t want to keep you.“ 

I wouldn’t mind if you did. You think these words but don’t say them out loud. A part of you wants to, it craves the excitement of pushing his buttons. But the other part of you knows better. It knows that once you cross that line again - there’s no coming back. And this time you’re both sober.

You help him put the dry dishes away from off their racks. There’s a lot of them and the process is slow but it’s nice to have this companionable silence. It doesn’t feel strange at all and you’re happy that you can still work with him without it being weird. Soon, your focus shifts to staring. You can’t help it, there’s not much else to do. Every so often you can’t help but peek at him.

His brows are creased in concentration, and his eyes look as if they’re a million miles away. 

What’re you thinking? You want to say these words out loud, but you don’t. You’re not ready to break the silence.

When your attention swerves back to the dishes, you start to realize your mistake. Every time he moves past you, you’re aware of it. The slightest of movements causes some kind of reaction. Your body quivers in quiet anticipation even though the smarter part of you know that nothing will happen. 

Blake’s a buttoned up sort of man. The kind of man that it takes a few drinks or a deep conversation to get anywhere. The kind of man that prides hard-work over having a good time. He’s responsible, dependable and everything you thought you’d never be attracted to. 

You sigh. 

Your nana would’ve liked him. She would’ve said he was good for you.

You’re not even sure why you’re so keenly aware of every movement he makes. You catch your breath when he brushes by you again. It’s so unnerving the kind of effect he has on you. Your hands shake a little as you place another dish back, sneaking another glance at him.

A stab of irritation hits you. 

He looks so composed, so unaware of what he’s doing to you. He doesn’t seem to be even a little fazed by the close promixity. 

Your irritation turns into quiet anger. How can he be so calm all the time? You think miserably to yourself. It’s not fair when it’s one sided. You’re determined to break that cool exterior of his and before you know it - you’re purposely stepping into him, making as much contact as humanly possible. You innocently try to play it off, blaming your tired hands as he raises eyebrows but secretly you think he probably knows better. 

Eventually, it’s not so innocent anymore. Your movements are getting slower - more even paced and you take every opportunity to be closer. You see a flicker of something in his eyes that makes your next move clumsy. You curse yourself as it happens; the plates in your hand titter and plummet.

You lose your balance and embarrassingly stumble as the plates go flying. You’re pretty sure you’re going to fall until you feel his sturdy arms catch you. They’re so strong and warm that you can’t help but shudder. Your mind immediately flickers to the night you both spent together - from the pieces you could remember. You flush in delight.

You force yourself not to stay there, instead you draw your attention to the intensity of his dark eyes. Always so serious, always so couretous. You want to keep pusing his buttons, to see how far you can go before he’s driven mad by it. You jut your chin out and don’t break eye contact. You can feel your heart hammering inside your chest and for a second you’re worried he can hear it too. 

He doesn’t let go once you’re on sure footing again. In fact, his eyes start to change, and looks almost torn from where you’re standing. As if he wasn’t quite sure what to do next.

Kiss me.

The words are so insistent inside your head, so strong that it surprises you. You don’t act on it because you want him to make the first move. You want him to be the one to take the chance for a change. You bite your bottom lip, and the gestures immediately draws his attention to your mouth.

You see something flash inside his eyes - unabashed passion you can dimly remember. The last thought you have are the scattered dishes around you as his lips crash against yours. You can feel the frustration in his kisses and the need as his tongue plunges through the barrier of your lips. 

Wow. 

Sparks seem to fly as his expert lips draw a gasp from you. You feel yourself sinking into him, your arms looping themselves around his neck. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. You kiss him urgently, as desire pools at your stomach and his hips presses into yours until your backed into the kitchen counter. 

His arms are insistent, deftly sliding underneath your uniform until he makes contact with your skin. His kisses become more insistent and you feel light-headed as he guides your hands further down. You’re not aware at first that the moaning sounds are coming from you until he pulls away.

He’s breathing heavily, raking his hands through his hair. His jaw is set like steel and he takes a few cautious steps back as if he needed it to clear his head. “Jess…” He says your name like an almost anguished groan. “What’re you doing to me?” He half-mumbles the words as he rubs his temples. 

You drop a meaningful look towards the obvious bulge inside his pants. “What do you think?” You can’t help but smirk as he blushes, flustered by your quick response.

“It was a rhetorical question.” He says, looking away to clear his throat.

You want to touch him again, to feel his lips against yours but his eyes aren’t passionate anymore. They’re distant and careful. “We can’t do this.” The words are tight and they hurt.

