#maybe he didn’t want his brand to be croissants but then if that’s the case he would’ve changed his bio too😭

[spideyhexx]

I will never forgive Tom for getting rid of the croissanicles😞

I loved looking through them randomly

-🪽

super sad day

[stutterfly]

Tricks of the Trade | MYG (M)

Shared as part of the Similarly Sequestered game with @kpopfanfictrash​, @underthejoon​, @fortunexkookie​, @gukslut​ and me!

Rating: M (Explicit 18+)

Word Count: 24.1K Prompt: “The FBI doesn’t care about your porn preferences.” {Body Swap AU, Soulmates AU}

Genre: Fluff, humor, smut, oneshot

Summary: The convenience store across the street from your apartment carries your favorite energy drink. That's why you frequent it. It's definitely not because you have a big fat crush on the owner you've been flirting with for the better part of a year. Of course your brand of flirting can also be misconstrued as bickering. When a strange man wanders into the store, he thinks you need a little nudge to embrace the strings connecting you. Next thing you know you're waking up in a body that definitely doesn't belong to you. You can't decide if it's the best or worst thing that's ever happened to you.

CW & Other Tags: Anxiety attacks, language, oral sex, unprotected sex, nipple play, fingering, Agent of Chaos Jin, shopkeeper Yoongi, idiots to lovers, frenemies to lovers, bodyswap shenanigans

Pairings: Yoongi x Reader

Posted on June 23, 2020 by stutterfly and cross-posted to Ao3. I do not allow reposting, translations, or edits, to this or any other platform, including YouTube.

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The bell at the top of the door jingles as another customer walks into the store, but you pay them no mind. You’re already scanning the refrigerated drinks section for the third time, scouring the rows of cans and bottles for your beverage of choice. There’s only one kind of energy drink you want but its usual location is barren. Desperate to find what you’re searching for, you squat down to look behind the other drinks in the fridge.

“You’re not going to find any.”

The familiar, disinterested drawl of the shopkeeper has you popping up from the floor to look over at him. He wears a green apron over a black tee and a pair of faded jeans. His back is to you so he doesn’t have to see your face when you complain. He reaches up to take off his baseball cap and runs his fingers through thick locks of ebony hair before returning the cap to his head. He spares a glance over his shoulder at you, knowing you’re watching him. He sighs loudly as he continues to stock nearby shelves with boxes of cereal.

When he opened this tiny shop across from your apartment about a year ago, you thought he was cute, but he’s always seemed cold to you. The gossips around town say he’s a bit scrawny, monotone and boorish, but you like his voice and you like his style. He must be intelligent if he started this business from nothing, especially at his age. Not many people in their late twenties can say they are as independent as Yoongi.

He has confidence and pride in his values. You’ve seen him tell rude people off without a second thought and kick people out for being racist towards other customers. He puts on a front to seem unapproachable but you’ve seen him give a carton of milk to a mother who didn’t have money to pay for it, and free candy to a group of kids on a rainy day. While he pretends to be an old grump who shuffles around his shop all day, you’ve seen him get the energy to sprint around the block after a shift and then collapse at the cafe tables next door. He’s weird. He’s honest. He’s kind-hearted. It’s easy to admire him.

He bends down to pick up more boxes, and you cock your head to the side to stare at the way his ass looks in those jeans. He’s also insanely attractive. It’s no wonder you still come in here every day.

The more you see of him, the more you feel you know him, and the more you’ve grown to like him. The problem is that your relationship with the shopkeeper has shifted into a weird territory you’re not sure how to escape from. It’s not that you hate each other, but it seems you can’t hold a conversation without getting on each other’s nerves. Either you’re always saying the wrong thing or he’s pressing all the wrong buttons when he teases you.

At first you read his teasing as awkward flirting but for someone so blunt, you’ve convinced yourself he would have been straightforward and said the words out loud. I like you. Let’s get a drink. It would be easy for him to say, wouldn’t it? Despite trying to convince yourself he’s not interested, you can’t help but flirt with him at any opportunity to do so. However, you seem to forget how the moment he looks at you. It’s like your flirting skills took an exit down a shitty highway and now you’ve lost the GPS signal to navigate back to civilization.

Talking with Yoongi has become an ache you can’t seem to give up so you’ll take whatever excuse you can to keep doing so. That usually takes the form of you poking fun at one another until you hurt your own feelings. Sometimes you spend the remainder of a day thinking about the ways you can fix tomorrow’s fictitious conversation. You forgot how being infatuated with someone can make you feel so stupid. He’s not your life, just a part that you wish could be more prominent. It’s fine.

All you have to do is get your morning beverage and pastry before working your shift. Then you can focus on how nice it will feel to do nothing all weekend and catch up on TV shows.

“So…. What did you do with it? Are you hiding them from me today?” You quickly snap your eyes to his face as he twists his body to look up at you.

He scoffs. “Not me. College kids came through last night and cleared them out.”

“But you know I always get one,” you pout, crossing your arms like it’s going to make a difference.

He turns his attention back to his task, slowly stacking the boxes in silence before he clicks his tongue. “So? I can’t just hide stuff for you, you know.”

“Don’t you have more in the back? You’ve never run out of Hot6 before.”

He laughs to himself. “This isn’t a warehouse. I have to wait for product to arrive before I can restock. Just get a Red Bull. It tastes the same.”

You crinkle your nose at him. “It does not.”

He crosses the store with a roll of his eyes and a loud sigh. Before long he’s back at the register and sipping on his iced americano. “Whatever. Why do you care? It’s easier if you develop a taste for espresso. Then you don’t have to worry about that kind of thing. Besides, energy drinks aren’t that great for you, you know.”

You make a sound of disgust as you sulk your way over to the pastry cabinet. “Jeez. Do you always have to have such a stick in your ass? You act like coffee is so much better for you.”

“More caffeine, less sugar. I guarantee you it’s better,” he says with a smack of his lips against his straw.

“Whatever, Grandpa. Hmm... Muffin, muffin, muffin…” you quietly chant to yourself as your eyes rake over the racks in search of your daily pastry fix. Today seems to be against you: no muffins.

“We’re out of those too,” he says. “You know you could stand to change up your routine. Don’t you get sick of getting the same things every day?”

You bite your lip and look over the case of pastries, grabbing a simple croissant. “I like my routine, but I guess I could always stop coming here.”

“If that’s what you want.” He sighs dramatically as he leans over the counter, resting on his elbows as he surveys the store. “Well, I could enjoy a quiet morning for once.”

You roll your eyes.“Pfft. You like to argue, so I know you’d miss me.”

There’s a squeaky laugh from behind one of the shelves and as your attention shifts to the sound, a young man with dusty pink hair pokes his head up. He must be rather tall if he’s able to look over the aisles. You quirk an eyebrow at his strange laughter and wonder what kind of stranger could be so entertained by the pair of you.

“Sorry. It’s just…” He holds up a card that neither of you can really make out at this distance. “On the front it says ‘It’s Your Birthday?’ and inside it says ‘Alpaca my party hat!’. Ha! And there’s this pop-up of the alpaca with a bandana and party hat.” He giggles again as he opens and closes the card a few times and waves his hand. “Sorry. Sorry. You can continue flirting now.”

“This is not—” Your breath catches in your throat and you have to take a moment to swallow down your embarrassment before turning back towards Yoongi. “Can you believe this guy?”

He’s in the middle of taking a bite from a half-eaten muffin when your eyes meet his guilty ones. Your jaw falls open as he slowly chews and rings you up, placing the remainder of the pastry back down on the counter.

“You took the last one?”

“I had a craving.” He shrugs.

“You knew I would want it and you took it so I couldn’t have it,” you guess in a playful tone. “Was your aim to make me suffer double today? You’re so cruel, Yoongi.”

He pauses to poke his tongue against his cheek as he handles your change. “It’s not like I planned it. Don’t make me out to be some bad guy.”

“Bad guy. Tch. No, I wouldn’t go that far.” You lean forward, planting your hands on the counter and ensuring a clear sightline into your shirt. “I think you just like getting under my skin.”

He bristles at your words, taking the bait and dropping his gaze to the lace exposed for his eyes. He licks his lips and lazily lets his eyes drift back to your face, his expression unreadable. “Maybe that’s true.”

You cock your head and smirk as you stand up straight, your ego slightly inflated. “Is it really so hard to be nice to me? I’m nice to you.”

“Hah!” He breaks into an amused grin. “When?”

You’re taken aback by his response. Surely you’ve been obvious with your infatuation up to this point. You scoff. “Wha- All the time!”

His brows furrow and he crosses his arms with the change still trapped in his palm. “So complaining is a form of politeness now? Then I should be grateful for how often you shower me with kindness.”

“You know I do more than complain! I complain because you complain to me!” you pout, pointing your finger at him. “Maybe we could talk about something meaningful if you ever cared enough to ask.”

His eyebrows raise with the pitch of your voice. It’s not a big deal. This is stupid. You’re overreacting because you like him. You know he’s fucking with you so why is your face still getting hot? Even if he’s joking, he’s planted the seed in your mind that he sees you as a grumpy customer. He’s clearly never thought of you as anything but a negative start to his day. You’ve seen him be sweet but right now he feels as bitter and cold as the coffee he drinks.

“What do you think of this?” the pink-haired stranger asks, donning a pair of thick black frames with orange-tinted lenses.

The man cuts the tension from the room for a brief moment. Yoongi stares at him, his lip curled up in disgust as he slowly shakes his head. When his eyes travel back to yours they seem full of apprehension. Your name rolls off his tongue as though it’s an apology.

“Don’t ‘Y/N’ me. Just give me my change,” you grumble, reaching up for his palm.

His grip is impossible to penetrate. He smiles as you struggle to work your fingers beneath his, shaking his head like you’ve revealed some embarrassing secret. Heat builds in your face the longer you stand there fidgeting with his hand. You feel like a fool.

“You’re obnoxious. Let me count it out first,” Yoongi sneers while trying to pull his hand back.

“It’s fine.” You roll your eyes and yank his hand towards you. “I don’t need you to count it.”

“You know what I think you need?”

The other customer leans beside the counter, a new pair of glasses on his face that are twice as hideous as the first pair. As you turn to look at the stranger you can see the pair of you reflected in hues of red and yellow in those disturbingly 90s opaque lenses. It almost looks like you’re holding hands. You stiffen at the sight but keep your fingers locked against Yoongi’s calloused ones as you focus on the pricetag dangling across the man’s nose.

The stranger slowly moves a closed fist above the place where your hand and Yoongi’s meet. He waits a few seconds until you’re both focused on his hand before a flash of silver falls from his palm. You almost mistake the shapes for identical necklaces until they untangle and rotate to reveal two halves that form a heart.

The fluorescent lights of the store highlight the engraved text on each. One says ‘BEST’ while the other half reads ‘FRIENDS’. The faux-metal irritates your neck the moment you think about it touching your skin. The chains appear fragile and cheap, like they might break at the slightest amount of tension. If this guy thinks you’re going to take these he must be delusional.

You exchange a quizzical look with Yoongi as the necklaces dangle between you. He’s distracted enough that you’re able to pry your change from his sweaty palm.

“Uh. No thanks,” you say, shoving the coins in your pocket before grabbing your croissant. You take a moment to regard Yoongi with a scowl, cocking your head to the side. “See you, Grandpa.”

The stone in his gut sinks as he watches you leave but he forces his attention to the pink haired stranger in the obscenely reflective glasses.

“You know, I think she likes you,” he whispers with a wink.

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It’s been a long day but at least you don’t have to go out tomorrow. You’ve already changed into your favorite pair of comfy shorts but as you move to unbutton your work shirt something smacks against your chest. Did something get trapped in your cleavage?

“What the fuck?”

As you look down your stomach does a somersault. There’s a necklace draped around your neck with a half-broken heart pendant, etched with the word ‘BEST’. How did that guy sneak this ugly thing onto you? How did you not feel it until now? Maybe he’s some sort of street magician. Your shock is accompanied by a chuckle as you reach behind your neck to fidget with the clasp. Spinning the chain between your fingertips, you soon realize there isn’t one. This thing feels like a dollar store trinket, so you curl your fingers around the charm and pull down with all of your might. It remains secure around your neck no matter how hard you tug.

Your mind begins to break into a panic. What the fuck? What the fuck. What. The actual. Fuck.

You quickly throw on a pair of sneakers and nab the keys hanging near the door on your way out of the apartment. It's hard to believe the speed at which your feet carry you down the several flights of stairs. A couple scrambles out of the way as they watch your frenzied descent. Before long you're pressing the entirety of your body against the familiar door of the convenience store across the street.

The clerk looks up from his phone, his dark eyebrows raised in surprise as you stumble past the threshold. Your body nearly folds in half as you plant your hands on your knees and struggle to catch your breath.

"Are you alright?"

You force yourself to stand up straight to address the man standing behind the counter. The word is devoid of conviction as it leaves your mouth. "Yeah."

You know him as Tae, one of Yoongi's part-time employees. Yoongi offered him a job when he heard him say he was looking for work to supplement his endeavors to put himself through art school. You’ve seen him a lot, spoken a little here and there, and he even knows you by name now. If he's here, it's probable that his boss is not. You sigh loudly in an attempt to relieve some of the panic and frustration built up in your brain. It's not like you can just ask Tae to give you Yoongi’s number.

Tae’s wide-eyed stare indicates his concern for your well being but it’s not until he drags his gaze across your body and purses his lips that you feel something is amiss. It's at this point that you realize how much the air conditioner billows the fabric of your work shirt. Goosebumps form along your calves as all of the blood in your body rushes to your face. You quickly cross your arms over your chest to conceal the half-unbuttoned shirt and the bra that pokes out from beneath it. There’s little you can do to cover the expanse of your legs while wearing such form-fitting shorts.

“I was just… checking to see if you have any Hot6,” you say with barely a glance in the direction of the refrigerator section. “But it’s clear you’re still out.”

Tae raises his eyebrows and grants you a subtle, uncertain nod as your eyes settle on the door that reads ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY.’

“Is your boss here?” you blurt, reaching for the chain around your neck. “I’ve got a—”

Your stomach drops. It’s gone. Both of your hands instinctively smack at your collarbones, like frantically patting against your flesh will cause the necklace to reappear. You hold your shirt open wide enough to peer down at the skin of your chest with a concentrated gaze, eyes begging for any trace of the tacky piece of jewelry to resurface. Was it really just a figment of your imagination? You swear it was there. You felt it. You pulled on it. It had to be real.

You swallow hard and quickly bounce your eyes to the uncomfortable-looking cashier. All you can offer is a weak chuckle as you try to play it off by shaking out your shirt. “Sorry… I thought there was a bug."

There's an awkward, heavy silence between you as he nods with pursed lips. There's no way this poor guy believes your delusional ass. "Bossman's gone for tonight. Seemed kinda beat."

"Oh."

Your eyes settle on the countertop as your brain tries to rationalize what kind of unresolved issues at work are causing your mental breakdown. You stand there while spacing out, barely blinking. You can't believe you imagined that. Not knowing what to do, Tae walks his fingers towards the miniature cans of Red Bull stacked on the counter. He gracefully sweeps his hand around a can and offers it to you. That breaks you from your daze.

"It kinda tastes the same." He attempts to cut the tension with an endearingly awkward, close-mouthed smile. "My treat?"

If it were Yoongi saying such a thing you might scowl and tell him that he must be delusional if he thinks they're the same. Tae is a much kinder soul. You find yourself softening at his suggestion and shake your head.

"You know I should probably lay off the energy drinks now that I think about it," you say. "Have a good night, Tae."

"Goodnight, Y/N!" he calls after you as you wander back through the door. He leans over the counter. "Oh, hey wait! Do you want me to let bossman know you were looking for him?"

"It's fine!" you shout back on autopilot. You're already sinking into a pool of your own thoughts as the door closes behind you.

It was not fine.

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Sleep does not come easy despite your exhaustion. You find yourself tossing and turning all night. When the light begins to stream through your blinds it seems to strike at the perfect angle to blind your fluttering eyes. You pull the blankets up over your head even though you know it’s of no use; you’re already awake and there’s no going back to sleep now.

You stretch out with a yawn as you sleepily shuffle from the bed to the tiny bathroom around the corner of your room. It’s easy to apply toothpaste to your toothbrush on autopilot, taking a moment to rub your knuckles against an eye before glancing up towards the mirror. How bad is the bedhead today?

The sight that greets you causes you to drop your toothbrush in the sink and stumble back out of the doorway. Your fingers grip the frame to keep you on your feet, your attention quickly drawn to the thick digits situated there. As you force yourself forward, you support yourself with one hand on the counter and bring the other up for inspection. The foreign hand trembles as you turn it back and forth while trying to catch the breath that keeps running away from you. Anxiety sinks its teeth deeper into your lungs, causing a puncture that has you gasping for air.

Calluses adorn your fingertips, accompanied by scratches and scars from moments you've never experienced. Your nails are jagged and short, devoid of the pleasing pink color you applied to them two days ago. You dread the journey your eyes threaten to make towards the mirror once again but you find that you are unable to stop them. The face staring back at you with saucer-wide eyes is none other than Min Yoongi.

Your head feels light. This face is fake. You gasp for the air you can't seem to get enough of and stumble out of the bathroom. The walls seem to wobble in place as you race towards the living room where you can feel the breeze flowing through the window you left open last night. This world is fake. Nothing is real. Air will fix this. If you could just breathe like a normal person everything would be okay.

You fall to your knees within spitting distance of the window. For all the air your body greedily sucks inward, your mind feels bereft of any. Your vision goes dark.

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Yoongi does his best to make his way up the stairs with poise, but he's almost sure it looks like a waddle more than anything. His thighs --your thighs-- are chafing from the run here and each step is a painful reminder of the irritated flesh still rubbing together beneath these sweatpants. At least one of your neighbors was kind enough to let him into the main entrance. They must have recognized the face he mysteriously woke up with. Luckily your mailbox has your last name on it and as much as you might disagree he does pay attention when you talk.

He tries to wipe the sweat from his brow as he bends down to plant his hands on his knees. Even as his breath recovers, he grows increasingly frustrated with how heavy his chest feels. He repeatedly pushes the hair from his face with a groan, wishing he had taken the scissors to it when he had the opportunity earlier. He takes off the cap atop his head, runs his fingers through his hair, and places it back on his head. Everything is too much. You need to fix this. Take it back.

The faster he tries to ascend the stairs, the more he aches. He finally gives up on looking civil when he decides there's no one else in the stairwell to judge him. After all they'll only remember you anyway so what does it matter? He rolls the sweatpants up above his knees and cups the breasts hidden beneath the oversized sweater for support as he scrambles up the last few floors.

He grimaces at the dainty pink fingernails before curling his hand into a fist and rapping his knuckles against your door. He puffs his cheeks out and expels a long breath. What could you possibly be doing? You have to be in there. He tries the handle to no avail. Are you still asleep? He quickly abandons the need for subtlety and places both palms on the door and drums loudly against it. The sound of the deadbolt unlocking tells him he shouldn't hesitate. He's through the door before you can even properly get off your knees.

Somehow you knew what would be waiting for you on the other side. The sight before you has your mind reeling. That's your body, but it's not you. Could it really be Yoongi? You did not get Freaky-Friday'd with him. There's no fucking way this is reality. You can feel yourself panicking again as you back away from the figure, falling back on your ass. You watch yourself look down at you with a look of disgust.

"What are you doing?" That's definitely your voice.

Your body takes slow steps towards you as it crosses one arm over the other. You lean back on your elbows and groan. It's a deep sound, deeper than anything that's come from your throat even on your sickest day. This isn’t happening.

"Oh my god. I'm fucking dying," you murmur while tilting your head towards the ceiling. "Everything is fake. Nothing is real. I’m going crazy. Please let me rot."

The figure bends down and leans over into your field of vision. The image of your face frowns back at you and pokes you in the chest with a pointed fingernail.

“Stop that.”

“I can’t,” you whine between heavy breaths. “I feel like I’m gonna pass out again.

“Y/N. Look at me.”