They knock the wind right out of you and you swallow back the sudden lump inside your throat. “I know.” They’re your words, coming from out of your mouth - but they sound hollow. You don’t want to stop, not until he’s lying underneath you in tangled sheets. 

The realization rattles you and this time you’re the one backing away. “You’re right.” You say, not really believing your own words. As much as you wanted to - you know you can’t. 

He’s searching your eyes but you’re not sure what he’s looking for. Doesn’t he want you to agree with him? To pretend that there’s nothing between the two of you? 

You stiffen your shoulders before you mumble an excuse to get past him. What were you thinking anyway? It’s silly for you to ever entertain the thought, that somehow this can all work out.

You stop short. 

Except it’s the first time you’ve ever felt like this. Felt something so strong that you’re not sure what to do next. You thought after a couple days of avoiding each other it would pass but it hasn’t. Sure there’s been other guys, there’s always been other guys. But none of them has ever challenged you the way he does. Or push you to be better. You whirl on your heels, placing your hands on your hips. “No.” You say stubbornly.

His eyes widen, but he doesn’t make any move to stop you once you get closer. “No?” He echoes.

“No.” You shake your head firmly. “You don’t get to shut me out.” You say, without breaking eye contact. 

You can’t help but reach out to him as you talk. You touch his hand, and think about how different it is from yours. You’ve never worked anywhere long enough for it leave a mark; so yours are soft and tender compared to his  - a little rough and coarse ones. It’s probably because of all his hard-work, and you’re pretty sure it’s his drive that makes him sucessful at nearly everything he does. 

You stare at them and remember how gentle they were; once you think of them touching you. When they skimmed every part of you. “You don’t get to push me away, not after everything.” You mutter softly.

His eyes are wary again but there’s something else too. You’re not sure what it is and you try to convince yourself that maybe he’s having second thoughts. “It’s just easier this way.” He mutters, pulling his hand away. “Pretending that night never happened pretending that this -” he gestures between you and him. “this could never go anywhere.” He exhales deeply, “You know how much this means to me.” His teeth visibly clenches, “My work means everything to me, and I’m not going to jeopardize that, not for anything.” For the first time you seen a hint of desperation inside his eyes - like he wants you to push him away. “Not for anyone.” 

You flinch at his words.

“And especially not over my own family.”

But you shake your head. You’ve gotten past the harsh exterior he’ s shown everyone else. You’ve seen too much. You know that he’s just trying to push you away, and you don’t want him to.

Maybe a month ago you’d have believed that. Maybe a month ago, you’d have let him. But you’ve gotten to know him. You’ve seen some of the good and some of the bad. None of it made you want to run away. You want to know him better, to know more about his family he often talks about back home. The dad he always gushes about, the mother that did her best to take care of them - you want to know everything. “Tell me you you don’t care about me.” You jerk your chin forward stubbornly. “Tell me you don’t care.” Your words are brave but inwardly you’re afraid he’s going to pull away.

He doesn’t respond at first. He just keeps staring at you. You can almost see the wheels turning inside his head. “Jess…”

“That’s what I thought.” You say triumphantly, seeing defeat sink into his eyes. 

“What do you want from me?” He sounds aggravated and jerks his eyes away. “We can’t…” He says the words slowly as if he’s trying to convince himself. “I can’t risk it.” His words are hoarse and almost break your will.

Almost.

You wait till he looks at you again before you speak. “You’re worth the risk.” You mumble softly, letting it sink in that this is what you wanted. Letting him know that you weren’t running away. Whatever happens by the end of the summer, at least you could leave knowing you won’t regret this. “You’re worth the risk and I’m not letting this go until you know how I feel - ” 

The rest of your sentence is cut off by his lips gingerly touching yours, tasting you before turning into something more. Something that went beyond your constant teasing. He kisses you with force, a kind of complexitity that you’ve never felt before.

“I care about you.” He whispers against your lips, like a hidden secret you think you weren’t ever going to hear. You almost smile as you kiss him back, elated that you can finally be honest with each other.

Everything else in the world, recedes and shrinks by comparison.

[pretty-eyes-jaeger]

“You look like death” with Daisuga~~

Allison! Oh my gosh! I wish I could capture the look on my face when you send me these prompts cause I just… they make me happy! So I hope you enjoy this. It’s actually a piece from a larger fic I’ve been attempting to write but doubt I’ll ever finish. 