Those perfectly manicured hands reach out for your shoulders in comfort but you fall flat on your back and your arm flies up to cover your eyes.Tears sting at them as reality warbles around you again. Seeing your own face hovering above you definitely isn’t helping you feel more sane.

"I don't know what's happening," you sob.

With each breath you suck between your quivering lips, your chest aches. Suddenly that pair of hands is cupping your jaw and pushing your arm aside. You look into the eyes you are already so familiar with, but they seem far more caring than you’ve ever managed to display.

"We need to undo whatever is happening right now," he says calmly. "You don't have to like it. You don't have to tell me you're okay. But I need you to sit up and pull yourself together long enough to help me figure this out. Can you do that?"

You swallow hard and nod slowly as you take the hand offered to you. A half-smirk appears on his lips; it's strange to see yourself reflected with such warmth, especially knowing it's coming from Yoongi.

"Good. Now please go change. I can't look at those shorts anymore.”

You look down at your attire for the first time and realize how absurd Yoongi’s body looks in the clothing you wore to bed. The skimpy tank top clings to the muscular, flat chest you now possess. Worse still, you can see bits of flesh poking out against that hairy inner thigh below. You squeeze your eyes shut and pretend like you can forget what you just saw sticking out of your shorts.

You take a deep breath as your face burns with embarrassment. “Okay. Give me your pants.”

He stiffens at your demand and scoffs. “What?”

“I don’t have anything that will fit you— er, I mean, me. Us?” You gesture at your body and stare at the floor, trying to will yourself to not dissociate. “This. You can’t be comfortable either.”

There’s a sigh before he plops down on your couch with legs spread wide open. “My back hurts and my thighs rubbed together so much I don’t want to move anymore.”

You can’t help but laugh at the admission. At least he feels your pain. He looks up at you while reclining his head on the cushion behind him. You’re not hyperventilating anymore so distraction seems to be the key to keeping you relatively calm.

“Why you, of all people?” he wonders.

You roll your eyes and stomp across the room and disappear into your bedroom. “Hmph. I was about to ask you the same thing. This is bullshit.”

You come back with a handful of carefully selected clothes and strappy undergarments that you know for a fact flatter your shape. If he has to walk around in your skin the least he can do is make it look good. You pause halfway down the hall and swallow hard as it dawns on you that he’s going to have to get naked in order to change, which means he’s unavoidably going to be looking at your body without any barriers. You decide you’re going to be strong and you simply won’t think about it or acknowledge it as a possibility.

He’s busy chewing one of your nails when you reach the living room again. You hug the clothes close to your chest and storm across the room.

“Do you bite your nails?! Ew! God, no wonder yours are so jagged and gross,” you complain, thrusting the clothes into his lap.

He offers an apologetic look before glancing down at the attire you’ve supplied with raised eyebrows. He picks up the bra with one finger and grimaces at the way it dangles off his digit. He’s looking up at you with pleading eyes shortly after it falls back in his lap. It’s hard to avoid his gaze. You feel those pupils boring into your skull as you dart your eyes away to focus on the floor.

You clear your throat and muster every last bit of courage you possess. “Um… Your clothes, please?”

He inhales loudly through his nose and you watch the grey sweatpants pool around the toenails you just painted last night. You swallow hard and scramble to pick them up when they slide across the wooden floor to you. You clutch them to your chest, quickly catching the scent of your sweat and arousal on them. Maybe he hasn’t noticed? Trying to suppress the mortification growing in your chest, you purse your lips and trail your gaze back up to his face--your face. Thankfully the hoodie covers your sex and you’re hoping he hasn’t bothered taking a peek before coming here.

“Don’t… Don’t look,” you plead. So much for not acknowledging it.

He’s feeding his arm through one of the sleeves when he freezes in place and locks eyes with you. “I should tell you I woke up shirtless,” he mumbles. As if to lessen the blow of his admission, he continues with a pout, “But you can’t blame me for looking. It’s hard not to look at a pair of perfect tits that mysteriously appear in the middle of the night. What was I supposed to do?”

Perfect tits? You’d almost be flattered if it wasn’t so fucking morifying to know he’s already seen you. Your eyes screw shut and you nod. “Right.”

This is fine. This is absolutely fine.

“Hey,” he calls softly, prodding you to open your eyes. “Here.”

He keeps eye contact with you while feeding his other arm through the sleeve. Watching yourself strip without performing the act is bizarre. He holds the sweater out for you to slowly take. It eases your mind to see his gaze never wavered. Yours drops to the nude form before you and suddenly you’re criticizing every curve and flaw you can find. It’s as though you’re simply standing before a mirror and feeding your insecurity with needless scrutiny. Despite this, Yoongi remains focused on your face and the discomfort you display so openly at seeing your own form stripped bare. Almost bare. That beat-up baseball cap he wears every day now adorns your head like a crown for your mediocrity.

You spin on your heels and speedwalk down the hall. “I’ll be right back.”

It’s hard to ignore the new appendage you’ve acquired but you make sure to shut your eyes while peeling the shorts from your thighs and sliding the sweatpants up in their stead. While you rushed through the bottom half of your attire, you stop for a minute to inspect Yoongi’s bare pectorals. It’s all too easy to get lost in the sight of his body in the mirror. You subconsciously lick your lips and run your fingers across your flat, hard chest.

Your thumb circles a brown nipple and you watch with satisfaction as it grows hard at your touch. Your palms press down over your stomach, feeling the muscles hidden just below the surface of soft flesh. You grab at your hips, fingers threatening to dart below the band of your pants. Instead you suck air in through your nose and scold yourself for such weakness. You’re about to tug the sweater over your head when Yoongi silently enters and flops down on the bed face-first.

“Yoongi? Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?!” you shriek in your haste to cover up your own moment of weakness.

There’s a muffled response spoken into the mattress that you can’t quite understand.

"What?" Annoyance is a front for your embarrassment.

He turns his head to one side and sighs. "There are too many straps. Why did you pick such a difficult one?"

You definitely selected something with a lot of extra straps for a reason but you bite your lip and try to come up with an excuse that seems plausible. The truth is that you wanted to pick something sexy because you wanted him to see you as such. Does he care though? It's hard to tell. You decide the best excuse is to dismiss the question altogether.

"Stop being such a baby. I'll help you."

As he lifts his head to cringe in your direction, you're already out the door. He pounds his forehead against the mattress again and squeezes his eyes shut. There's clearly no logical explanation for this, so what is the next step to take? What should the pair of you do? Is this permanent? There has to be a way to undo whatever has happened. In order to figure that out he's trying to piece together the source of this predicament. No matter how hard he wracks his brain for answers to the puzzle, there still seems to be pieces missing.

"Get up. Come on," you huff, tugging at his arm.

The sound he makes is pitiful and whiny as he rises. It's easy enough to see where his arms are supposed to go when you've already bunched all of the material together. You step behind him and fiddle with the fit around the familiar mounds of flesh at his front. He instinctively looks down to watch how his own familiar fingers slide beneath the bra. He pries his eyes away just as quickly to find he has a much better view of the pair of you in the mirror.

There's a sight he'd never thought he'd see: both of you shirtless with his hands in your bra. It's not that he's never wanted it. It's just that he always seems to fuck it up when it comes to being social, with you in particular. Maybe it's because he likes you too much. There's never been a proper opportunity to make a move outside of work and he knows his flirting skills are abysmal. But looking at the reflection of the pair of you now fills him with equal amounts of desire and confidence.

Just as you’re about to clasp the first strap behind his neck you glance up and find yourself lost in the same reflection. An electric blush creeps up your spine and causes a tingle in your cheeks that makes you freeze like a deer caught in headlights. He hums a soft sound and makes the decision to reach back for your wrist. For a moment you’re not sure if you’re moving or if he is but you find yourself enjoying the sight of Yoongi’s thick fingers dipping below the fabric of your bra.

“Yoongi?” you ask, jaw hanging slack as the bra slips a bit further down.

“Do you feel that?” The voice is quiet as he lets you trace fingers along the soft skin. “It pinches there.”

That pinch is a familiar one but you always tell yourself that’s the price of beauty. The straps chafe. The underwire digs into your ribs. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s the sexiest-looking thing you own so comfort be damned. You watch it slide further down to reveal one of your nipples in the reflection of the mirror; it’s impossible to look away. So much for him not looking anymore. You can’t blame him because it’s impossible for you to take your eyes off it too. The sight of Yoongi’s thick fingers trailing along the side of your breast sends a surge of excitement through your veins.

Goosebumps form a path where your fingers have traced and Yoongi exhales a shaky breath. The sound makes you chew on your bottom lip in contemplation. Is he feeling just as turned on right now? You try to remind yourself that the mirror is a lie. He’s not touching you. You’re touching him, regardless of how it looks. You can’t let your feelings cloud your judgement. It’s so fucking hard to think straight now that you’re together like this, not just because he’s here in your room but because he’s experiencing the unique arousal of his body while trapped in yours.

“Being a girl sucks. What am I supposed to do about it?” Your fingers tremble as you force your eyes to meet his in the mirror.

The action does not go unnoticed. He smirks and quirks a brow but chooses to let it slide without commenting. “Give me something easy and comfy.”

“But—” You hesitate. Do you really need to argue about this? You can’t explain it without admitting your feelings towards him. It seems like an inopportune time, more so than usual. It’s better if you can just shut the fuck up for two seconds and work on the important task at hand: figuring out how to get back to normal.

He immediately fills the gap with an objection of his own. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” you say in the flattest tone you can muster.

He turns around to get a better read on your body language but you’re already rummaging through your drawers. You toss a sports bra with a front-facing zipper at him while you don the sweater and slip into the bathroom to relieve yourself. It’s best to avoid situations like that again if you can.

Yoongi takes this moment to inspect the room, crinkling his nose at the several empty cans of Hot6 stacked on top of your dresser. He brings a long manicured nail to his teeth and begins working it back and forth as he slides the folding closet door open with a finger. Much to his surprise your wardrobe is filled with t-shirts that look much more comfortable than the piece you previously selected. He’s quick to trade shirts and carefully replaces the clothing on the hanger before sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning back on his elbows. Comfy. Finally. His attention is drawn to the closed bathroom door. It’s been a while. Are you okay?

“You better not be passed out in there,” he whines, making sure to sound extra annoying for you.

The attempt to conceal the concern in his tone is successful but he’s happy you’re not able to see his worried expression. If you knew how badly he wants to freak out, you might actually start hyperventilating again. He’d like to avoid that. The door swings open and you exhale deeply. You’re not about to tell him you had to wait out the boner because then he’d probably make fun of you. He watches you take a few steps forward while wedging a nail between his teeth.

“Are you biting my fucking nails again?”

“Yup.”

You’re already scrambling across the bed and by the time he moves to shuffle backwards you have his wrists pinned against your soft comforter and you’re straddling his waist. Oh god. This is too fucking hot to be doing with him while he’s in your body. Abort. Abort!

It’s now that you note he’s wearing a soft cotton t-shirt you definitely did not pick out. “Yoongi, did you—”

“These clothes are better. Did you give me the most uncomfortable things you own just to make me suffer for stealing your muffin?”

Between the sports bra and the t-shirt he’s selected the curves of your body are lost to your eyes and your heart sinks. There goes any chance you had of him thinking your body is sexy. He’s expecting a tongue lashing but you sigh instead and release your hold on him, quickly climbing off his form before you can let your body get you into trouble. You search for the laptop that you know is hidden just beneath the covers near your pillows.

“Pfft. Look, maybe we can google what happened to us and not get Freaky Friday movie reviews. You wanna see if it works?”

He offers a half smirk in response and he’s quiet only for a second before he hums a sound of distaste. It’s an accusation and you know it. He quickly scoots back towards the pillows so he can sit beside you.

You scowl as you mistype your own password. “Ugh. What?”

“I’m just wondering why you’re so mad.”

“I’m not.”

You make sure to broadcast the fact that you’re definitely not mad by repeatedly tapping the delete key in a slow, deliberate motion.

“Why does your face look like that then?” he prods while folding his hands across his lap.

“Like what? You of all people should know that your face always looks this grumpy.”

As he rests his head against the fluffy material behind him, he lazily rolls his head towards you. “Y/N.”

You dramatically throw your head back against the pillows and mirror his stare. “Yoongi.”

“What is it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you mumble.

“It clearly does,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “We have to work together to figure this out, so some honesty might be nice.”

You open the laptop and stare at the password screen for a moment with a longing sigh. “Fine. I look gross in those,” you admit with a brief glance at his attire. “You’re making me look like an unsexy blob.”

He scoffs. “What? Is that all? You’re being ridiculous. These clothes don’t matter at all. We both know what you look like underneath them. Honestly, you could be wearing a trashbag and still be sexy.”

“To whom?” You want to laugh at how absurd his explanation sounds. “What kind of lunatic would think that?”

He blinks slowly and raises his eyebrows with a calculated clench of his jaw. “Me. For starters.”

He’s stiff as he purses his lips and crosses his arms. He stares at the login screen, waiting for you to type your password. “And any sane man or woman with a pair of eyes and a brain.”

Your mouth falls open in disbelief mid-stroke. Was that a confession? Your head might as well be full of helium with how high you’re feeling. This has to be a dream. If the insane concept of switching bodies with Yoongi isn’t enough to solidify it, those words sure are. You have to be dreaming.

Your eyes remain locked onto the fingers now resting against the keys. “Do you really think that?”

“Yes.” The response comes quicker than expected but instead of giving you time to ruminate on it, he nudges you with his elbow. “Password.”

Your shoulders lift with a deep inhale through your nose and drop back down with the subsequent forceful exhale through your lips. What are you supposed to do with that information? You feel your consciousness try to lift into the aether. If you could only make it float back into your own body, you might have the courage to say something, anything. With your mind drifting away, your fingers move of their own accord as they type in the password to your laptop.

"Whoa, what the fuck is that?"

The video you'd left open last night starts up with a preview that brings you back to reality, but not fast enough.

"D-Don't look! It's private!" you screech.

Heat pulses through the veins along the sides of your forehead. Precious seconds have already been wasted by the time you frantically scramble to close the tab. He's seen the keywords in the search bar and the nastiest bits of that particular video. You're fucking mortified.

“I mean that’s definitely a couple privates," he jokes with a laugh. "You seriously just leave your porn out like that?"

”Incognito mode, Yoongi," you sneer while pulling up a new tab. "I don’t need you or my FBI guy judging me.”

He snorts. “Oh come on, Y/N. The FBI doesn’t care about your porn preferences. And neither do I. Besides, you technically looked at it with my eyes already.”

He taps the side of your forehead gently as if you needed the reminder that you're not in your own skin and you swat him away. You quickly type the phrase “body swap” into the search bar and try to focus on the resulting web pages even though you’re distracted by the blood leaving your brain in favor of other body parts.

"Can you just… Shut up for one second?"

"Hey, I'm just saying..." He clicks his tongue thoughtfully as he scooches closer to you. "You’re into some good stuff. We might have more in common than I thought."

Butterflies erupt in your stomach at the physical contact and send a tingling electricity down your abdomen. You clear your throat and reposition the computer over your lap as you feel yourself growing harder. You stare down at the two fingers settled on the trackpad rather than the information on screen. Try as you might to remain inconspicuous, suddenly all you can think about are those thick fingers rubbing hard circles against your clit while the two of you watch porn together. Bad thought. Baaaaaad. You attempt to pass the laptop over to him as discreetly as possible while shifting your pelvis away towards the edge of the bed.

“I’m…” You flounder for an excuse to leave the room and get these racing hormones under control. “...pee.”

“What?” There's a quizzical expression branded upon his features that toes the line of disgust.

“I have to pee,” you quickly correct while tactically holding your forearm over your lap. If there is such a thing as fate, why is it torturing you like this?

“Again?”

You push the laptop towards him once more and pray that he’ll just let you go be embarrassed alone in the bathroom for five minutes. Instead he looks down at the way your forearms cross your pelvis and exudes a deep, throaty laugh that sounds foreign in the tenor of your voice. That laughter travels through your head like it’s made of hot coals.

“Wow. Got a boner, huh?”

Your cheeks are made of fire. Literal fire. They feel like they should melt straight through your skin and torch your brain yet here you are: still alive and wishing you would burn to death. God is dead. There is no mercy in this universe.

"Don't fucking laugh at me! I can't control it!"

When he laughs harder, the urge to silence him overtakes all rational thought. You reach for a lock of hair sticking out from beneath his cap and pull hard. He hisses through his teeth and you smirk, knowing what kind of response this would normally elicit from your body. Will it affect him the same, or is the sexual response guided by mental preference rather than physical? Maybe it’s both. It seems to have some effect because he’s stopped laughing.

Yoongi shivers as goosebumps riddle his arms and prickle along his chest until his nipples are threatening to poke holes through the thin fabric of the bra and t-shirt. His jaw tightens and on instinct his hand shoots up to grasp at the short black hair adorning your head in retaliation. He catches himself before he pursues the motion of yanking down. What is he doing? Can he really be so bold with you? He knows you, but not like this. Things are strange right now but if he keeps going they're bound to get stranger. If the butterflies in his stomach weren't enough to tip him off to his attraction to you, even like this, the wetness between these thighs solidifies the magnetism you hold over him.

A pitiful sound escapes your lips that hints at your disappointment. “Mmm?"

He pauses there to inspect your expression, tilting his head as though it will give him a better read. He should be able to interpret his own expression but looking at his face through your eyes doesn't seem to help at all. Because he's studied your features for so long it's hard to see what you're feeling now that he can't see them at work. His palm flattens against your scalp and he allows his fingers to wander through the thick black hair he's combed out a million times. Somehow it feels softer in your hands. Soon he finds his hand cupping the back of your neck. Labored breaths swim in the space between the pair of you, but it's hard to tell who they belong to.

"What are you doing?" you whisper as your fingers reach for the brim of his cap.

"What are you doing?" he echoes back.

Have your eyes always looked so fierce, or is it his persona breathing a dark fire into them now? You flick the cap off his head, which releases all the hair he had trapped underneath it. You push it back from his face and tangle your fingers within it.

"Pretending like this isn't just you wanting to make out with yourself to see what it's like," you answer, staring at the reflection in his eyes. "You?"

There's a smirk that grows into a full blown grin within seconds. "Trying to convince myself that it isn't insane to want to make out with myself just to see what it's like."

You scoff and drop your hands to his shoulders to give him a firm push back. "Dick."

He giggles at the way you pout and halfheartedly pushes the laptop towards the other side of the bed. The hand still on the back of your neck travels up to massage your scalp and suddenly you're putty in his palm. His other hand trails along your stubbly jaw until his fingers are nestled behind your ear. As he glances down at the tent in your pants he laughs.

"Still hard?"

"Like your nipples," you grumble.

You reach out and twist the peaks barely hidden beneath his shirt; it's an impulse you don't refuse. This time he moans.

"Oh, you liked that, hmm? I bet you're so fucking wet right now," you whisper, embracing your boldness.

You watch his eyes roll with the flutter of his lashes at your words. Both of his hands glide through your hair and he begins to flex his fingers around some strands. He alternates between releasing his gentle grip on your locks and twisting his fingers back into them. You’re making him crazy. Should he even bother trying to compose himself at this point?

“What?” you prod, pushing the limits of his endurance for such brattiness. “Aren’t you going to pull my hair, Yoongi?”

The way he glares at you causes your skin to break out in a series of goosebumps. How can you be shivering when your body was just doing its best impression of molten rock? Yoongi. That’s the answer. You whimper a pathetic sound as his knuckles curl towards your scalp. The motion brings your forehead down to meet his and your eyelids flutter closed. He focuses heavy breaths out through his nose and stares at the lips he knows are his own. They may be part of his usual physical appearance but right now they’re a part of yours.

“You’re so fucking obnoxious.”

He sucks his bottom lip through his teeth and moves towards you before he can second guess what he's about to do. His lips seem to meld with yours and your eyes pop open to be sure this is really happening. Is this really happening? You see your own nose and heavy lidded eyes peeking open just enough to roll back in pleasure.

The hands buried in your hair drop to cradle your jaw and you can feel the stubble scraping against the delicate skin of his fingers as he drags his hands slowly towards your chin. You melt into his touch and hold your breath like you'll never inhale another again. Suddenly you're kissing him back and no amount of lightheadedness can stop you.

Oh shit. This is happening. It’s not anything like your daydreams but it’s real and it feels so fucking good. It feels surreal. It feels too surreal. Maybe the lightheadedness can stop you. It's you, but it's not. Your eyes open again and you find a battle of anxiety raging in your brain. He pauses to peck the edge of your mouth when he realizes you're no longer kissing him back.

"What are you doing?" he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Did I… read that wrong?”

“No! No, I’ve wanted to do that for a while. It’s just…” A laugh bubbles from your throat and you shake your head before bursting into a fit of giggles. “This is weird.”

Relief washes over his features and he smiles as he leans back to look at you. “It’s definitely unique. But I can’t say I want to stop.”

His admission fills you with a fresh wave of tingles up your spine. “Me neither. I… still want you.”

You sheepishly turn your head to the side and find the mirror lining the closet wall, looking at the image of the pair of you as if it will save you from the embarrassment of your own words.

"What? Now you're getting shy?" he teases while following you gaze to the reflection. It dawns on him that he can enjoy the view. "Or do you just want to watch?"

He moves towards your lips slowly while keeping focused on the mirror, watching your eyes lazily roll back behind your lids and revelling in the whine this pulls from you.

“Look,” he pleads in low whisper, angling your body so you can get a better view. “Look how good you look with your tongue on my neck.”

Your head lolls around just in time to see exactly that before the sensation snaps across your nerve endings. He latches on, sucking light bruises into the tender flesh. He knows where to put his tongue to have you gripping the back of his neck and arching your back up towards him. He smirks as he glances at the mirror, licking a hot stripe up to your ear where he teasingly nibbles on the lobe.

"Does it look as hot when I--when you...?" You flounder on your words in between soft pants, your eyes trained on the reflection.

He counters with a whisper, “Do you want to find out?”

“I’m… curious,” you admit, leaning your head back to give him access to more of your neck.

“You want to know how it feels,” he lazily mumbles against your neck. “Hmm. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it.”

“It’s a unique opportunity,” you say, trying to convince yourself that proposing the idea isn’t weird at all. “Maybe we just… See?”

“Right. This is a unique opportunity,” he echoes in agreement, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His voice is muffled as he sighs a heated breath against your skin. “We should take advantage of it.”

“I mean, as long as you don’t tell anyone.”

He pops his head up to look at you, his brows knotted in confusion. “Who would believe me?”

You shake your head and smirk. “I guess you’re right.”

There’s a moment where the concept of time seems to evaporate. You both stare at each other like you’re seeing your own faces for the first time, like it’s the first time you both can actually love and accept yourselves as you are. It’s easier to be gentle with someone else, but now that someone else is technically also a part of you it brings a level of clemency to your feelings regarding your appearance. You like yourself better now that you can see a part of him there.

“Will you show me how you like it?” he asks with a tilt of his head.

“If you show me, too,” you say with a gentle rock of your hips towards him.

“You first.”

Your mouth is already covering the soft expanse of his neck, dragging your teeth with just enough pressure to tease the skin. He watches you work up and down through the mirror, feeling the arousal between his legs building. As you're kissing a path back towards his mouth he takes a chance and swings his leg over your midriff so he's kneeling just above the throbbing cock hidden beneath the thin layer of gray fabric. The jeans dig a hard line into his stomach and limit the range of his spread.

"These pants are horrible," he complains.

"Take them off if you hate them so much," you agree between hungry kisses. It's impossible to keep your eyes from the mirror. He hooks his fingers beneath your sweater and begins working it upwards, stopping only to rest a palm on your chest.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He trails his fingers down the flat expanse until he gets to your navel, passing over the dark hair leading down into your pants. He tugs at the place where the hair begins to grow thicker and laughs when you hiss an expletive.

He quickly pulls the oversized sweater upwards. Instead of helping you out of it, he clutches the fabric with both hands as you bring your arms above your head and presses you back into the mattress. You find your bent elbows trapped in the sleeves.

“How about this?” he whispers. “Do you like this?”

“Yes.” You look down at the delicious pectorals he’s exposed, practically salivating at the sight of those pert nipples. “Yoongi, please.”

He smirks as he runs his fingers down your chest, ignoring the nipples you wish he would do something about. Lower. Lower. His hand travels behind him until suddenly your body spasms with pleasure from the practiced grip he’s placed on the cock standing at attention behind him.

“This? Does it feel good when I touch you like this?”

“Fuck! Yes. Please. Yes!”

Just as quickly as his hand pressed against your clothed erection, it’s gone, leaving you a whimpering mess. He plants a kiss beside one of your nipples, but denies it any direct contact.

"Stop teasing me," you whine. The pressure in your chest builds with every second that passes and you feel like your heart is going to burst.

He lets out a lofty sigh as he sits back on his thighs, promptly removing his t-shirt. "But you make it so easy..."

You wiggle out of the arms of the sweater and sit up to unsnap the button to his jeans. You kiss up his stomach until he’s unzipping the bra and letting you nip at the supple flesh for a moment. He discards the bra like it’s nothing before rolling over to unzip his pants. He peels them from his legs along with the soaked panties. It’s hard to not look at the mirror as he climbs over your waist. If he holds any shame for being nude in front of you, it’s not apparent in his current form. Your face, however, feels hot. Your body is exposed and he keeps looking at it, groping those breasts with his hands.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he says quietly, admiring the reflection as he plays with his nipples between his fingers.

You want to bury your face in something to hide your embarrassment so you plant your face between his tits and begin to suck bruises into the soft flesh beside his fingers.

“Oh fuck.” The sight of his own face diving between those squishy tits is enough to make his body involuntarily flex in ways he’s never experienced before.

“How does it feel?” you murmur, slowly licking a path to one of his nipples and lightly dragging your teeth along it.

The sound he makes when he moans has you shivering all over again. He lets his head fall back for a second and then he looks at you. “Like I want you to touch me.”

Now you’re the one who smirks with confidence. “Lay back.”

He snaps the band at your waist as he rolls off of you. “These. Off.”

Manicured fingers slip down to rub some of the tension from the swollen bud between his legs as he watches you awkwardly push the pants down past the cock begging to be touched. You try to avoid looking at it. It’s hard not to feel exposed even though it’s not your body. You scramble back into the bed as quickly as you can. His laughter catches you off guard.

“You’re so shy now. Look at it. Feel it,” he urges. “Grab my cock.”

You try to be casual about your downward glance but the way you lick your lips is anything but casual. You press your thumb into the base of the cock to admire its shape from a 90 degree angle. It’s average in terms of length but your mouth waters at the sight of the bulging veins and increased girth just below the swollen tip. You don’t bother to resist the urge to grip the shaft. You drag your hand up and trace your thumb around the fleshy mauve tip. The sensation causes you to shiver. It’s so sensitive.

As you’re admiring the way it tapers towards the base, soft, thinner fingers curl around yours and begin to guide them into a slow, controlled pumping motion that sets your nerves alight.

He quirks a brow at you. “What do you think?”

“Fuck, Yoongi,” you choke out with a held breath. Greedy gasps break the small silence that follows. Has it always been so hard to speak while masturbating? It’s not like you’re terrible at dirty talk so why are you hesitating?

“Do you need me to stop?”

You fervently shake your head and follow it with a needy groan. “No. Please… Keep going.” You hope he never stops.

“Then use your words” he urges, placing his hand over yours to slow your pace to a crawl.

You whimper. It’s a pathetic sound created with his voice in his throat, yet it still somehow sounds so deliciously like you. While he finds himself attracted to your usual body, it doesn’t bother him that you’re currently assuming a different form. Looks are fleeting anyway. It’s the person inside he’s grown attached to, the caring soul he feels connected to.

He’s seen you stare at the bulletin board near the restroom and tear off the tabs of creative community activities to benefit those in need. If he wasn’t so busy managing the store all the time he would have been able to sign up for those events too. He’s seen you volunteer at the homeless shelter just around the corner. He’s seen you cradling posters for your neighbor’s missing cat— he’d even let you keep one on the door to his store until you told him they found it.

The truth is that your soul is so beautiful and full that he’d want you no matter what you looked like. If only he had the courage to say that. But it's easier to hide behind snark.

“It feels so good,” you whine. “I wish I could put my mouth all over it. Bet you’d fill me so good.”

A growl escapes with his exhale and he guides your fist up and down the girth between your legs with increased vigor. He gently leads you by the dick, pulling you closer to the bed until your knees hit the side.

“Look in the mirror, Y/N. Watch,” he whispers in a low tone, almost begging you to keep your eyes on the reflection.

You do as he says and watch in awe as a set of manicured fingers tap against your chest and trail down to the cock still nestled in your fist. They work their way beneath your palm and shoo your hand away. Even knowing that Yoongi is behind the action, the sight of your hands stroking that perfect cock sets a fire of desire coursing through your veins.

You watch in the mirror as your lips plant kisses on the dark hair beneath Yoongi’s navel. You watch as your head sinks lower and lower until soft, plush lips are skimming the tip of his dick. You watch his length slide into your mouth and immediately your knees threaten to buckle.

His hands are already reaching up to stabilize your stance even as he glides his tongue against you. The pleasure is unlike anything you’ve felt before, but having your clit sucked and teased comes close. It’s heaven. You whimper a tortured sound sitting somewhere between the boundaries of pleasure and anguish. He plays your role so well, maybe even better than you could play it. You attempt to distract yourself from the nervous tremble of your thighs by gathering bits of his hair in your hands and balling it in your fists. He gargles out a muffled moan against you.

“I look so good sucking your pretty cock,” you whisper in awe.

He leans back to swipe his tongue over the slit and then sinks back down, nose hitting the tuft of dark hair at your pelvis as you bottom out in his throat. Your grip around his hair tightens with the slight rock of your hips. You press his face against your crotch like you never want him to leave. The pair of you look so fucking hot. You’re revelling in slow, shallow thrusts deep in his throat when he makes a gagging noise you know all too well. He grips your thighs and you immediately release your hold while pulling your hips back.

“Fuck I’m so sorry!” Heat rises in your face and you want to run and hide.

He rests his palm on your waist and catches his breath, a trail of sticky precum and thick spit connecting his mouth to your cock. It involuntarily flexes and bobs up towards your stomach and then back down, which severs the path of saliva.

“Don’t be. That was hot.” He wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

“Yoongi, you didn’t have to! I mean I was curious but I—”

You’re cut off by his harsh tug on your hands. You stumble forward and meet his dark gaze. How can he make your eyes look so hungry?

“I’m a firm believer in never asking someone to do what I wouldn’t. I like to know what I’m giving, don’t you?”

“God, I wish that were me. I want to taste you so bad,” you whine, licking your lips as you spare a glance down at the glistening appendage standing at attention between your legs. “Wanna taste you dripping off my tongue.”

“You can,” he assures you in a soft voice, cupping your face with his hands.

His lips are on yours in an instant and you’re moaning against them like you’ll never get enough. The salty tang on his tongue transfers to yours as it dips into your mouth. You wish you could take him into your mouth yourself, but this is a good substitute for now.

"You taste good," you pant between kisses. "Why haven't we done this sooner?"

He pulls away to shrug, cocking his head to the side and focusing on your neck. "If you want something you have to speak up. No one can read minds and even if they could, often times people are so wrapped up in their own heads they'd never see what you think.”

"Wow, getting philosophical on me, huh? So… What? I'm just supposed to say, ‘Hey yoongi you're hot. Wanna fuck’?"

"That's a little blunt don't you think?" He laughs, allowing you to push him back onto the mattress. "Been holding that back long?"

Your heart skips a beat, heat flushing your ears. "Maybe. Would it have made a difference?”

He ponders this for a moment as he squints at the ceiling in concentration. "Mmm. I'd say you should at least buy me dinner first… "

You scoff. It’s not a no but it’s not an enthusiastic yes either. You climb onto the mattress, trying to ignore how casually he lays in your bed, completely barren before you.

He rolls onto his side and props his head up to survey your approach. You seem a little nervous so it’s easier for him to fake confidence for both your sakes. "I guess we're both guilty of not saying what we mean."

"What is it you really mean to say then?" If he’s got a juicy secret he’s been holding in, then you want to know to salvage what’s left of your pride.

"I give you shit but I like that you come into the store every day to get your muffin and your gross energy drink. I like when you come back in after just to bitch about your day and pretend like you need a snack that I never see you eat. I like when you ask me about my day, even though you know I’m shit at conversation. It makes me happy because I care about…" he hesitates when he sees your smug grin. "...”

“Yes?” you prod.

He draws a deep breath from his belly. “You. I care about you. I’ve never found an opportunity to tell you that I like you. I’m always working, keeping my store afloat, focused on the numbers and the success of my business. But I see you coming out of that building every day. I watch for you to make sure even after a year of this that you’re still coming here first. It’s crazy but you put me at ease and make me anxious at the same time. I feel like I know you, like I’ve known you all my life.”

He pauses to allow you to interject. When you don’t, he continues, “I feel it in my bones when you smile at me, when you roll your eyes at me, when you try to make me laugh... You’re so easy to fall for. I know that I’m not, but sometimes you look at me and I feel like you want to. I want you to. I wish you would come back when I’m locking up for the night so that I could see you outside of work, so I could take you out, so I could take you home. A thousand possibilities are always running through my head when it comes to you and I freeze when I think about acting on any of them. That’s what I don’t say.”

“Yoongi…” you finally whisper.

Your face scrunches up like you’re about to cry and he grimaces at you, knowing you’re definitely about to do just that.

“Don’t do that. My cheeks look so fat when you do that. Hey, are you listening? Don’t make my face look so ugly!”

His attempts to make you smile simply causes the tears to fall from your eyes. You melt into his embrace, burying your face against his neck as you sob. He places a tentative palm on the back of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, planting a kiss against your hair, “if it’s just me.”

“No, I feel the same way,” you admit, turning your head to kiss his cheek. “You say you’re hard to love but how can that be true when I feel what I feel so easily? I will wait for you to close your shop and walk you home every day if you let me. I will be yours, if you let me.”

He turns your head so that he can bring his lips to yours. They taste salty again for entirely different reasons. Can you feel the way he’s trembling right now? All the relief in the world can’t assuage the ache of carrying such a burden in his chest for so long. The adrenaline is coursing through him like a wildfire, spreading until his lungs are burning with a heat he can’t quell.

“Mine, then,” he whispers, allowing the tears to stream down his cheeks freely. “Mine.”

He tangles his fingers in your hair, pulling you into a passionate kiss that threatens to steal every last bit of oxygen from your lungs. He growls into your mouth, claiming every inch inside with his tongue. He grinds his hips upwards and it’s then you remember that you’re naked and you have a dick that’s still half-hard and growing harder by the second.

You groan loudly. “Fuuuuuck. I want to fuck you so bad right now.”

He pulls back to bite his lip, the intrigue in his features apparent. “You want to try it?”

“I mean… you sucked your own dick for me. You don’t owe me anything—”

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. I want to try it,” he says, wriggling his hips beneath you. “Fuck. Me.”

“This is still so weird,” you say with a giggle, your eyes rolling back into your skull when the tip of your cock glides against his clit. “Ah…”

The pair of you pause and slowly repeat the motion. You can feel how wet he is and instead of being embarrassed like you would be in his place, you find it incredibly hot.

“Do it again,” he pleads, spreading his legs further apart to allow you better access.

You look down, pressing your thumb into the base of your cock and carefully glide the tip across the folds between his legs. He hisses an expletive between his teeth when you drag it past his clit and begin rocking your hips back and forth.

“Yeah, just like that,” he whispers through frantic panting and sloppy kisses.

You feel a cramp in your thigh and pull back to nurse the ache. He whines when you slink away from his body, missing the friction on his clit already, although he’s satisfied enough when you circle one of his breasts with your tongue and take a nipple into your mouth. You press light circles into his clit with the pad of your middle finger until you can feel his legs flexing around your body like you’re not giving him enough. His fingers dive beneath yours to tease the swollen bud.

“Let me feel,” he pants. “Let me learn where to touch.”

You carefully guide his movements for a minute while treating his other nipple to the pleasures of your tongue. He seems to get the hang of stimulating himself pretty quickly so you turn your attention towards his thighs. You sink between them and begin kissing the sensitive skin beside his folds. His thighs twitch when you trace circles around his entrance with your tongue. You briefly pause to inspect your fingernails, making sure none of them are a jagged mess from the way he’s bitten them. When you’re satisfied with your inspection you peek up at him.

“You want to try my fingers first?” you ask, feeling envious that you can’t be riding three of them to the knuckle right now. “I can show you how my mouth feels too, though I doubt I’m an expert on that.”

“I don’t care about that.” He lifts his hand so he can peer down at you from between his tits. “I’ll take your mouth anywhere you want to give it.”

He watches as you flick your tongue across the sensitive, slick bundle of nerves. He bucks his hips as you clamp down and roll your tongue back and forth over it. His pretty painted nails look so good digging into your ebony hair. It’s not long until you dip a finger inside his cunt, teasing until you’re bobbing it in and out at a decent pace.

“Oh…” he says, as if he’s surprised that the experience is so pleasurable. “Shit, that’s good. Fuck. I’m gonna....”

You push another finger into him, curling the longest digit as far as you can to try and reach the g-spot you know is hiding nearby. When you finally get it he grips your shoulders and arches his pelvis off the ground like he’s committing to a new yoga routine. You recognize the stiffness in his limbs, the involuntary tremble of his thighs beside your head, the heaving of his chest and the frantic nonsense spilling out from his lips. You focus your energy on his clit, replacing your mouth with your hand since you have more confidence bringing about his climax this way.

His hips stutter and you know he’s riding the line. It’s a little bit more difficult to find that perfect rhythm when your hand isn’t in it’s normal position. The way he sucks in a breath to release his needy whines almost makes you feel guilty. It’s not like you’re trying to edge him but you’re not able to keep that pressure as consistent as you’d like.

“I’m so close,” he pants. “But I keep losing it. I’m sorry.”

You’ve been there plenty of times but you’re desperate to make him cum.

“It’s okay. Don’t be sorry. Rub it, baby. You know what feels good,” you whisper, shifting your attention to fingering his cunt. You don’t call attention to the pet name, but it feels so natural falling from your lips in this moment. You hope he doesn’t mind.

In an instant his fingers replace yours on his clit and he’s building back up. His thighs quake and his back arches off the mattress one more time and you know it’s coming. He’s about to reach his peak.

He takes a sharp inhale and where you expect the loud wails you would normally make while riding out your high, there’s quiet shuddering and softy breathy moans that linger in the air around you. He grabs your wrist with an ironclad grip as soon as he rides the last wave and his sweaty thighs fall limp around your face. You’re grinning like an idiot as he pulls you by the hair towards his lips, desperate to feel you, to taste you. His tongue is exploring every bit it can, trying to steal the essence from your mouth.

“Mmm. I want to taste that sweet pussy every day.“

“Do you… Still want me to fuck you?” You’re really trying not to sound hopeful but you can’t stop thinking about it.

He smirks and wipes the sweat from his brow. “Let me feel how well my cock fills you.”

“Do I need a condom?” you ask. “Are you clean?”

He laughs like it’s an absurd question. “That’s up to you. I haven’t had sex in four years. I’m clean. If you’re not worried, I’m not worried.”

“Four years is a long time,” you mumble, suddenly feeling pressure perform well. “I have an IUD so if you’re okay with it…”

“I wanna know how it feels.”

As soon as you line yourself up with his entrance you’re sweating like you’ve never sweated in your entire life. You don’t know what you’re doing, but you’re hoping it doesn’t suck. It doesn’t take a genius to sense your nerves. He reaches out to cup your stubbly jaw.

“We don’t have to.”

“I want to. Just… tell me if I’m hurting you,” you whisper before pressing your lips to his.