Sickfic! Starters

           “Hello?”Daichi poked his head around the door and took a step into the room. His eyes landedon the figure in the bed. Koushi was curled up under the covers, only his eyesappearing over the top of the comforter to see who had entered his room.Daichi, instinctively smiling on sight, gave him a tiny wave. Koushi sprang up,staring at him with disbelief in his eyes.

           Daichi tooka step forward as Koushi reeled a bit from the sudden motion, blinking rapidly afew times and touching his temple to dispel the dizziness. But when he regainedhis equilibrium, Suga smiled up at Daichi, dazzling as the sun itself. “Hey,”he said in reply, his voice bright despite the obvious raspy quality of it. Whatare you doing here?”

            Theinnocence of the question made the butterflies in Daichi’s stomach flutteragain. “I brought your homework,” he answered plainly, shrugging a shoulder tocall attention to his backpack. “And I may have missed you. Just a little bit.”

           It was thefirst time they’d seen each other in two days. Suga had been sent home sick fromschool on Wednesday, and hadn’t returned the past two days, as he was clearlystill getting his butt kicked by the flu. Daichi had struggled to stay away forthe last two days, Suga not wanting him to get sick. But Daichi had made the executivedecision that two days was too long, and was now doing a poor job of hidingthat beneath the guise of bringing homework.

           “Only alittle bit?” Suga challenged, a flash of mischief striking through his tiredeyes.

           Daichi heldup two fingers, measuring about a centimeter between them. “Like this much.”Suga laughed softly, flashing that brilliant smile again.

           “Well, Imissed you like this much,” he replied, holding his arms out to their fulllength. Daichi’s mouth fell open into an over-exaggerated O.

           “I feel soloved,” the brunette said in response. “I also come as an ambassador from theteam, who wanted to make sure you weren’t dead. A few of them are still alittle rattled seeing you pass out two days ago.”

           That earnedhim another soft laugh, this one much more nervous and apologetic. “Yeah, sorryabout that. It’s been a while since I’ve had a fever this bad…” He trailed off,catching a cough in his sleeve. “I’m sorry I worried you. And the team.” 

           It wasDaichi’s turn to laugh now. “They’ve been pretty distraught without their‘precious vice captain, the spawn on angels whose heart is made of sunshine.’”

           A halfchuckle escaped from Suga’s lips. “Tanaka?” he guessed.

           “Thesunshine part was Noya, but the rest of it was of Tanaka’s invention,” Daichinodded. “As you can tell, they get a little melodramatic without you. And a bitpoetic.” Suga laughed again, harder this time, his usual, bright laugh thatmade Daichi’s heart flutter. But the happy sound was cut short by a gratingcough that had Suga bent over, gasping for air. Daichi moved forward onimpulse, having no idea what to do, but feeling the need to do something. Sugaheld up a hand to signal that he was fine as the fit subsided. He swallowedthickly, his lips turning into a frown that nearly broke Daichi’s heart.

           Suga lookedlike a ghost of his normal self, face pale, shadows under his eyes, cheeksbright with fever. But he was still trying to smile. For Daichi. Because he wasSugawara Koushi. And that was just who he was.

           “How aboutwe start with some homework,” Suga suggested. “I feel awake enough now, andneed to be on my A game for that.” He started coughing again, and Daichigrabbed the half-empty water bottle on the bedside table, tossing it to him.

           “Yeah,you’re definitely on you’re A game right now,” the brunette joked as Suga tooka quick sip of the water, wincing as it went down. Daichi frowned, hating howpowerless he felt. Koushi looked absolutely miserable, sounded it too, andthere was little to nothing he could do to help him. Yet, his boyfriendcontinued to pretend that he was fine, or that he at least wasn’t as miserableas he clearly was. He still hadn’t caught on to the fact that he could hidenothing from Daichi, and no amount of forced smiles would ever change that,dazzling as they were.

           Even now,Koushi was still doing his best to be engaging even though he had to beexhausted. The silver-haired boy shot him a sharp side glare, sniffling as heset the water bottle down. “I’m always on my A game,” Suga argued lightly.

           “Sure.”

           “You seemskeptical.”

           “Well you looklike death right now. I don’t know if I’d call that A game material,” Daichiadmitted as he sat down on the floor next to Suga’s bed.

           “You canpull the chair…”

           “No, I’mgood here,” Daichi interrupted. “I’m closer to you this way.” He didn’t missthe blush that bloomed across Suga’s cheeks at that, (and he knew it hadnothing to do with the fever.) 

           “Yeah,closer to catching my germs,” Suga said nervously, pulling his comforter upover his face so only his eyes were showing. Daichi rolled his eyesoverdramatically.