You let the tip dip inside and descend into his cunt slowly, knowing the thickest part of your dick follows the tip immediately. The stretch must be delicious. You’re distracted by how tightly his walls are clamping down on you. It’s tempting to bury yourself in his warmth as quickly as possible but you show restraint. His breath hitches as he adjusts to your girth and you freeze. Has your body ever taken someone as thick as him? You can’t recall. Probably not.

“Keep going,” he coaches, grabbing at your ass to press you further inside until you’ve bottomed out.

Your head hangs down as you try not to let the sensation overwhelm you. His lips find yours, helping you climb back down from the high. You slowly move your hips back, already missing the tight warmth hugging you. It takes a few more slow thrusts until you’re pumping into him at a relatively steady pace.

“Sorry if my rhythm isn’t good. I’ve never done this,” you manage to say between heavy breaths.

“You’re doing fine. This feels amazing. What are you talking about?”

He could be lying to make you feel better but it’s working. He puts his hands by his head to indicate he wants you to hold them. You immediately twine your fingers in his and press the back of his hands into the mattress.

“Yeah? It feels so fucking good, Yoongi.”

“It does... But I know you can fuck me harder than that, Y/N.”

You can already feel the tightness you’re holding back, a pleasurable pressure building in your pelvis that warns you of the imminent orgasm you can only stave off for so long. You can’t help but slam your hips in harder and faster at his request. The sound of balls slapping against skin fills the room and he moves his hips to meet yours. His breathing grows labored but you know he’s not about to cum again. You’ve never gotten off from penetration alone and there’s no way your sloppy performance will cause that miracle to happen now.

“There you go… Fuck. That’s it.”

“I’m gonna pull out,” you warn, feeling like you’re testing your own limits with every thrust.

“Already?” he teases, digging his pretty fingernails into your back.

“It feels… too fucking good, Yoon…” You wish you had more stamina. “Gonna cum on those pretty tits.”

“Yoon?” He chuckles, now distracted by the way his tits are bouncing with each slap of your hips.

“Just wait until I’m back in that body riding your cock. See how long you last then.”

“Is that a promise?” he questions, cupping your jaw to kiss you.

“...Yeah...”

He can feel the difference in your pace, in the shivers of your body. You’re about to cum. He turns your face towards the mirror so you can see how fucked out your reflection looks. It’s intoxicating seeing Yoongi’s body so needy and desperate.

“Look at you. You’re not gonna make it to these tits.”

“Fuck…” you bite your lip and try to slow your pace but it’s too late. The tension and pressure bursts from the head of your cock like a confetti popper on New Years. With a few, strong pumps you spill your seed into his warm cunt. “Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck! I’m cumming! I’m cummmph--”

Yoongi brings your lips back to meet his to muffle the unexpected sounds of your orgasm.

“Oh my goooood. You’re so loud,” he teases when you finally come down, but you’re too spent to refute him.

There’s another twitch in your dick and you lay there with your mouth open, trying to regain sense of your faculties. He intentionally clenches around your softening length and every muscle in your abdomen flexes.

“Too much!” you shriek, pulling out and rolling off of him in one swift motion.

You let your sweaty back hit the soft duvet, trying to recover from the sensation. He laughs, angling his legs towards the mirror. You’re about to ask what he’s doing when he spreads his legs and swipes at the cum dripping from his cunt, pushing it back inside with his fingers and releasing a soft sigh. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen yourself do, and you’re not even doing it.

When he’s satisfied that he’s pushed it all in, he lays down next to you. The two of you stare at the ceiling in silence for at least a minute. Is it awkward or was it just that good? You can’t tell the difference right now and it’s making you anxious. He covers your hand with his and looks over at you with a warm smile.

The anxiety-driven words come out before you can stop them. “You should pee. You don’t want a UTI and neither do I.”

╭⋟────────────��───────────╮

╰────────────────────────⋞╯

About an hour has passed in awkward silence as the two of you conduct research on what the fuck happened to you. You haven’t talked about what you both did in this bed, but the smell of sex still hangs in the air. As soon as you both put your clothes back on it was like a switch of modesty came back into play, and you feel too shy to point it out. You don’t know what to say, so you’ve just been clicking on every link you possibly can to fill the silence as he scrolls through articles on his phone nearby. It’s uncomfortable and you hate it.

“I think I have something, maybe,” you say, scrolling through the 90s looking website you’ve been exploring for the last few minutes.

Yoongi scoots closer to you and furrows his brow as he squints to read the sloppy banner at the top of the page. “The Unsolved?”

“I know what you’re thinking. Conspiracy theorists are insane, I know, but—”

You reach for the trackpad at the same time and your fingers brush, causing you to freeze mid-sentence. You stare at the keyboard for a second and chew on your lip, allowing your eyes to dart towards your periphery without moving your head. When he doesn’t say anything you clear your throat and scroll with the trackpad.

“But, look.” You point to the two embedded images triumphantly.

“Necklaces.” He cocks his head to the side and reads the text underneath aloud. “‘An Amulet of Discord is used by an Agent of Chaos to spread mischief and debauchery in the universe. It can be split into two halves to displace unsuspecting victims from their bodies. A glamour will protect the Amulet once the ritual is complete, making it impossible to see or touch. In order to reunite the victim with their body, the Agent responsible must be compelled to remove the glamour and mend the fragmented pieces into one.’”

“Last night I had one of those chincy friendship necklaces on and I definitely did not put it on. It looked a lot like the ones that weird guy tried to give us at your shop yesterday. I tried to get it off but it wouldn’t budge. Then it disappeared.”

“This sounds insane,” he muses, mulling over the information.

“Did it happen to you too?”

“I thought I saw one briefly, but… It was gone when I looked again. I thought I must be seeing things.”

“It’s gotta be it!”

Yoongi furrows his brows as you scroll back up to the navigation, not sure if he fully believes in this explanation. “What’s an Agent of Chaos anyway?”

“I guess they like… cause mayhem for fun? I don’t know, the description said something about pleasing a patron that they get their powers from.”

“Like a god?”

The thought makes him uneasy. If a god of chaos exists then surely there are more out there. If gods exist but they do nothing to balance out the cosmic injustices of the universe, are they really gods or more like demons? He feels like he’s about to have a full meltdown over something he can’t understand or control.

“Maybe. It doesn’t describe them at all. But…” You give him a reassuring smirk. “It does give instructions on how to trap an Agent. We just need a little more space and some chalk. We’ll draw him out, trap him, then make him undo his magic. What do we have to lose?”

His heart feels lighter when you look at him so softly. “Makes it sound simple when you say it like that. Also, slightly insane.”

╭⋟────────────────────────╮

╰────────────────────────⋞╯

The website was very lax on defining the ‘discordant energy’ needed to summon the agent, so the pair of you have been improvising. Yoongi suggested moving into the store for the space you needed, but you have a feeling he’s just anxious about it being closed for the day. It’s fine. You don’t want to constantly be thinking about the sex neither of you are acknowledging right now. Yoongi is brushing his teeth after drinking a bottle of orange juice.

You grimace at him. “You really think that’s gonna do it?”

He stops mid-brush, his mouth full of foam and garbling his words. “It’s better than doing nothing. How are you helping?”

You give the sunglasses rack a slow spin. “I drew the sigil on the floor. If we’re gonna trap him we need to be ready. Were you able to find anything else?”

He clicks on your laptop a few times before hurrying into the back room. He reappears a moment later, wiping at his mouth. “That was gross.”

You watch him concentrate on the screen, trying to forget the way it felt to kiss him everywhere he would let you. It’s hard to focus on the task at hand when there’s this feeling lingering in your uneasy stomach. Are you doomed to never speak of the things that made your heart flutter?

“ A thousand possibilities are always running through my head when it comes to you and I freeze when I think about acting on any of them. That’s what I don’t say .”

You tell yourself you imagined those words, that you wished them into existence. You turn the rack of cheap sunglasses again. Even if you knew what you were looking for, you wouldn’t find it with the way your mind is wandering. You look back at Yoongi, debating whether or not you should speak up about the uncertainty in your gut.

“Keepsake!” he says excitedly, running out from behind the counter. “It says they often leave something behind so they can return to observe their work.”

His sudden movement makes you jump and loudly smack your hand against the stand in a panicked attempt to look inconspicuous. He pauses to look at you and raises an eyebrow but you’re already laser-focused on the rack again. Desperate to hide your growing embarrassment you pluck a pair of sunglasses that is strikingly similar to the ones you’d seen the man wearing that day.

As soon as you put them on you inhale sharply. “What the fuck?”

“Hmm?” Yoongi wonders. “What is it?”

“There’s something written… on the fridge.”

“What? Where?”

You lift the glasses up to be sure you can’t see the letters scrawled on the glass without them. The message disappears. Once you place them back on the bridge of your nose they practically glow, beckoning you towards them. You push past him on your way to the drinks section. “Here. It says… Now you have… specs appeal?”

Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’? It was a solid pun.”

The pair of you look towards the sound of the stranger’s voice. Instead of forming words you exclaim a sound of surprise. He looks confused.

“You’re going to need to speak clearly. I’m not sure I understand your language.”

“You! You did this!” you shriek, taking a step forward.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” the man says with a puff of his cheeks. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “It’s not nice to accuse people of things. Have I done anything? Are you sure you’re not dreaming?”

A haze of golden dust spreads across the room like twinkling stars. As you blink and rub at your eyes you yawn and feel a sudden urge to lay down.

“Mmm. I am sleepy…” you admit as you sink to your knees.

Yoongi looks down at you like you’ve grown two heads. “Y/N, what are you doing?”

You laugh and lazily grapple with his leg. “Come lay down. Please? It’s made out of feathers.”

Yoongi watches you close your eyes. Suddenly your body falls limp at his feet. He crouches down to cradle your face in his hands, your name an urgent plea on his lips. “Y/N. Y/N wake up.” He pinches your cheek but you don’t respond.

“She wants this to be a dream. Don’t you?” The man takes a few casual steps forward.

“No, I don’t,” Yoongi growls. The threat sounds odd coming from this body, tone too meek to pass for intimidating. He glares at the man after reluctantly tearing his eyes from your sleeping form. It may be his body on the floor there, but you’re trapped inside it. “Wake her up.”

“She’s tired!”

Yoongi rises to his feet and shields your unconscious form as the man creeps closer. “Don’t take another step. You’re going to regret it.”

“Threatening me? Hah… You’re pretty bold, considering you’re not really in a bargaining position. Spunky! I’ll give you that. Say, I’m curious. What do you think I am anyway? I’ve got a bet going and I know I’m gonna win because I’m right, but I need proof. So if you wouldn’t mind speaking into this...”

Out of his pocket comes a microphone. He holds it out like he’s giving the most intense interview of his life as he awaits Yoongi’s response.

“You’re… Some kind of trickster.”

The man sucks his teeth and shoves the microphone back in his pocket. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind. So much for my bet… Come on. Don’t you think I look more like a god?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you work for one,” Yoongi muses, “but you sure aren’t one.”

“Wooooow….” The man sighs in disbelief. “The disrespect! At least you’re honest. I can appreciate that. I— ”

The stranger’s body seizes up as he takes another step forward. ”Ow!” His body convulses for a second before he regains his faculties. He looks down to find the sigil scrawled in chalk around his feet. Try as he might to scrape the markings off with his heel, his shoes are unable to scuff the powder. He furrows his brows and throws his hands in the air.

“Really? Are you kidding me? An integrity prison? Where did you learn this?”

Holy fucking shit. It worked, Yoongi thinks. He’s never been more relieved in his life.

“Wake her up,” he repeats calmly.

“I was gonna,” the man pouts, slumping into a cross-legged sit. “But now I really don’t want to. Would it kill you to have manners? Look at this. You’ve put me in a difficult little pickle here.” He reaches behind his back and pulls out a jar full of dill pickles. He fishes one out and takes a loud, crunchy bite. “I was just having a little fun and now I’m stuck here, doomed to this ugly little space.”

Yoongi crosses his arms, quickly losing patience. “Stop being dramatic.”

The man glowers at him and crunches on the last bit of the pickle with slow, loud chewing.

Yoongi lets out an exasperated sigh. “Please, stop being dramatic.”

With a surprised nod, the man gulps down the pickle and hops to his feet. “Well, you said please, at least. Was that really such a big... dill?”

Right as Yoongi groans, the man snaps his fingers and flexes his pointers into finger-guns. You immediately yawn and sit up.

“What happened?” you mumble.

Yoongi offers you a hand and you take it, rising to unsteady feet. He wraps a hand around your waist to support your weight. “You took a nap but you didn’t miss much. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, the haze lifting from your sleepy eyelids. You gasp as your eyes focus on the man trapped between the center aisles. “Huh! We got him!”

“Yeah, yeah. Time to celebrate. You trapped me. Good job.” The sarcasm in his tone is evident, accompanied by a roll of his eyes. Confetti falls from above your heads, showering the pair of you in glitter and shiny streamers with the flick of his wrist. “Now let me out.”

You’re blown away by the bizarre moment, springing forward and out of Yoongi’s grasp. “Magic? Then, are you really… a god?”

The man pats his pockets frantically. “Finally! Someone with a sense for my greatness! Ugh! I should have been recording. Damn! Where’s my microphone?”

“Gods don’t get trapped with chalk,” Yoongi says, folding his arms and tapping his toe impatiently. “This guy is an underling. Hey! Don’t get too close!”

Your mouth hangs agape in awe as you approach the man. Scrutiny must be new for him because he seems stunned. That wide-eyed expression is erased quickly enough when he strikes a heroic pose, planting his hands on his hips and puffing his chest out. His pecs and shoulders seem to inflate when he inhales, causing them to swell into well-defined muscles.

“Oh.” You blink a few times, entranced by the sudden transformation. You reach your hand out as if to touch the meaty bicep practically bulging from his sleeve. “Who… What... are you, really?”

“Y/N!” Yoongi’s hands enclose around your waist, pulling you back into him just as your hand is about to break the barrier.

The man’s muscles deflate with his held breath as he bursts into a fit of squeaky laughter. “Oh! I almost had you!” He wheezes a squeaky sound through his inhale that you can only guess is laughter. He clears his throat. “My name is Jin. Matchmaker…” He holds up two matches in his hands and sets them alight with a flick of his wrist.

“Lover...” He winks and the matches disappear. In their stead are two roses. He tosses them at the two of you but when you go to catch yours it disintegrates.

Yoongi catches the disappointment on your face and thrusts the flower towards you, hoping it will restore the shine to your eyes. You give him a big, cheesy smile as you dust glitter from his hair.

“Ah… And! Balancing agent…” He stands on one foot as a seesaw appears to lift him into the air. He jumps down triumphantly with a bow. “At your service.”

You clap enthusiastically until you look over at Yoongi, who looks less than amused. You then nudge him with your elbow until he gives a solitary clap.

“What’s a balancing agent?” Yoongi asks dryly.

“We restore balance to the world. Things that are too uniform need a little chaos. Things that are too chaotic need to be put back into line. In our down time we like to have fun in our own ways. Me? I like to set people up.”

“So you’re not an Agent of Chaos?” you ask, disappointed that the conspiracy theorist page that led you to this point isn’t exactly the fountain of knowledge you had hoped for. There’s so much you don’t know.

Jin looks at you, clearly confused. “I mean some people call me Cupid, but I guess you can call me that. Has a nice ring to it. My powers are more inclined for chaos.”

“Cupid?”

“What? I’m a romantic. I can see the strings of fate! Also I may have a penchant for mischief, but that’s neither here—” He points at his feet. “Nor there!” He points at the shelf beside you which causes a bag of chips to burst, sending its contents everywhere.

“Hey!” Yoongi yells. “Are you going to pay for those?”

“Yoongi…”

“What?”

You can tell he’s irritated but clearly this guy can do a lot more than pop a bag of chips from across the room. You don’t want to fall on the bad side of his magic but you don’t exactly trust Yoongi’s mouth to keep you in Jin’s good graces.

“Stop being rude,” you whisper through clenched teeth.

He scoffs and answers you in a hushed tone. “How am I rude? He’s making a mess!”

“Then we’ll ask him to unmake it.” Your irritation heightens the volume of your voice to the point where it’s barely a whisper anymore.

“He’s playing with us. I’m through asking.”

“Yoongi.”

“Y/N.”

Jin laughs. “See, this is what I mean. Fate is practically screaming for me to help you. Chaos is just an added bonus for this boring town.”

You both look at him and ask in unison, “What?”

He points to the both of you. “Look.”

As you turn back to face Yoongi you’re shocked to see a pale blue orb glowing above his head. “Huh? What’s that?” You reach out to touch it but your hand passes through it without any change.

“You have one too,” he mumbles, squinting at the way a thin line seems to stem from it. Then he sees another. And another. It looks like a shiny, glittering web that splinters into a thousand different directions. His brows furrow as he inspects the tiny threads. “Do you see them?”

Your gaze follows his pointer and suddenly you can see the branching strands too, not just yours, but his as well. It’s beautiful. It’s overwhelming. It’s terrifying. Seeing the trepidation written on your face he silently beckons your attention to his finger, which is pointing to a thread that is golden instead of a pale blue hue. It’s the only one of its kind in the intricate glittering lattice between the two of you. You follow his pointer as it traces the path that stems from your orb until it gets closer to his and then you take over, finishing the path with your finger to the point where his orb engulfs the line.

“What is it?” you wonder aloud.

“A string of fate,” Jin answers with a wistful sigh. “It’s always exciting to see one, isn’t it? It means you’re soulmates.”

“Hah. Bullshit,” Yoongi responds, waving the air with his hands as if to disrupt the strings. They remain intact. “You just like causing mischief.”

Jin puffs his cheeks and scowls. “I can lie about a lot of things, but the strings aren’t one of them,” he huffs. “Why would I need to do that? What’s more unpredictable than true love slapping you in the face?”

He makes a motion with his fingers and sweeps them towards Yoongi.The compulsion rises and you’re powerless to stop it. Your hand moves of its own accord and lightly slaps Yoongi across the face. He looks betrayed as he rubs his cheek.

“I’m sorry! It wasn’t me!”

The tingle in your arm causes it to move back towards him in a gentle swoop. Your wrist is limp as it smacks into his chin and rubs back and forth as if to comfort him. Jin bursts into a fit of laughter as he breaks the compulsion.

Yoongi lets out an exasperated sigh, stomping up towards the circle around the stranger. “Just change us back and you can go on causing problems elsewhere.”

“I can’t,” Jin answers simply, crossing his arms. “The charm will break only under specific conditions.”

“And those are?”

Jin shrugs with his bottom lip protruding as he frowns. “It’s different for everyone.”

“Of course it is.” Yoongi sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, pacing back towards you.

“There are some things you can try. Staples of the trade.” Jin notes some dirt beneath his fingernails and begins cleaning them. “Number one. Have you tried talking about your feelings?”

Yoongi’s gaze settles on yours and it’s like you can feel your heart stop. Say something. You open your mouth to speak but the words won’t come so you snap your jaw shut and stare at the glitter on the floor.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Yoongi says as he folds his arms across his chest, trying to not get distracted by the breasts he inadvertently touches. He decides to drop his hands to his hips instead.

Jin rolls his eyes. “Okaaaay... Number two is filling the chaos meter. Go crazy. Do the unexpected.”

“I don’t know what we’d do,” Yoongi admits, pacing around the circle.

“What if we kissed?” The voice is soft and sweet.

He turns to face you, a combination platter of surprise and confusion. “But we did.”

“Reeeeally?”

Jin’s laughter makes him feel like a fool. He was convinced you said it, despite knowing your voice is not your own right now. How stupid could he be, walking right into that? He squeezes his eyes shut a moment and then focuses his attention on the captive.

While Yoongi is distracted you’re working a pack of mentos out of their packaging. You kneel down and twist the cap off one of the liters of cola placed on the endcap you. The hiss of the carbonation makes Yoongi shift attention.

Your name on his lips is half a warning, half a question loaded with uncertainty. You open another bottle beside it before he can get close enough and drop mentos into each. The liquid erupts into two fizzy fountains that reach the ceiling and spill back down to the floor. Yoongi takes off his hat and grips his hair like he wants to tear it out.