           “Would it reallymake you feel better if I was in the chair?”

           “Yes.”

           “Okaythen,” Daichi huffed, pushing himself to his feet and retrieving the deskchair. He set it down next to the bed with an air of finality before sittingdown and pulling open the zipper on his backpack. “Happy?”

           “Yes,”Koushi replied, pulling the comforter away from his face. “But I am stillworried that you’ll catch my germs.”

           “Well don’tworry about that. Worry about getting better,” Daichi insisted, pulling out hisnotebooks. “I don’t care if I get sick.”

           “But I do,”Koushi said in response, voice reminiscent of a whine. Daichi met his eyes. Assoon as their gazes met, Koushi’s eyes darted away as his cheeks grew a shadedarker. “You came here to see me, and I’d be so mad at myself if I got yousick.”

           Daichishook his head, touching his hand to Koushi’s forehead. “Wow, you must bereally sick if you’d rather have your boyfriend leave then give you cuddles.”Koushi pouted slightly as Daichi’s fingers moved to brush his hair away fromhis clammy forehead. “You know I wouldn’t be here if it really worried you thatmuch. And I know it bothers you, but seriously, don’t let it. You need to worryabout yourself and just let me take care of you. Plus, I’ve been chuggingvitamin C since Monday to amp up my immune system for this very moment.”

           Koushiblinked, out of disbelief or dissent, Daichi wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t readyfor the soft, demure smile that spread on his boyfriend’s lips as he replied, “Cuddleswould actually be really nice.”

           Daichigrinned victoriously. “That’s what I thought.”

           “Buthomework first,” Koushi insisted dutifully.

           “Right,homework first,” Daichi nodded, tapping the notebooks lying in his lap andplacing them on the bed. He then moved over to the desk and pulled out Koushi’snotebooks and a pencil, adding those to the pile. “Get to work, Mr. A Game.”

           Koushi setto work copying the notes, asking questions here and there for clarification.Daichi answered each one, often making jokes just to get the other boy tosmile, which he often did. Suga looked less dead when he smiled, (which Daichitold him to provoke another grin.) They started with the subjects that Sugafound the most difficult, and by the time they’d moved on to his best subjects,he hardly needed Daichi to explain anything. But he continued to ask questionsanyway to get a laugh out of Daichi, asking the first things that popped intohis head such as why the sky is blue, or why certain people were better atgiving hugs than others. The brunette answered every question with the silliestanswer he could come up with.

           “Have Iever told you how amazing you are?” Koushi asked out of the blue, setting downhis pencil and fixing a look of pure fondness, catching Daichi by surprise. Thebrunette felt his heart skip a beat at the unprompted display of affection.

           “Not thatI’m aware of,” he said around a small laugh. “How amazing do you think I am?”

           “You’re themost amazing guy I know,” Koushi replied.

           “Ohreally?” Daichi asked challengingly, even though he couldn’t keep a smile offof his face. That didn’t stop his eyes from glittering with mischief. “And howamazing is that, exactly?”

           Koushi’seyes flashed the same mischief back at him. “More amazing th-hen…” His breathhitched and he quickly turned away from Daichi, catching a sneeze in hissleeve. He kept his face buried as two more sneezes escaped. He turned back toDaichi with a thick sniffle and a groan.

           “Wow, Imust be pretty amazing,” the brunette said with a smirk. Koushi rolled his eyesbefore his nose wrinkled like a cat’s and he snapped forward with another sneeze.Daichi tossed the tissue box from the bedside table into the other boy’s lap.“Bless you, by the way.”

           “Gee,thanks,”  

           “What wereyou going to say?”

           “Hm?”

           “What am Imore amazing than?” Daichi clarified, sitting back in his chair and crossinghis arms over his chest.

           “Moreamazing than dogs.” Daichi blinked. “I’m serious. Dogs are the best. But you’rebetter than them.” The brunette nodded with satisfaction. “Sorry, that wasprobably really lame, but, as you know, I’m not on my A game right now.” 

           “Is that aconfession?” Daichi asked with mock disbelief, one hand flying to his chest fordramatic effect. Koushi rolled his eyes, laughing softly as he shook his head.

           “Icould kiss you right now, but you’re so amazing that I won’t,” Suga said inresponse. “Cause I don’t want you to be dead too.”

            Daichi smiled. “And thatmakes you pretty amazing too.”

[jessejuu7520902-blog]

What To carry out Along with A Miserable Other half?

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