“What are you doing?”

“Filling the meter?” you answer meekly with a shug, stepping back from the puddle on the floor.

Jin roars with laughter. “Oh man. There is no meter, but that was delightful.”

Yoongi grumbles and goes back to the counter, grabbing the laptop and sinking down behind it to hide from the pandemonium of this situation.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter as you pass Jin. You quickly sit next to Yoongi on the floor.

“It was a joke!” Jin calls. “Come on, don’t leave me alone here.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize as his fingers rapidly tap the keys. “I’m trying to help.”

“I know.”

“What are you looking for?” you whisper.

Yoongi listens for a minute to the grumbling of the man trapped in the circle nearby. “How to trick a trickster. I have a feeling we need him to undo it but he won’t come out and say it.”

You sigh and press your chin against his shoulder. “I’m tired.”

He looks over and tips his head down to nuzzle his cheek against you. “I know.”

“Huh?” Your vision diverts to a shiny blue can beside him. “Are you serious?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah.” He picks it up and quickly downs the last sip, the Hot6 Logo shining back at you in mockery. “I found it earlier and needed a pick-me-up.”

“Did you find more?”

“Nope. Just the one.”

“But…” you pout. “I wanted it.”

He holds the empty can out to you. “It’s grown on me.”

“I’m about to die without the sweet taste,” you whine, shaking the can to make sure there’s nothing left.

“You’re so obnoxious.”

He rolls his eyes and cups your jaw, leaning in to press his lips against yours. You don’t protest when he dips his tongue past your lips to rub against yours. You can taste remnants of the drink on his tongue. If Hot6 wasn’t your favorite drink before this, it is now.

“Better?”

“Maybe. Still not sweet enough.” You giggle.

He takes the opportunity to kiss you again, crushing your mouth against his in a deeper kiss. You’re practically melting into him as his tongue glides against yours, moving in a rhythm that you now crave. It’s so easy to forget everything else, where you are, what’s happened to you. He moves to straddle your lap, grinding down intentionally as he grips the back of your neck. He knows you’re half-hard already and fuck if he doesn’t just want to have you again. You’re the only thing that feels real right now.

He pulls down the zipper of the hoodie you’ve given him to allow access to his neck. It’s not until he allows you to latch onto the sensitive flesh there, with his hands buried in your hair, that he notices the security mirror. You’re so hot. He wants to be in you so badly but he’ll settle for you being in him right now.

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Suddenly he notices the other person in the mirror. Jin is sitting cross-legged on the floor in his invisible prison, resting his chin on a hand as he stares back through the reflection with eyebrows raised. Yoongi quickly clears his throat and climbs off of you. You blink in confusion at the disruption until he points at the mirror and then you cast your gaze at the floor.

“We should take care of this.” He runs his fingers through his hair to compose himself before placing the cap back on his head and focusing his attention back on the computer.

“Wow, you almost went there with me watching. That would have done it for sure,” Jin says, breaking into a grin.

“Come on!” you shriek, popping up from behind the counter. “Please, just change us back.”

“I told you. I can’t,” he repeats firmly. “I actually don’t lie as often as you seem to think I do. Maybe you should try having sex. They say the soul leaves your body for an instant when you reach the finish line, you know. It can’t hurt. Ohhhh wait a minute...”

He jumps to his feet after watching the guilt flash across your face. Your eyes seem to dart around him, but never land close enough to his. Blood rushes through your ears, drowning out all the sounds that aren’t your heartbeat.

He smiles wickedly. “Oh my god, you already did. I mean, I get it. Who wouldn’t be curious? It’s only human to wonder. Oh, to be human… Seriously, have you tried talking about your feelings?”

You turn towards Yoongi and crouch back on the floor, disappearing from Jin’s view. He steps on his tiptoes to try and see around the counter before settling back on the security mirror. You can’t help but focus on his nosiness.

“Yoongi. I... Look. Can we go in the back? I need to talk to you. Privately.”

Jin clicks his tongue and sighs as the pair of you cross the store and slip into the door that reads ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY.’ You breathe a sigh of relief when Yoongi locks the heavy door behind you. He bites at his nails--your nails as he waits for you to say whatever you need to. You take his hands into yours.

“Things are weird right now and not just because of this,” you hold up his hands in yours. “Are you regretting everything now?”

He smirks and gives you a small laugh. He slinks away to rub the back of his neck. “I don’t regret anything. I mean what I said. I care about you. I just… I get embarrassed, I guess.”

He’s embarrassed? You didn’t think he was capable with how blunt he normally is. “Sorry,” you mumble. “I’m insecure. Sexy, right?”

Time seems to slow as he draws near. There’s a lighthearted laugh on his lips before they meet yours. It feels like the first time all over again. Butterflies erupt in your stomach and you throw your arms around his neck, desperate to get closer even though you’re already pressed up against each other. You lean into him as you gasp in his hot breaths between kisses. To counteract the weight you’ve pressed against him, he pushes you backwards. Your arms fly back to catch yourself as you stumble but you knock into a freestanding shelving unit. Cans of soup clatter to the floor and roll off in various directions as Yoongi steadies the rack to keep it from falling.

He sighs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder in defeat. “We should focus.”

You whimper and will yourself to move the pair of you away from the wire rack. You run your fingers through your hair and attempt to compose yourself. Everything feels like a dream. It’s hard to think with him consuming the majority of your thoughts. You clear your throat, hoping your mind will also clear with the action.

“Hey,” he says, fingers on the latch. He pauses to lock eyes with you. “It might have seemed like the heat of the moment, but I really mean what I said. So tell me you’ll stick around after this is done?”

You run up and lace your fingers in his free hand before giving it a firm squeeze. “Promise.”

As he opens the door Jin jumps like you’ve startled him with your presence. “Whoa, I thought maybe you’d murdered one another. I heard a loud bang.” His gaze drops to your entwined hands. “What? Did you finally embrace destiny?”

“Destiny. No destiny. It doesn’t matter,” Yoongi says calmly as he squeezes your hand. “This could all be a dream. But we’re here now. We care about each other in this moment. That’s real. That matters.”

Jin does a slow clap while grinning from ear-to-ear. “Wow! It usually takes people a few days, maybe a week!” He looks at his wrist as though he’s wearing an invisible watch. “It’s been, what, a day? You did good.”

“Does that mean you’re going to help us now?” You perk up immediately.

“I mean I think you’ve helped yourselves. You look happy. You’re comfortable, right? Can’t you just let me go and keep existing like this?”

When he’s met with silence he sighs. “Ahh, well there is one more thing you can do, I guess. Have you tried checking your pockets?”

His suggestion is met with eyerolls from the both of you. While nonsensical, the unexpected has become a staple of your current state of existence and you feel you owe it to yourself to at least entertain the possibility. Your fingers slip into your pocket and explore the ridges of the hard object nestled against the fabric. Excitement courses through you as you pull your half of the locket from the confines of your sweatpants. Dumbfounded, Yoongi sticks a finger into his tight jeans and fishes the other half of the necklace out of his pocket.

“Hah, I can’t believe you didn’t even look,” Jin says with a laugh. “Now put them on, place the pieces together and say ‘Me Hoy Nimoy.’”

You exchange a skeptical look with Yoongi but you both comply and blurt the phrase soon after linking the pieces of the necklace together. You hold your breath, waiting for something spectacular to happen but disappointment soon floods your lungs. Just as you’re about to speak up, Jin clicks his tongue.

“Ah, close your eyes. It won’t work if you’re watching.”

Yoongi grumbles. “You’re fucking with us.”

“Hey, some magic is shy. Follow the rules. Do you think I’m just making this all up?” he pouts.

Your answer comes in unison with Yoongi’s: “Yes.”

Jin looks hurt as he clutches a hand over his heart and staggers backwards. “Woooooow. Well, just do one more thing then. ”

A devilish grin soon replaces the expression and his squeaky laughter fills up the store. He points at the pair of you with both fingers and wags his fingers in circles. You feel compelled to turn in place. Yoongi matches the uneasiness in your gut with the panic in his eyes. You both spin in circles away from one another. Once. Twice. Three times. Just as you’re about to complain about the nausea churning fresh waves in your belly, Jin waves his hands inwards.

You’re lifted into the air. The toes of your sneakers leave behind squeaky skidmarks of rubber on the tile as the pair of you are dragged forward. Jin cocks his head to one side and examines you with an expression of stone. For a split second you’re terrified but then he breaks into a grin and snaps his fingers. His thumbs and index fingers form the shape of a heart as he holds them out and you drop to the floor.

Yoongi reaches out for your shoulder. There’s a soft tremble to his fingers as he pulls you close to him. When you look upon his visage you can already see his jaw transforming, a thin stubble growing in along its perimeter. Every time you close your eyes to blink more of his face has morphed back into his own. You look down at your own fingers and watch as the nails narrow and elongate. A glossy pink hue returns to them but the polish looks slightly less finished with the way Yoongi has gnawed on the edges all day.

Suddenly Yoongi is frantically scrambling to his feet, kicking off his shoes and working the zipper down on his jeans. Everything is quickly growing far too tight. The hoodie you’d given him just barely covers his crotch as he stands up straight. He looks over at you with a relieved sigh and cups your jaw.

“You good?” he asks, rubbing the pad of his thumb across your chin. It takes all of your self-control to keep from licking it as it grazes your lip.

You nod, eyes falling to the necklace dangling over his sweatshirt. As soon as you reach out to yank it off, the trinket disappears in a puff of purple smoke with a clap of Jin’s hands. He holds them in place like a silent prayer just below his chin, a strained smile staining his face just above his fingers.

“So, here’s the thing. I’m gonna need you to hold up your end of the deal.”

“Fix my store first. Clean up this mess you’ve caused,” Yoongi says while taking a step in front of you.

Jin’s bottom lip protrudes into a pout as he eyes the puddle of cola on the floor. “I didn’t do that,” he complains under his breath.

It’s incredible how close he came to freedom, incredible and frustrating. His magic may not be able to touch or alter the circle, but you almost freed him with your ignorance. If the liquid had run close enough to seep into the chalk, he would be somewhere far more sunny and beachy right now. He’s earned a vacation for this milestone of success.

“Fiiiine,” he concedes.

With a snap of his fingers the store is spotless once more. While Yoongi inspects the area of the tile floor previously coated in cola and glitter, you glide your foot over the circle of chalk and break the seal that binds Jin to his current location.

“Finally…” he sighs, side-stepping out from the invisible barrier. “You’re welcome, by the way. Invite me to the wedding, okay? Don’t forget the little people who helped you on the way. As for me... I’ve got a date with the pearly beaches of Accord.”

He swirls his wrist in the air and the pair of ugly red mirrored sunglasses appear on his nose just in time for him to adjust them. He lowers the specs to give you a wink before snapping his fingers. Before you can even call out for him to wait, he’s gone in a puff of purple smoke that quickly dissipates. You’re left in stunned silence to contemplate your existence.

What are you supposed to make of everything?

As you stand there on the cusp of a mental breakdown, soft, velvety petals brush against your cheek to steal your attention. The scent of the flower overtakes your senses as Yoongi uses it to tickle your nose. You find him smiling back at you, almost like he’s too shy to speak, but then he does.

“Weird day huh? Can I have my pants back?”

You hum thoughtfully, making sure the shutters of the shop are still shielding you both from the outside world. “Would you mind if I wanted to get back in them later?”

He snorts, holding back a laugh. “Been waiting to use that all day?”

“No, I just thought of it right now. Aren’t I impressive?” you say, wiggling your eyebrows at him. You shimmy out of the sweatpants and leave them pooled on the floor, doing your best to walk past him with grace and seduction.

“So impressive.”

He offers an amused laugh when you bend over to pick up the garments he was so quick to discard when his transformation reverted. You spare a glance behind you to see if he’s looking at the way you so blatantly flaunt your ass. He’s in the middle of dragging his bottom lip through his teeth when your eyes steal his attention.

“Something wrong?” A wicked grin belies your innocent tone.

He exhales a long breath and shakes his head, turning his attention to pulling his pants up. “Impressive isn’t the word. You’re obnoxious.”

“Isn’t that your way of saying you wanna make out?”

He’s quiet as he takes off the remainder of your clothes to reveal a muscular chest riddled with goosebumps. It’s hard to hide how your grin spreads wider as he approaches with them in hand. You’ve had dreams like this: he’s shirtless, asking you to take off your clothes so he can fuck you in his store. Right here with your tits against the cold glass of the fridge. It would be a dirty secret only the two of you would know and you’d think about it every time you’d come in for your energy drink.

You slowly lift the hoodie from your own body, trying to appear as alluring as possible. You make sure to arch your back as your breasts briefly catch in the fabric and then drop against your ribs, completely exposed to the chilly air. Much to your dismay he’s quick to spin away from you and mutters a “thanks” instead of naughtier offers.

He’s aware you might mistake it for rejection, but he’s hoping you don’t see the way his fingers tremble. It’s incredible how scared he feels being back in his own skin. The intimacy of your connection left a void behind that’s quickly filling with disquiet. He feels incomplete without a piece of you with him, lost in the vast emptiness of himself. How can he feel such need for you? His chest aches with the possibility that he won’t ever feel whole again. The bravery that possessed him while piloting your body has waned. Now that normalcy is somewhat restored, he has the chance to start processing the events of the day. A part of him begins to embrace the panic he’d previously pushed down and his confession replays in his mind as though he’s just spoken it.

It was a bold move, especially given the situation. It could have ended horribly. He puffs out his cheeks and holds his breath, trying to remind himself that it didn’t. It’s okay to let go of the anxiety over it, but he still feels so uncertain. Even turned away from you and fully clothed, he’s never felt more exposed and vulnerable. He tries to hide the burning of his ears by running his fingers through his hair and shielding them with his arms. He has to bring himself back or else you’ll be talking him down from a panic attack and he doesn’t want you to see him like that.

Stupid. Stop throwing yourself at him. You struggle to put on the tight clothing as quickly as possible. Tears threaten to fall as you awkwardly wiggle your jeans back and forth up your thighs and over the swell of your ass. You make sure to swipe at the corners of your eyes before clearing your throat to signify you’re fully changed. He spins to face you but everything he means to say gets lost on the way to his mouth. He freezes, overwhelmed by how beautiful you are even in this shitty lighting, and how thankful he is to be able to see you through his own eyes.

His heart pounds at the confines of his chest like it needs to burst from within. There’s a small burst of adrenaline that plumes from the explosion of butterflies in his stomach. It fills him with the courage he needs to close the distance between you with a kiss, the kind of kiss he’s been dreaming of giving you for months. Right here in this store.

He loves how eager you are to reciprocate when he tangles his fingers in your hair. He holds you there like you’re about to melt away in a puff of smoke. Your lips are so soft, so sweet, so warm pressing against his. His tongue rolls over yours, desperate to keep tasting and feeling more. You grasp behind his neck and dig your fingernails into his shoulder as he deepens the kiss. When you roll your hips towards him as a subtle test for determining his hardness, you can feel him smile against your lips.

“Not in the store.” He gives you one more chaste kiss and pulls back just enough to allow you both to breathe. He adjusts one of the boxes on the nearby shelves. “You already drive me crazy. If we do it here I’m going to be thinking about it every time I’m stocking shelves.”

“Yoongi…” you whine. “Please tell me you’re keeping it closed for the day.”

He sighs as he plucks his phone from the counter to check the time. “Might as well.”

“Can I walk you home?” You chew on your lip as you wait for his response. What you wouldn’t give to spend the night with him.

Unable to hide the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, he nods his head towards the exit. “Why would we waste our time?”

Your heart sinks into your butt, thinking this must be it. He changed his mind after all. He hates you. There’s no doubt about it now. All you can manage is a squeaky, “Hmm?”

He rests his palm on the handle of the door and he presses his lips into a thin line, looking wide eyed. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so adorably hopeful and embarrassed at the same time. “You live closer.”

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The comforter at your back is soft and cool to the touch as you scramble to settle yourself against the pillows. Yoongi wastes no time wiggling off his sweatpants and climbing over you. The sound of your panting mingles with his as he hovers above you with his lips parted, trying to catch his breath. If the hurried ascent up the stairs wasn’t enough to have him gasping for air, the makeout session just inside your front door definitely has him devoid of oxygen. This still feels like a dream, but it’s one he doesn’t ever want to wake up from.

"How do you want it?" he whispers. He glides a finger up your thigh and lightly traces circles around your labia.

Your mind travels back to your earlier experience of coming undone and suddenly your stomach is doing flips.

"Just like this," you answer. "I want to feel you just like this. Do you remember where to touch?"

He nods, skimming his parted lips over yours while he places his finger over the hood of your clit. "Like this, right?"

"More pressure," you plead, working your hips in circles to coach his movements.

He does as you instruct and clamps his mouth over yours in a futile attempt to find relief for the aching need to be inside of you. He grinds himself against your side, his cock rubbing against your soft, heated skin as he tries to remember the exact motions needed to elicit enough pleasure to make you cum. He doesn't have to wait long until frenzied, weak moans are vibrating against his mouth so he turns his attention to your neck. He wants to hear how fucked out you are. He wants to hear how badly you want to cum. He wants to feel you pulse around his fingers.

As he plunges a thick finger deep into your cunt, a pathetic, desperate sound escapes you. "Oh, fuck."

"Feel good?" he mumbles into the hollow space between your neck and shoulder.

"Please. Please. Please. Please," you whimper incoherently, bucking your hips to meet each thrust of his finger. You can feel his cock rutting against your side and all you can do is imagine that he's pumping it into you instead of his fingers. "Oh fuck, Yoongi."

His lips twitch into a smile as he feels you tighten around his finger. He kisses your neck and sinks a second finger carefully inside you. You allow your head to fall against the pillow and bite your lip to try to contain the drawn out needy groan already helplessly spilling out of you. So close. Your back arches off the mattress and he wishes he wasn't so concentrated on the motions of his hands right now because he would absolutely love to be tonguing your perfect tits.

He pants against your skin and looks at them longingly. Maybe he can manage it? He's determined to use what he's learned about your body to help you cum, but not yet. You can't help but whine at the loss as he repositions himself, which breaks the sightline you had on your orgasm.

"Yoooongi... I was close..." You whimper when he abandons your cunt entirely to press your tits together. His mouth is hot as it clamps down on your nipple, giving the peak a hard suck before dragging it through his teeth.

"I know. Wanna make you cum with my tongue," he murmurs into the supple flesh.

He swipes his fingers along your cunt and swirls the wetness over your clit before bringing it to his mouth. You can already see how they glisten in the low light of your bedroom. The low moan that rumbles its way from his throat has you rocking your hips up against his pelvis as he settles between your legs. Your silent grinding isn't enough of a confirmation. He wants to hear you say it.

"Can I go down on you?" He blurts the shameless question while alternating between kissing both of your breasts and only pauses to meet your eyes.

You want to feel him everywhere but mostly you want his mouth on yours while he’s balls deep inside you. You don’t even care if you cum because being with him like this feels good. Being with him fills your heart with giddy hope and your stomach with butterflies. Being with him is enough. You want to tell him that but instead you nod and whimper out a pathetic “please.”

He wastes no time dipping his head down between your thighs to press the flat of his tongue against your clit. A low growl escapes with his exhale before he puckers his lips to kiss the soft skin and breathe in the heavy scent of your arousal. You’d be embarrassed if his tongue didn’t feel so magical. It glides against you so effortlessly, bringing pleasure with every quick flick against you.

Your hands dive into his hair and you start rolling your hips to grind his face harder against you. He doesn't seem to mind though. In fact he seems to embrace the motion, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pulling you in as closely as possible. If you weren't so preoccupied with the orgasm building just below the surface of the place where his tongue keeps hitting then you might worry that he's suffocating himself. Right now all you can focus on is the pleasure threatening to break you open and leave you spilling a million curses into the air around you.

"Yoongi. Fuck. I'm close," you warn, as if the frantic way you've twirled his hair around each of your fingers isn't enough to tip him off. Do you really think he can't feel the shaking of your thighs in this moment?

He hums a sound like he doesn't hear you, but he doesn't let up at all. He keeps his pace steady for you as you approach your end once again. Your nails scratch against his scalp but he doesn't mind. He actually really likes the way you're losing your mind over the simple things he's doing with his tongue right now. He can't even begin to imagine the pretty sounds that might spew from your lips with practiced effort but he knows he can't wait to hear them.

Suddenly your hand flies up to pound the wall behind you and you announce the wave of pleasure coursing through your clit through the use of a loud string of expletives. He can feel the way your flesh pulses beneath his tongue and he revels in it. You ride his face so well. You can ride it for as long as you want as often as you want. He wants to tell you that but he also wants you to ride out your high for as long as it lasts, so he lets you buck your hips and raise your cunt off the bed. He lets you thrash around through the sensitivity until you're finally pushing his face off with both hands.

"Good? Do you need more?" he verifies, rising from between your legs to deliver a messy, wet kiss to your lips. He smirks through it, knowing he really doesn't need to ask at all to know the answer.

"Cheeky fuck," you murmur, not bothering to even attempt to hide your matching grin against him. "I need it."

"What do you need?" His fingers trail a soft line down your side, reminding you that his teasing nature is simply a front for his caring heart.

"I need you inside me." Your breathing is spotty as you pepper kisses along his jaw. "Like this. I want you to feel me the way I felt you."

It doesn't take long until you're tasting yourself on his lips again. He shifts slightly and you know he's lining himself up with your entrance when you feel the swollen tip of his fat cock nudging at your hole. He's slow to thrust into you. In fact he stills, only giving you shallow, teasing thrusts. He favors letting you wiggle down just a little bit to coax him in. He smiles against your lips and pushes in further, giving you that stretch you were hoping for.

When you suck in a sharp breath he pulls out, but as soon as you whine in protest, he's already carefully moving to slide it back in. The slow stretch has your jaw dropping open and he takes the opportunity to bite on your lower lip. You take the bait and feed him hungry kisses until he’s completely buried inside of your tight cunt. He takes a moment to growl a low sound that has you clenching around him.

“So tight,” he whispers, pausing to curl an arm beneath your head.

He presses the back of your hand against the mattress as he twines his fingers with yours. He drives himself deeper into you with each slow thrust and it feels like he still can’t get close enough. So you raise your other arm above you and angle it until you’re linking your fingers with the ones beneath your head. You kiss his cheek and savor the intimate moment.

When he lazily sinks into your cunt again you crack a smile. “Can't you fuck me harder than that?"

"Mmm." He lifts his head and seems to accept your challenge. His hips pull out slowly and suddenly slam back into you. This sets a new fervent pace that has you squeezing both of his hands. "What do you think? Is this better?"

You do little to actually answer his question and instead offer a slew of swears and moans each time his balls slap against your ass. "Shit. Fuck, fuck fuck. Yoongi..."

"What kind of answer is that?" he asks innocently.

"God, your cock..."

"Mhm," he prods.

"Feels so good, Yoon."

He chuckles. "Yoon... Cute."

"I'll show you cute," you huff.

"Oh?"

You release his hands in favor of pressing your palms against his chest. He pulls out and before you can miss the way he fills you, you're flipping him down on the mattress. You swing a leg over his pelvis and straddle him. It takes you a moment to properly position yourself. You give his length a few pumps in your hand before lining it up with your entrance.

"Careful," he warns, planting his hands on your thighs. "Don't wear yourself out."

You sink down quicker than you probably should. You're eager to make him cum faster than he did for you. The wetness in your core seeps down in translucent trails down your inner thighs. Your own brand of lubricant seems to be enough to keep the stretch pleasurable. Yoongi bites his lip as he gazes down at the way you're bouncing on his cock. You know how good it feels for him, especially with how hard your pussy is squeezing him.

"Don't worry about me."

The sensory overload building in your gut coated with the memory of the unique experience. It mixes with the high threatening to burn its way from your core. You take a deep breath and exhale loudly before you continue. You revel in a slow descent, memorizing every kind of way the stroke makes you feel. Then you begin to quickly draw him in and out of your cunt. The obscene sounds of wet, rapid slapping fill the room.

After a few minutes you've finally got a good rhythm down. Despite the cramp throbbing down your obliques, he's hitting that sweet spot inside you at just the right angle. If you didn't know any better you'd think you're about to cum again. You steady yourself on his chest and trail your hand to his stomach to maintain your balance. Trying to keep the unrealistic pace you'd previously set for yourself is proving difficult, but you swear you're feeling like maybe you're about to crest into the biggest climax of your life. Then again, it could certainly be the biggest letdown now that you're aware of it. Your orgasms have left you for less.

Yoongi knots his eyebrows together in concentration and he reaches down to rub circles against your clit. His fingers are clumsy and new to this angle but they're feather light. He can see in your face that you're chasing some great new high and he just wants to help you achieve it without overdoing it. He knows how shy your cunt is about giving you orgasms so he really wants to do it right. Is this right? He figures you'll tell him if it isn't.

You moan weakly in response. Suddenly, you know it's coming. You can feel it building every time his hips slap up to meet yours. "Oh my fuck."

His abdominal muscles flex beneath your palm and he forces his breaths through his nose as he struggles to keep himself composed. Your cunt is squeezing him so tightly that he knows he's on the brink of his own release but he's determined to help you feel as good as you make him feel.

"That's it. Cum for me again." He tries to coax it with those strong pleas, but his voice is broken with an inhale sharp enough to cut his words.

Both of your thighs are coated in slick sweat. You don't think you've ever felt so fucking wet in your life. He glistens just as much in the dim light so you know between the two of you there's a puddle of sweat soaking your sheets. It's easy to forget how gross or embarrassing it is when the tip of his cock rubs against your g-spot so well. Right now the only thing that matters is getting relief for this pressure building behind your clit.

Despite the shakiness of his fingers, he's able to coax it out of you. Your trembling thighs feel like an earthquake that's finally reached its peak tremor and you find yourself crying out and bouncing to the rhythm of your spasming cunt. You chant your praises and curses in the same breath. His name is a drawn out breathy expression of gratitude and bliss. As soon as you slump forward to kiss him he takes your hands in his own and frantically pumps himself up into you. He can still feel the involuntary flex of your cunt even after you've clearly expended every ounce of your energy reaching and literally riding out your second orgasm.

"Can I cum inside?" he asks between frantic breaths.

"Well, you're not gonna make it to these tits," you tease with a smirk. You may be spent but you'll always have the energy to give him shit. "Do it."

"So fuckin hot," he mumbles against your lips.

The muffled grunts expelled against your mouth and the slow, deliberate snap of his hips leave you in a state of surreal euphoria. He squeezes your hands in his along with his release to let you know this is real. You're here with him. When he comes down from his high he kisses you gently one more time and pulls back to look at you. You take the break in physical connection to roll off of him and stretch out your aching calves and let the air from the fan cool your skin. The tingling in your legs tells you not to get up right now, as much as the fear of a UTI screams at you to do the contrary. Instead you turn your head towards Yoongi and he smiles at you. Sleep threatens to take you when he begins to stroke your hair.

"If you'd have told me last week I'd feel this close to someone, I'd have laughed at you," he starts in a quiet voice, "but I feel really close to you. I'm glad this insanity happened to us."

"Me too." You can't help but smile back. "I don't want to go to sleep because I'm afraid you'll be gone when I wake up. What if this is a dream?"

"Then I'll find you when I wake up. You'd better find me too."

"What if we forget?"

He grabs your hand and runs his thumb over your knuckles. "I won't forget."

"Promise?"

"Mhm." He closes his eyes, clearly every bit as exhausted as you are. He's quiet for a minute and you think maybe he's already fallen asleep until he peeks out from under his eyelids. "... I think you need glasses."

"What?"

"I was just thinking. I felt like I was squinting all the time when I was you. Maybe that's why it took you so long to see how I felt." He shows off a big, toothy grin.

"Wow that guy really rubbed off on you, huh?"

You smack him in the face with a pillow when you get up.

╭⋟────────────────────────╮

╰────────────────────────⋞╯

The muffin and can of Hot6 sit on the counter, guarded by Yoongi's forearm.

"Wow, you already have my stuff ready? Is this the kind of perk I get for dating the owner?" you wonder.

He rolls his eyes. "Not yours until you pay for it."

"You're so sweet, not eating my muffin this time."

He drags his lip through his teeth and tries to hold back a devilish smirk. "I've found better things to eat, don't you think?"

Your heart thumps against your chest and you do your best to remind yourself that offering to suck his dick behind the counter is not what you should be doing in this situation. But you want it so bad. He watches your internal struggle with raised eyebrows and a smug smile. He slides the energy drink towards you.

"Here. This is on me today. You look a little thirsty."

Your shoulders raise and then deflate with your sigh. "Do you even want me to come back later?"

"What? It's free for you. You should be happy."

"And the muffin? What do I owe for that?"

He mimics your dramatic sigh and places it before you. "It's crazy. Your boyfriend offered to pay for that too."

"He's so generous." You shake your head but it can't keep the grin from your face. "Lots of free stuff today."

"It's a... special for today only. So don't get used to it or anything. But there is one more thing we're having a sale on, if you're interested."

"Hmm?"

"Free of charge, for you only." He taps his lips with both pointers, looking impossibly cute. His charm is devastating, really.

He cracks a smile and you feel yours grow impossibly wider. You lean over the counter and give him a sweet kiss.

"How long does this offer last?"

"As long as you want."

"Forever."

"Forever, it is." He gives you one more quick peck. "I've gotta mop the floor and you're gonna be late for work."

"Ugh. Wanna trade?"

He purses his lips and gives your hand a little squeeze. "Not a chance."

[therealvalkyrie]

Through the Mirror: Part 1

my body, my music

Pairing/setting: Detective!Levi Ackerman x Female!Ghost!Reader, modern!AU within the Walls

Summary: When you’re murdered one Tuesday morning, can Levi piece together the true circumstances of your death with your help from beyond the grave?

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: dead body, descriptions of blood, swearing, mentions of violence

AN: Welcome to my new series because I have no self control and can’t finish projects before starting others! Lemme just start off by saying updates may come pretty irregularly because I do have a lot of other WIPs to work on, but! I’m really excited about this idea and have a whole lot planned:) I seriously hope you enjoy. After all, who doesn’t love a good murder mystery? Drop into my DMs/askbox/comments/reblogs to let me know what you think! Be kind to yourselves and others. ~valkyrie

“Ah, shit! Hello!? I’m standing right here!”

The woman completely ignores you, stepping carefully over the puddle of blood and across your tiny living room. You cross your arms and pout. She ignores that, too. 

“‘Scuse me, boys, let the experts take it from here,” she quips, gently pushing past the two detectives and crouching next to your body on the ground. 

It’s ugly, but she’s probably seen worse, you muse from where you’re leaning against the door jamb. It’s only been lying there for a couple of hours, so at least you haven’t bloated to something out of an NCIS episode. Must smell horrid, though, judging by the mask the head detective has pulled over his face.

“So, you said the landlady called at about 7 am?” the ME inquires, cocking her head up to look at the detectives, nylon gloved hands held at the ready.

“7:07 exactly. Said a neighbor made a noise complaint, she came up to check it out, found signs of a forced entry, and called us.” It’s the taller blonde who speaks up, reading from an off-brand pocket notepad in his left hand. The kind you’d find on sale at Staples after Back-to-School season.

Interesting. You lean your head against the wall, eyes trained on the trio. You’d pegged the ill-tempered shorter one as in charge. Maybe he’s just the quiet type. 

“Hmm, alright. Moblit, get off your ass and come take the pictures before we move her,” the woman calls to someone behind you, and you turn just in time to get a face full of Moblit’s chest as he walks towards you. 

You cringe back with a “God, seriously?” to no response.

“Yes, sorry, right away, Hange!” Moblit hurries past- no, through -you, sidestepping the ottoman and the blood. It feels weird, like a strong wind, but not altogether unpleasant to have someone walk through you, you suppose. You look down at your chest to watch your misty body re-settle into itself before looking back at the group in your living room.

Were it not for the gruesome accents of blood flecked up the walls and your body riddled with stab wounds, you’d chuckle at how all four of them struggled to navigate the space. It’s cramped enough when it’s just you, fitting only a couch, a chair, a coffee table, your fern (Boris), and a narrow IKEA bookshelf. With the four of them plus a dead body, it’s like watching a freaking clown car.

“Sorry, excuse me, Captain, oh, was that your toe—?” Moblit’s struggling the most, having to move to capture different angles with his bulky camera. When he steps on the shorter man’s toe, he positively blanches, fumbling over himself to apologize while the ME laughs openly.

“God, alright, just,” the Captain pinches his delicate nose between a thumb and forefinger, then decides it’s better to wait in the kitchen. “C’mon, Gin, let’s chat in there.”

The Captain and the blonde detective both pass through you on the way back to the kitchen, but you only sigh and shake the tingly feeling of being incorporeal out of your fingers before following them.

“So,” the man called Gin takes the initiative, flipping back through his notebook and standing by the fridge. “I got statements from the landlady and two of the neighbors, numbers 303 and 304 down the hall. 301, directly across the hall, didn’t answer, but I got contact info from the landlady.” He pauses to read and scratch at his whiskery beard. “It was 304 who made the noise complaint, said she heard yelling this morning at around 5:45, and that she normally wouldn’t’ve said anything but it was, quote, the fourth goddamn time this week and I work the goddamn night shift, I deserve some fucking rest, unquote.”

You grin. Mrs. Sheffield was never one to mince words, something you appreciated when your ex-boyfriend got too loud and she took it upon herself to give him a piece of her mind. You catch a glimmer of a smile on the ornery Captain’s face above where he’s pulled his mask down before he gestures for Gin to keep going, keeping his thoughtful gaze fixed on the floor and his back against your countertop.

“Then after she called the landlady, she went to bed, only to be woken by us two hours later.”

“You said she called the landlady at 5:45 and that she works the night shift?”

Gin double checks his notes. “That’s right.”

“And she works at the hospital?”

“Yes, as a scrub nurse on the night shift.”

“But the night shift at the hospital ends at 6:30.”

“It was her night off,” you and Gin say at the same time before you catch yourself. They can’t hear you, anyway. This’d be a lot easier if they could.

Gin plows ahead. “But she says she keeps the same sleep schedule so she doesn’t, ah, fuck up her circadian rhythm.”

The Captain practically snorts at this, itching for a second under his silk cravat (can someone say pretentious) before settling back into a listening silence.

“303 says he didn’t hear a thing. College kid, looked exhausted. Said he was asleep the whole night after he got in at,” a page flip, “11 o’clock last night. Wasn’t much help, but looked genuinely upset when we told him about the murder. Wanted to know if there was anything he could do. Oh, but he did, uh, hang on,” more page flips, “He did tell us that he heard her and her boyfriend arguing a lot. Which is consistent with what Mrs. Sheffield told us.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” you correct into thin air. 

“A lover’s spat gone wrong, then,” Mr. Pretentious Captain muses. You huff in annoyance. A lover’s spat. If that’s all that this is written off as you’ll have some serious PD haunting to do. Chris may have been an angry, loud, disruptive manipulator, but he wouldn’t murder you. He didn’t murder you. “Any info on the whereabouts of the boyfriend?”

“Ex-boyf—!”

Blondie cuts you off, “Not currently, but we do have a name: Chris Henderson, works in admin down at the University. Lives across town closer to the Bridge.”

“Send some uniforms to bring him in for questioning. No arrests yet, tell ‘em to keep it friendly.”

“Right, I’ll put Dreyse and Bodt on it.”

“Dreyse, really?” Captain Cravat gives Gin an incredulous look. 

“Hey, she may look like a ditz but she gets the job done. And she might get him to let down his guard,” Gin argues, grinning. 

“Fine. I’ll meet them at the station, you stay here and make sure that mousy-haired dunce doesn’t fuck up my crime scene.”

“Hey, who’re you callin’ mousy-haired, short stack?” Hange actually sticks her whole head through yours this time, to butt into the conversation, and you shriek and jump away to the other side of your tiny kitchen, now sandwiched between Blondie and Shortstack. The latter twitches and swats at the air by his ear, as though to dislodge a fly, narrowly missing yours. You give him a weird look then turn back to listen to the ME. She’s leaning into the kitchen at an alarming angle, one hand on the doorframe and the other on the end of the gurney you assume is carrying your body. You shudder at the thought of being toted around in a dark, musty, humid glorified coat bag. Ugh. 

“—takin’ this baby”-she slaps the gurney twice and you flinch-“back so I can get started on the autopsy, Moblit’s staying to take more pictures and collect forensics. If Eld’s stayin’ here with Mob, does that mean you’re catching a ride with me, Levi?” The question is addressed to Captain Grump on your right, who gives a heavy sigh and pushes off the counter. 

“I guess so. I get to choose music though.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” she’s wagging a finger, grinning. “My body, my music!”

“How about my body, my music?” you suggest, following Levi. “I deserve it after the day I’ve had.”

Again, Levi twitches and swats aggressively by his ear, nearly hitting you full in the face this time. 

“You hear that, Gin? This place got a mosquito problem or something?”

“I do not have a mosquito problem!” and “No, sir, I don’t hear anything.” overlap in the air. 

Captain Levi only grunts, then starts spouting instructions, which Gin notes down. “I want footage from any cameras in the building, and from the shops next door and across the street. I want statements from residents both upstairs and downstairs. I want names, addresses, and numbers of next of kin on my desk by noon, and lastly, I want no one, save for myself, you, shitty glasses, and mousy-hair, in or out of this apartment. Are we clear?”

“Crystal clear, sir.”

“Good. I’m leaving you Braus to help and to show her the ropes of this kind of thing. Even though she’s on the case, she will not set foot in this apartment. I don’t trust her not to leave breadcrumbs in the bloodstains.

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect an in-person report before shift-change this evening. See you then.” Then, he’s sweeping out of the kitchen in pursuit of Hange and the gurney, leaving you to scurry after. As you exit your home, he shoots a young auburn-haired woman in a crisp white blouse and wool slacks a look. “Braus. You’re with Gin. Don’t go in the apartment.”

She straightens up from leaning against the wall with a jolt and brushes croissant crumbs off her front. “Yes, Captain Levi, sir!” It’s slightly muffled by the pastry stuffed into her mouth.

“Tch.”

It’s fascinating watching how Levi and Hange manage to navigate the gurney down the narrow, twisting stairs of your walk-up apartment building. They’re both clearly used to this sort of thing, communicating only in short phrases and grunts when they encounter an obstacle. Occasionally, you offer up a pointer and watch as Levi becomes increasingly irritated. 

“Watch out for Mr. Laslow’s cat, he likes to sneak up on ya!”

“Hange, do you hear— shit!” Levi hops to the side, narrowly avoiding the tabby tail as Tubbins McGee whisks past.

“It’s only a cat, Levi, dunno what’s got you so worked up today,” Hange teases, grin echoing your own as you chortle from the landing above them. 

Eventually, they spill out onto the sidewalk and into the bright mid-day, and Hange groans loudly, stretching with both hands on her back.

“Ugh. Remind me not to die in there, I’d hate to put someone else through that.”

“Boof, tell me about it,” you commiserate. 

“Noted,” Levi snarks. 

Hange removes jingling keys from her pocket and unlocks the ME’s van parked along the sidewalk with a beep, then opens the back doors and steps in. You follow, leaning against the cool metal siding to watch.

When they both load into the front seats and the engine turns over, you lean forward between them to listen in.

“So,” Hange starts, smoothly pulling out into the road behind a silver minivan. “I’ll be able to give you a more solid answer in a couple hours, but my initial estimated time of death would be around 5:45 this morning.”

Levi nods, staring out the passenger window while he answers. “That lines up with the neighbor’s story.”

“Theories so far?”

“Well, there’s the boyfriend,” he muses, lifting a hand to rub his chin.

“Too obvious,” you say dully, not bothering to amend the lack of “ex” yet again. “Next theory.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then mutter, almost too quietly for you to catch: “Too obvious, hmm? Next theory....”

You’re momentarily flabbergasted, hand falling through the faux-leather seat back in your shock. Can he actually hear you? You shake out your hand while it re-materializes, tuning in to the conversation as Hange’s responding. 

“—a little far-fetched, don’t you think? I mean, has there been any of that activity in this area recently?”

“Mm, I’ll have to touch base with Petra. If there has been, I think it’s worth looking into.”

“What is? Wait, go back,” you frantically plead, leaning further into his airspace. But Hange plows on. 

“Oh, it’s Petra, now, hmm? Not Raggedy Anne anymore?” Her tone is teasing, and she glances over to Levi for a reaction. 

He doesn’t give her one, just stares out the window pensively before reaching for the radio dial. The stereo blares up into an Oldies station, and you make a disgusted face along with Levi. 

“You listen to this shit?”

“Hey, my dead body, my music, sweetcheeks. Don’t like it, you can thumb it back to the PD.”

“How about my dead body, my music?” you suggest again, reaching for the dial at the same time as Levi does. Just as his slender fingers touch it, your hand passes through the whole front console and the oldies are replaced with a terrifyingly loud static screeching. 

“Christ, Levi, what’d you do?” Hange shrieks, lunging forward to punch the radio off as you remove your hand. 

“Nothing! It just went berserk!”

They bicker while you stare at your offending palm. “Huh. Didn’t know I could do that.”

If you can actually interact with objects, at least to some degree, and if it turns out Levi can hear you.... This whole thing might be easier than you thought.

[marrys-dream-world]

if we’re bound to be something, why not together? (chapter three)

First / Previous / Next

Notes: Day 3: Tease. @ladynoirjuly

Ladybug had always known Chat Noir would be impossible to study with.

As much as she tried to compartmentalize her civilian life and superhero life into neat little boxes (with varying degrees of success), she slipped sometimes. She was only human! Of course she wondered what her partner was like when he wasn’t wearing the mask and her imagination had gone, against her will, through many scenarios where they met, bare of secret identities, and all her suspicions about him were true. 

She always laughed at the idea that Chat Noir’s secret identity would be a bad boy, a troublemaker. Her sweet kitty? She was sure he was a class clown, jokes silly and fun enough that the teacher was always fondly exasperated and let his interruptions slide when he interfered in class. He was always the life of the party and absolutely oblivious to the girls around him (“What do you mean wish-fulfillment? Tikki- stop laughing what do you mean?”). He has a loving family and a bunch of siblings. Chat Noir was a little bit of an endearing attention-seeker, like a middle child.

So of course he would be all over the place while studying. Her partner was rarely quiet when they were together, always a quip ready on his tongue, hands fidgeting with his belt. She imagined studying with Chat Noir (civilian him, all fluffy blond hair and soft green eyes that looked a touch too much like another boy that she knew for comfort) in her room, his notes messy and all in blue pen. He would sheepishly ask for a pencil, around a mouthful of croissant, because he forgot his case, and she would roll her eyes, call him irresponsible and still give him one of her prized gel pens.

Chat Noir not being like that at all threw her for a loop. 

He was deathly quiet. Cat eyes carefully looked over the pictures and symbols on the grimoire before turning to the notes written in Alya's chicken scratch and highlighting a passage with her pastel pink highlighter ("Hum" He said when she handed it to him "Is this brand popular? A friend of mine has one too."). In the beginning, when they sat across each other on a covered rooftop and sat on the pillows she made just for this, he had been humming an unknown song. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, my lady." He said when she mentioned it. She hadn't thought the way she said it was particularly mean, but he shrunk into himself. "I won't do it again."

"No, it's okay, I don't mind." She reassured. Chat Noir smiled prettily at that, even though he didn't start again.

Unfortunately, all of his mannerism, as endearing as they were, made it impossible to study with him. She just couldn't stop… looking. At the way his hair fell into his eyes and how much she wanted to tuck it back, how a clawed hand came up to scratch the creamy skin on his collarbone, how he stuck the tip of his tongue out when concentrating. Yes, Chat Noir studying made all her efforts to understand potion-making futile.

How did the girls in his school survive?

"Are you okay?" His voice snapped her out of her daze. His tone was almost too light, like he knew something she didn't. " You seem distracted."

That… that tease! He knew what he was doing, didn't he?! That damned cat!

"I'm just thinking about this potion for resistance to extreme heat!" She snapped, gesturing vaguely to a page in front of her.

"That's a page about healing kwami sickness." Chat said, voice triumphant. 

She resisted the urge to curse.

"I-I know. I said I was just thinking about it, not that I was reading about it."

"Of course." His words were belied by his smirk. "Whatever you say, my lady."

Was that what he usually did when he studied? Did he actually learn something or did he spend all his time teasing his female classmates?

Maybe that WAS really what he did. His friends would invite him to a study session in the library and suddenly all the girls who couldn't make it before were eager to study trigonometry. He would ask the one closest to him, a girl with dark brown hair and skin and kinda looked like Lila, actually, for help with a problem and she would fall over herself to do it, batting her eyelashes at every pause in her lecture. He would thank her with a blinding smile and by giving her the pen he borrowed earlier from her. She would tell him to keep it, just so she could have an excuse to talk to him again.

Did he do that with all the girls he met?

Did he call any of them "my lady"?

Her pink pencil snapped in half. 

“Hey.” Chat Noir said, a little more subsided. His green eyes shined with genuine concern. “I know I was joking before, but are you really okay? You can tell me.”

Her eyes softened. “I’m fine, really, just distracted.” As his gaze persisted, she added: “Nothing serious or guardianship-ish, just silly stuff. Really.”

Chat looked satisfied enough to turn back to his notes. She was being silly, his feelings for her were real and he didn’t treat other girls like he did her. Except the over the top chivalrous way he treated Marinette, but she wasn’t going to think about that either. It’s not like she could date him. Sure, it would solve having to lie about a boyfriend about her duties as Ladybug, but… There was Adrien. She had come to accept, under that umbrella after Mr. Ramier’s 72nd akumatization, that she hadn’t gotten over him at all.

And they didn’t know each other’s names, dating as Ladybug and Chat Noir would be way too hard. Not that she wanted to, exactly. But she thought about it before, almost impossible to not to with the way Chat Noir flirted and asked her on dates so often (not as much these days, not that she was counting or anything). Bottom line was: dating as Ladybug and Chat Noir bad. No matter if he was single and she was single again and that he adored her and that maybe she… Yeah, no matter. It wasn’t going to happen.

Looks like I’m my biggest tease. She thought, not noticing the pig-tailed and wild-haired stick figures she was drawing on the corner of her notebook.

They were holding hands. 

[unmaskedagain]

Oh Lady Luck (How I miss you so!)

Okay; first off. I hated this. I had a massive case of writer’s block while doing it and lost inspiration near the end.

Oh Lady Luck (How I miss you so!)

           Bustier’s class was the luckiest in school, everyone knew it. They got to go on the most amazing trips, win contest after contest, competition after competition, met all sorts of celebrities, frequently got to meet Ladybug, through the best dances and school plays, and always seemed to have a pep in their step. Anything any of the students went after they always managed to get. Everyone knew Bustier’s class was the luckiest in school. Then one day that changed dramatically.

“You’ve changed,” Alya accused Marinette after the class voted her out as Class president. “You become a bully.”

           Alix snorted, “More like a jealous bitch.”

           There were nods from the other students in class. Lila smiled at Marinette; happy that her promise to ruin the girl was coming true.

“You’re always so mean to Lila,” Rose added. “It’s not nice.”

“You’re worse than Chloe now,” Kim glared.

           Juleka frowned, “We miss the old Marinette.”

“You should’ve chilled out like I told you to, dudette,” Nino said with a shake of his head, clearly disappointed.

“We can’t be your friends anymore,” Alya crossed her arms.

           Marinette had listen to them quietly as they relayed reason after reason why they were ending their friendships with her; all to do with Lila. She didn’t bother to look at Adrien. He had warned her what was going to happen; Nino had told him. There had also been a group text apparently. Adrien made it clear he stood with Marinette. Even more so, when he chose to sit with her in the back of the class, a fierce glare on his face at the other students.

The bluenette placed down her pencil, closed her sketchbook and said, “Fine. Then we’re not friends anymore.”

“That’s counts double for me,” Adrien hissed. “Lose my number. In fact, don’t bother; I’ll just change it. That goes for every last one of you. I’ll be informing my Father and Nathalie that only Chloe and Marinette are on my visitors list.”

           The class blinked in shock. Not expecting that reaction from the blond boy who was usually so amicable and nice.

           Chloe watched with amused eyes. She had been sentenced to the back of the room not long after Marinette. “We’ve never been friends but consider all extra little perks you’ve gotten used to: dead and over with.”

           That was it. None of the other students knew what to say or do. They hadn’t gotten the reaction they expected. Marinette didn’t seem to care. Adrien seemed ready to set them on fire. Chloe looked rather pleased at the idea of seeing them burn. Most shrugged it off; figuring at least two of the three (Marinette and Adrien) would come crawling back in no time.

           They didn’t.

           Things started to change for the students in Bustier’s class the next day.

           Lila woke up in the morning to an email confirming that she would no longer being a model or any type of employee for the Gabriel Agreste brand. Or as Nathalie put it when the sausage hair girl called her, “We will no longer be needing your services, Miss Rossi. Do not contact us again.” Click.

           That was when Lila realized her plan of using Gabriel to get Adrien under her thumb had went up in flames. She hoped that Adrien wasn’t informed so that maybe she could still use his father as a threat against the boy.

           When she go to class, the blond model sent her a vicious smirk. Lila paled. She knew without a doubt that Adrien didn’t just know Lila was fired, he was the one got her fired.

           Nino woke up to the news that the gig he was due to play, his big break, had replaced him. It would’ve been huge for his career.

Oh well, he thought, back to DJ-ing for birthday parties.

           Alya accidently dropped her phone in the toilet; ruining hundreds of videos and pictures for the Ladyblog.

           Alix took a dive while skating; broke her ankle and the watch her dad gave her.

           Max broke his glasses.

           Kim got food poisoning.

           Ivan’s dad ran over his drum set while parking in the garage.

           Rose tried to call Prince Ali and found out he changed his number.

           Nathaniel spilled coffee all over his Ladybug comic strips. Marc had been pissed.

           Juleka’s mom accidently put bleach in with a load of her laundry; it ruined everything.

           By the time they had all got to class, all the students were in a terrible mood. However, when Marinette walked in with a box full of delicious smelling breakfast pastries; they perked up. The bluenette always seemed to know when they needed a pick me up. And there was nothing like a treat from the Dupain-Cheng Bakery.

           Marinette didn’t acknowledge any of their presences. She walked straight to the back of the classroom, sat in her seat between Chloe and Adrien. “Morning!” She beamed at her friends. “I brought treats for the three of us.”

“Awesome!” Adrien smiled, quickly opening the box and snagging a chocolate croissant. “Delicous, Thank you” He said. Or least they thought he said that. His mouth was full and it was mostly garbled.

           Chloe rolled her eyes. She grabbed a mixed berries and cream cheese pastry, “Perfect way to start the day. Thank you, Marinette.”

           Marinette took out her favorite: a berry and jasmine scone. Then she promptly through the box away; making clear that she hadn’t brought any for anyone else. “Anything for my friends.”

“We’ll do lunch at Le Grand Paris,” Chloe said. “On me of course. The chef there is to die for.”

           The other students visibly wilted. Alya in particular who loved going to Le Grand Paris as her mother was the head chef.

           It all went downhill from there.

           Over the next week things went from bad to worse for the students.

           Bustier told the class their trip the Presidential office was cancelled due to an unexpected flooding incident. The plan had been for the class to tour the office and have amazing picnic on the beach afterwards

           Lila’s mother, who had been busy nearly 24/7, officially went on vacation, meaning she plenty of time to spend with her daughter. Her daughter was panicked when her mother inquired about visiting her school.

           Alya discovered that the hits to her site had started to declined dramatically. She didn’t have time to worry about that as her internship with a local new studio had been cancelled; something about realizing Alya didn’t have enough experience. So her summer plans were cancelled.

           Nino’s Dj equipment sparked or shorted out or something but nothing would work anymore. He had cancel the rest of his gigs until he could buy new ones.

           Kim lost a swim match against Ondine.

           Markov got a virus and broke down causing Max to break down in tears.

           Nathaniel lost the expensive sketch pencil he won in a contest.

           Alix’s grandmother brought her a new dresses; frilly monstrosities that Alix’s forced her to wear to school for the entire week.

           Rose, Ivan, and Juleka were heartbroken when Luka announced he was going Solo.

           It didn’t help anyone’s mood that every day Marinette, Chloe, and Adrien walked into class with big smiles on their faces and pleasantly discussed their amazing plans.

           On Wednesday, Adrien invited Marinette and Chloe to come with him to meet the Prime Minister.

           Apparently, Adrien’s dad had called in favors so the three would tour Palais Bourbon, where the French Parliament meets.

“He said I could invite all my friends!” Adrien smiled.

           Marinette had been shocked at this. Until Adrien explained that his aunt had threatened to reveal to the world Gabriel Agreste’s neglectful behavior, his tendency break child labor laws, and his need to isolate Adrien. Thanks to his aunt, Adrien had a much free-er schedule and Gabriel had been in therapy for weeks. “I’ll bring food from the bakery. We can have a picnic!”

“Beach day!” Chloe cheered.

           No one else so much as smiled at the news. Even more so when pictures surfaced on Friday of Marinette, Chloe, Adrien, Ondine, Marc, Mireille, and Aurore with various members of Parliament; including the prime minister.

           Thursday, Chloe loudly invited Marinette and Adrien to an event for her mother, “It’s a fashion show! It’s tonight. Adrien can relax behind the scenes, while Mari and me model on the run way. Mama’s lost a few models so I told her I could recommend a few friends.”

“I’m modeling!” Marinette paled so much, her friends were sure she’d pass out.

“I get to do nothing!” Adrien grinned.

           Pictures of Chloe and Marinette modeling exploded across the internet; multiple fashion websites and online magazines deeming the girls’ Style Queen’s secret weapon and modeling next big thing.

           Most of the guys in class shrugged it off. But a few of the girls turned greened with envy; Lila in particular.

           On Friday, Marinette invited Adrien and Chloe to meet her uncle and her cousin, “He’s back in town on Saturday and he wants to meet all my friends.”

           No one else in class paid too much to that. Who cared about Marinette’s uncle? Or her cousin? They were probably just as stuck-up and nasty as she was.

           Then on Saturday, picture of the same group who went to Parliament, plus Luka, with Jagged Stone and Clara Nightingale started trending on the internet. Jagged Stone posted a tweet about how awesome his honorary niece was, with a picture of him and Marinette. Clara posted a pic with her favorite little cousin, Marinette.

           Alya couldn’t believe her eyes and immediately started texting Marinette for the deets. She received a text back saying; new number; who dis?

           Nino flat-out called Adrien only hear that the number had been disconnected.

           The rest of the class faced the same issue.

           And then one by one, they each remembered that they weren’t friends with any of the tree Ostracized students anymore.

           Monday, Alya found out that BugOut, a competing Ladybug blog, had been officially endorsed by Ladybug and Chat Noir. Something that hadn’t happened with the Ladyblog.

           Max lost the science fair. For the first time. He had to go see the school guidance counselor.

           Kim got kicked off the team for his poor grade.

           Lila’s finally called the school to schedule an appointment. Lila was Akumatized within the five minutes.

           Alix’s grandma brought her more clothes; some which were tacky sweaters with cats all over them

           Nathaniel misplaced his new sketch book, with his redone Ladybug comic strips. He never found it. Marc wasn’t happy.

           Nino got a call to dj a huge event only to have to decline as he hadn’t bought new equipment yet.

           It was Adrien that brought in breakfast for the other two; Mcdonalds. Much to the Chloe and Marinette’s dismay, but they didn’t say anything as the boy was clearly happy about being allowed to eat it for the first time.

           Marinette unwrapped her sausage Mcgriddle, wondering who she hurt in a past life, “Jagged is doing a private concert. You two want to come?”

           Adrien nodded, his mouth full of fried hash brown and bacon. “Count me in,” They think he said.

           Chloe held the egg mcmuffin in her hand like it was physically hurting her to do so, “I’m in,” she said. “And I’m bringing breakfast tomorrow.”

           The class was dismayed at missing at meeting Jagged Stone again.

“Are you going to invite us?” Alya asked with a huff.

           Marinette didn’t even look in her direction, “Sorry Uncle Jagged said I can only invite my friends.”

           Ouch.

           Over the course of the next few months, things continued to fall apart for the class. They tried planning one of their usual amazing dances, only for everything to crash and burn. Then they remembered that Marinette planned everything, and before her, Chloe.

           The class never made enough money fundraising so nearly all planned class trips were canceled.

           They had to deal with seeing pictures of Marinette, Adrien, and Chloe and all their friends meeting all sorts of celebrities.

           Ladybug disowned the Ladyblog; causing Alya to burst into tears.

           No matter what any of the students tried, did, competed in, they never won. They practically failed at everything.

           Rose tried to bake cookies for the class; her kitchen caught on fire.

           Max applied for science camp; all spots were full.

           Nathaniel who had lost his comic drawing for the twelfth time in a row was finally told by Marc to take a hike.

           Nino lost his hat, broke his glasses, a dog at his homework, and he tripped landed face down in the mud; all on the way to school one morning.

           The students were constantly late, frustrated, and always seemed to have something accidently spilled or thrown on their clothes.

           Lila’s  mother, who finally decided to just randomly drop by the school after being told repeatedly by her daughter that it was closed so she couldn’t do the appointment for months, was shocked to say the least when it was clearly opened and active. She had a long talk with the Principle and all of Lila’s lies were revealed to class.

           Class was very apologetic to the three ostracized students after that but it didn’t matter. The three made it clear they weren’t interested in renewing their friendships.

           By the end of the year Bustier’s class went from the luckiest in school to the unluckiest kids on the planet.

           The students of Bustier’s class couldn’t help but wonder aloud why they lucked changed do much.

           Tikki, Plagg, and Pollen, hidden away in their chosens’ school bags just smirked.

[cygnetofthesea]

Happy Mother’s Day, Iris

In honor of Mother’s Day, here’s a little bit of Iris celebrating with her family. Happy Mother’s Day to all the loving, doting mothers and mother figures!

On AO3

It was the smell of fresh coffee and the touch of soft lips pressing against her cheek and lips that woke her up. She kept her eyes closed as a smile broke across her face and the kisses traveled up to her lids.

She sighed in complete and utter contentment, reaching up to thread her fingers through her husband's hair. She stroked the thick locks, feeling his hum against her skin.

"Happy Mother's Day," he greeted her softly

"Thank you. How are the babies?" she murmured, her voice raspy from lack of use.

"Perfect as always."

Iris burst out laughing, finally opening her eyes to see Barry sprawled horizontally on his side of the bed, fully dressed and his legs dangling off the side. She leaned over and kissed the space between his brows, endeared by his goofy smile.

"Perfect, huh? I mean, they are perfectly beautiful but well-behaved? I don't know about that."

"They sure take the 'terrible twos' to the next level," he agreed. "The parenting books definitely were not written with them in mind. Want to sleep in a little more? You might need it."

He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead as she shook her head. "Uh-uh, I want to see the tornado twins."

They shared a smile, remembering how Cisco gave Nora and Bart the nickname after they had started vibrating slightly in place. They found that when the brother and sister were together and playing with McSnurtle, their excitement went up a level that caused them to vibrate in place. Barry and Iris had lunged to grab them before anything else could happen but it was safe to say, they kept the babies' interaction with McSnurtle to a minimum until Cisco finished his dampening bracelets for them.

Barry's smile dropped slightly, looking off to the side. She knew that look: his speed force senses were tingling, which meant the babies were acting up again.

Barry sped away and in a flash brought back little Bart and Nora in his arms as Iris sat up in bed. Her face lit up, any traces of grogginess washing away at the sight of her gorgeous babies. Her heart felt like they had doubled in size as she reached over to grab the nearest baby, Bart.

He made grabby hands at her, settling them on her hair and locket when she kissed his chubby cheeks. She leaned over to smooch Nora's too as Barry settled in next to her.

"It’s like      your    speed force senses were tingling," he said with a chuckle. "They spotted McSnurtle."

"Mama, Snurtle play!" Nora squealed before leaning over Barry's arm and turning to her mom as though she had the turtle she so coveted.

"Sn-snurtle play, Mama," Bart repeated looking at his mom inquisitively.

Iris smooched both her babies again after brushing their wispy curls. "Not today, babes. We're going to try to make it without incident today. Ok?" she asked, nodding with a smile.

The twins were only two-years old but it didn't stop Iris from talking to them like they understood complex language. She just loved the wide-eyed looks they gave her in return. Plus, Barry more than made up for it in the baby-talk department.

Case in point, he was leaning over Nora just then, adopting a goofy voice. "You wanna pway with McSnurtle the turtle? You want to pway wid him? Yes you dooo."

Nora just gave him the same wide-eyed look Bart had just given her. "Snurtle!" she repeated as though attempting to conjure him up.

Barry turned Nora to face Bart more fully and Iris did the same with Bart. They found when they didn't get their way, the best thing to do was let them play with each other and they'd forget all about their baby plights.

Barry grinned at Iris crookedly as the babies fought against their holds to play with each other. They released them, keeping a careful eye on their crawling bodies.

"I wanted you to have breakfast in bed without interruptions," Barry said, taking hold of her hand.

It was only then Iris noticed the familiar rolling breakfast tray covered with an assortment of her favorite foods and a single frangipani that could only be found in Bali. She spotted some familiar foods that definitely were not from Central City.

"Oh my god!" she squealed, drawing the attention of her babies before they turned back to their light wrestling. "Is that pan au chocolate from Gérard Mulot?" she asked in a perfect French accent.

It was her favorite bakery in Paris that she took Barry to on their third anniversary. She had fallen in love with the place that Barry made sure to get it for every special occasion or really, whenever Iris was in the mood for it.

Barry rolled the tray over her and let her dig in. "Yup and the one from Marais, too. Nothing but the best for my beautiful baby mama," he said pressing a kiss to her cheekbone.

She groaned in pleasure as the smooth, dark chocolate blended perfectly with the warm, flaky croissant in her mouth. "Holy sh-crap. If the kids weren't here, I'd pounce on you."

"Oh that can most definitely be arranged," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her. He took the piece of pastry she offered, licking the chocolate from her finger. "Tonight, after the portraits and dinner, it's just you and me. I have a whole day planned with us and the kids, it'll be enough to tucker them out for the night."

"Oh yeah?" she asked, sliding a grape in her mouth as she looked at from underneath her lashes. "And what exactly is going to happen once the twins are asleep?"

He peeked at said twins—they were happily occupied with a Flash plush toy, squealing "Dada!"—before leaning over to lick at her lips, taking any of the residual pastry with him. He kissed her, letting his tongue slide into her mouth to taste her.

"Oh I don't know, maybe we could watch Inception and light up that oyster candle thing," he said in a deep and husky voice.

She knew he was using his bedroom voice and normally it would make her body tingle enough to tackle him, but his words made her giggle against his lips. She leaned into the kiss some more, tilting her head to take in his lips because yes, despite the humor his words evoked, she would always want him.

She pulled away slowly, watching as he took his time opening his eyes, the flutter of his lashes making her heart clench.

"You still really think it was that combo that knocked me up?"

He looked at her, his cheeks flushed with desire, but he looked sheepish. "Hey, the guy said oysters were an aphrodisiac." The guy being a young waiter at the Japanese restaurant where Barry had gone to pick up their takeout.

"Please babe, as if we ever needed any aphrodisiac. Your libido is plenty." She pulled at her lower lip. "So is mine, come to think of it. Who knew nerds were my weakness. Or maybe it's just you."

"It better just be me," Barry growled, pretending to bite her. She pushed at his shoulder with a laugh.

"Besides, it's the act of      eating oyster     that's supposed to be the aphrodisiac, not sniffing an oyster-scented candle. Which I still can't believe you tracked down."

"Ok, we can skip the oyster candle," he amended.

"Please."

"And how about I give you a nice massage instead."

"Yes, please."  

 "With Inception on or off?"

Iris snorted. "Definitely off. I don't need Hans Zimmer making our lovemaking feel dramatic and scary. But we are watching it first."

"You got it." He kissed again and then grabbed a familiar looking album. It melted her heart every time she saw it and remembered the first time Barry presented it to her.

Iris has been four months pregnant with the twins and hadn't even thought of Mother's Day other than to buy flowers for Nora and Francine's graves. Despite her mother being absent in her life, she was grateful that she had at least given her Wally and been a mother to him. She had brought the flowers home only to be greeted with a huge arrangement sitting on their dinner table next to a brand new photo album.

She looked at the arrangement curiously before turning to Barry who was bringing over a matcha mille crepe cake from her favorite place in New York City. She had been craving matcha anything as of late and Barry never hesitated to speed over to Prince Tea House over in East End to get them for her.

"Hey babe, I already got the flowers," she said, gesturing at the bouquets in her arm.

He beamed at her, his eyes soft. It was that look he always gave her, that was reserved just for her: as though she was a marvel he couldn't believe existed. As though she was the impossible and not him and his speedster abilities.

"They're for you. Happy Mother's Day, Iris."

 Maybe it was her hormones—most definitely—or maybe it was that look he was giving her, but Iris could feel her eyes welling up. Barry immediately set the mille crepe down and gathered her in his arms, the flowers crushing in between them.

"You're a mom, Iris. A beautiful, wonderful one at that. You have been since the moment Nora walked into our lives that day and you deserve to be celebrated."

 She sniffled and gave him a watery smile. "And you're a dad."

Barry shook his head. "It's not the same. I…I wasn't there for Nora like I should have been, the way you were," he said with regret and residual grief. "But I'm going to do better this time around. I will be anything you and our babies need."

Iris cupped his cheek, stroking the five o'clock shadow there. "I know you will."

She knew it in her heart that he would do anything and everything for them. She kissed him softly, savoring the moment with his scent mixing with the flowers around them.

She pulled away and looked at the album. "But what's that?"

He grabbed the album and presented it to her. On the front cover, he had placed a candid picture of her, smiling brightly with a frangipani tucked behind her ear and a bundle of them in her hands. Barry had made it a habit to collect a bundle of flowers that surrounded the resort where they stayed. It was a large and private area that made it feel like they were in their own little world.

"I want to commemorate every moment of this," he said. "Just like I want to honor every single moment of our lives together. You're the most incredible woman, Iris West-Allen, and I know you're going to be the most incredible mother. I want our children to be able to see their mother every step of the way. How she carried them with love and nurtured them with the utmost care and compassion. Even while they were wreaking havoc on her hormones."

He had looked like he was going to say more, but Iris couldn't wait any longer. She took the album from him and set them on the table with the flowers and kissed him with everything in her.

When she eventually pulled away, she pressed their foreheads together, their heavy breaths mingling together.

"I love you Barry Allen."

"I love you, Iris West-Allen."

And so began tradition. Barry had taken a portrait of Iris with their camera, her wedding ring sparkling brightly as she rested her hand on her belly, curving around it as though protecting their babies. And she was protecting them, just as Barry would protect her.

This Mother's Day, they would be adding a third picture to the album, with the twins slightly bigger than the last photo.

Barry hugged her to him, the album against his chest with her image on the outside. "Ready to add to this?"

Iris glanced over at her babies fooling around on their bed and then turned to her husband, her heart full. She felt like the luckiest woman in the world.

"Always."

[aphrodites-law]

A Bit of Clarity 🍂 (8/?) The visions had started last autumn, a year ago now. It had caused a bit of chaos for some, a bit of clarity for others. Two days ago, Clarke Griffin had been perfectly fine managing both her Café and her stress. But now she was curious - so deeply curious about the vision of herself entwined with the aloof Lexa Woods that it was leading her to complete distraction. (ao3)

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] 

Lexa walked in ten minutes after opening time the next day. Clarke had just rung up a coffee to go when she saw her, her raincoat unzipped and revealing her sweater and the collar of her shirt beneath it. Beige this time. Clarke liked beige. Then again, she couldn’t think of a shirt Lexa had worn that she hadn’t liked. One couldn't help but wonder how large Lexa’s wardrobe was. It had to be quite the collection.

Waiting for her turn, Lexa kept her eyes on the display case. When she finally stepped up to the counter, Clarke arched a playful brow.

"Good morning," Lexa said.

"Pretty good so far."

Lexa visibly tried to contain a smile. “You changed the display."

Clarke glanced at the display, remembering all too vividly how she’d been pressed up against it. Judging by the way Lexa looked at her, she remembered it too.

“It's honey cake and croissants today - still warm,” Clarke replied, noticing just then that Lexa was fiddling with the strap of her satchel.

It was something Clarke had recently noticed about Lexa. She appeared confident, sometimes even stony-faced, but there were subtle signs showing the contrary. She was a master at hiding her nerves, but Clarke was starting to pick up on how she did it.

"Oh I meant to tell you - Wells loved Gus' honey. He was pretty die hard about his old brand but he's interested in switching."

"He did?" Lexa seemed very proud. "I'll have to let Gus know. And maybe try a slice of the cake then."

“For here?” Clarke asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“Yes. Please.”

“No drink?”

Lexa took out her wallet. “Coffee is fine.”

Clarke leaned closer. “Lexa, you don’t need to force yourself. You don’t like it. It’s fine - I don’t take offense.”

“I know. I just feel like a fraud staying here if I don't. Like wearing sneakers on an ice rink."

Clarke chuckled. “Well, speaking of ice, let me make you a chilled one. I'll go easy on the actual coffee part."

“You don’t have to go to the trouble-"

"It’s on the menu. You know that, right?”

Lexa looked up, as if noticing the menu above the coffee machines for the first time. It wasn't a long selection but, sure enough, there was an ice coffee and tea option.

“I hadn’t..." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fuck.”

Clarke fully laughed then, her voice still a bit raspy from the early morning. "God, just go grab a seat. I’ll be right up with your order.”

Lexa left a crisp bill in the tip jar as she always did. She sat at her usual seat and took out her laptop and notepad. After she'd skimmed through some of her recent notes, Clarke came over with her slice of cake and iced coffee.

"Thank you."

To Lexa's evident surprise, Clarke took the seat opposite hers and propped her chin on her hand.

"I need to be sure you like it. No more grimacing in my café."

Lexa sighed bashfully. She picked up the cup and took her first sip of the chilled drink. After licking her lips and pausing for effect, she hummed.

"Hats off to the barista. This is really good, Clarke."

"Well of course it's good!" Clarke beamed, pleased with herself. "Now your funny faces can stop giving us a bad rep."

"Hardly doubt the press picked up on my expressions."

"You never know who's paying attention."

Lexa looked at her and smiled. "You?"

Clarke's cheeks felt warm. She glanced down. "That's one person."

Whatever that meant for them, Clarke didn't know. It was a strange place to be in. To know the woman sitting in front of her was responsible for the best kiss she'd had in recent memory, if not her entire life. She was aching to talk about it, but her worry Lexa would bolt was stronger.

Lexa cleared her throat and looked around. There was only a couple and an older man seated for now, but then again the sun wasn't even out.

"Not too busy yet?" She asked.

Clarke shook her head. "I give it thirty minutes. College classes and rush hour starting."

"Have you had more customers recently?"

"Definitely. I'm still not sure if it's all due to Finn's fall from grace, but I'm not complaining."

"You know what made me wonder?" Lexa asked. "He knew Echo and I were from the Gazette. He knew she and I went to his shops to write about him, but somehow he couldn't fathom it would be for anything other than praise. He wronged everyone on his staff and lied his way into smaller businesses believing it was justified. Now he's looking into suing for defamation. Can you imagine the ego?"

"Sounds like Finn Collins."

Lexa noticed a change in Clarke's expression. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, not at all. Just bad history. Finn had me believing a lot of things too. It might be the one thing he's actually good at."

"I see."

Clarke bit her lip, unsure where to go from there. It seemed like Lexa was thinking the same.

"Are we still…" Lexa lowered her voice. "Is this weekend still happening?"

Clarke's heart leapt. "If you want it to."

"I do."

Clarke forgot all about Finn Collins, her bitterness replaced by sudden excitement. "Give me your phone."

Lexa took it out and watched as Clarke typed her number in. She then grabbed her own phone and sent Lexa a message:

Coffeemaker ☕ Nice flannel today, I'd guessed blue

"I don't have a lot of blue," Lexa chuckled, then frowned. "Bit of a reductive name. I'd definitely give you something better."

Clarke shrugged. "That's between you and your phone. Anyway, I'll send you the details. I checked the weather and there's just a small chance of rain, so we should be good. We can do the River to Nowhere hike."

"Never heard of it."

"I figured. It's kind of a local secret. The view on Costial and the mountains is amazing though."

At Lexa's silence, Clarke felt a pang of worry. "This is still good, right?"

Lexa looked up. "Yes. Of course. I'm looking forward to it."

Clarke nodded, still not entirely convinced. But at least Lexa had come back. She was here, sitting where she belonged. Clarke stood up at the ding of the bell, knowing she didn't have much time before the morning rush.

"I hope you enjoy the cake."

"Thank you, Clarke."

* * *

Lexa came into the café every day. She apologized that she couldn’t stay too long before going to work, but she still came every day. Mostly in the morning, but once in the afternoon. Clarke saw the slight, quick pout on her face when she noticed her seat was occupied that day, and practically heard her sigh when she eventually found a tight spot on the other side of the counter.

"I thought we said no funny faces," Clarke told her in passing, too busy to stop but still yearning for interaction.

Lexa looked up, realizing then how close to Clarke this new seat was, though also much noisier and not conducive to writing. "My apologies," she said, just loud enough for Clarke to hear.

Clarke smiled to herself. That was mostly how they communicated that week, pleasantries here and there, asking how work was going, how Lexa's articles were progressing, if Clarke and Wells were going to start interviews soon. It was as casual as could be, but beneath the simple nature of their brief conversations was something neither of them could deny.

Desire. The kind that had Clarke panting into her pillow at night while she touched herself. The kind that turned every look and every touch into the most excruciatingly good form of foreplay Clarke had experienced.

It was in the way their fingers brushed together when Clarke gave Lexa her drink and pastry. The way Clarke caught Lexa looking her way, or perhaps Lexa caught Clarke. In those moments, Clarke felt the same thrill she'd felt when Lexa had entered the café after closing time.

But they had yet to actually talk about it, which made Clarke both impatient and anxious for the weekend.

Lexa could run or she could stay. It was something Clarke was keenly aware of, which was why she'd promised herself to be as honest as could be. The way they'd approached things before hadn't worked. Things had been left unsaid on various occasions, piling up until they became a tangled mess. That couldn't happen again. Clarke knew it and she had no reason to doubt Lexa knew it too.

Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her apron. Clarke finished making an order for a pick-up before reading it:

Lexa I'm off to work (yes I do have a real office despite appearances), but thank you for saving a croissant for me

Clarke glanced toward the fig tree, where she saw the empty table.

Clarke Ha, I was starting to think you'd quit. You're welcome

Lexa I'll see you tomorrow?

Clarke Yep, pick you up at 11am. Wear good walking shoes

Lexa Stilettos it is. Have a good rest of the day :)

Clarke chuckled, liking this lighter side of Lexa. Hopefully - and Clarke's hope had blossomed these days - it was a facet of Lexa she'd get to see more of.

* * *

Lexa didn't wear the stilettos, though Clarke wouldn't have been too upset if she did. She had a hunch Lexa had quite the fashion sense beyond her professional attire. Not that the shirts, blazers and tight pants didn't work for Clarke. Today it was her dark green knitted hat that had Clarke melting a little.

She drove through sleepy Costial with Lexa in the passenger seat, something she would have never imagined happening just a week ago. Clarke talked about some of the resumes she'd read with Wells over the week. One in particular made Lexa laugh out loud.

"Eating is a commendable skill, Clarke."

"It was the only word in the skills section. Just eating. What do I even do with that?"

"Well, hopefully they figure out they're better off being your customer than your employee."

"I just feel bad for Wells, he takes on so much already."

"No one stood out?"

"One woman did, but she'd be out of our budget. Honestly Wells doesn't even care about fancy certificates, just passion and impeccable hygiene."

"Hm."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just thinking."

Clarke spotted the sign on the road that pointed them to the small parking area. It was a ten minute walk from the actual mountain trail, which itself was hard to find for anyone unfamiliar with it. Clarke hadn't been here in months, but it was perfect timing. The weather was kind and there wasn't a grey cloud in sight.

She parked the car and popped the trunk open.

"Are you ready?"

Lexa nodded. "Let's go."

They stored their water and food in one backpack that Lexa insisted on carrying, as the other one felt lighter than air. The trail was hidden behind a particularly spruce, but once they were on it, there was a clear grassy path snaking through the sprawling forest. In a few weeks, everything would be covered in snow. For now, it was a lovely clash of browns and greens, with shrubs and moss at the foot of pine and hardwood trees. 

"You know, I tried looking up this trail in the Gazette's search engine," Lexa said. "Not even one link. When you said it's a local secret, I didn't think you meant top secret."

Clarke smiled cheekily. "One thing you have to know about Costialites: we love tourists in our theaters and shops, not our nature."

"Any other hidden spots I might discover?"

Clarke stepped over a fallen tree, dead and yet full of life, with lichen and mushrooms covering the sides while insects skittered inside.

"Nu-uh. The inquisitive journalist's cap comes off. You can pick it up on the way back."

She heard Lexa's small laugh behind her. "If you say so."

They walked without speaking for a while, slowly going up as they appreciated the fresh air, bird chirps, and the novelty of doing something together for the first time. Clarke had been on this path with friends before; had even shown her mother - but she'd never come here with a potentially romantic partner. It was fun with friends, but there was a more intimate quality to it with Lexa. After days of only seeing each other surrounded by other people, it was a welcome change.

But Clarke remembered her earlier promise to herself.

"Lexa… I need to get something off my chest."

Lexa glanced at her, understanding this wouldn't be shoptalk.

"The push and pull between us…" Clarke started, fighting her nerves. "It really confused me."

"I know."

"It's just that, from my point of view, you sat in the café every week for six months but you were still a mystery. Then suddenly we were talking and… the mixed signals threw me off." Clarke paused, unsure how to word the next part delicately. "You run when things get too close, but then you come back and I think - this is it, she's taking a step forward. But it's not." Clarke stopped to look at her. "What I'm trying to say is I can't do that again. I don't need a label for whatever this is, but I do need to know we're on the same page. I'm sorry if this is brusque-"

"No, that's fair," Lexa interrupted. "Thank you for telling me. I want to be on the same page too."

Clarke waited for more, but Lexa turned her head toward the source of a trickling sound. "Is that the river?"

Clarke swallowed back her disappointment. "Yeah. Come on, we can follow it upstream."

* * *

If what Clarke had said had affected Lexa, she certainly didn't show it. Instead, Lexa started asking questions like she had at the café, interested in knowing about Clarke's life without divulging too much about hers in response. Clarke had to call her out on it:

"I thought you'd agreed to leave the journalist cap behind."

Lexa seemed surprised. "I can't ask about your job?"

"Can I ask about yours?"

Lexa kept her eyes on the rocky stream bed at their right, where the water flowed slowly down the slope.

"Sure."

"Did you always want to be a journalist?"

"No."

Clarke waited, then sighed. "A little more?"

Lexa slid her hand beneath the straps of the backpack. She was quiet for a while, then cleared her throat. "My grandmother raised me, but after she passed away when I was seventeen I had to grow up very quickly. I started working in a motel to save for college. Met a lot of people left behind by laws, so I had a fantasy of going into politics. Be a part of change."

Clarke startled a bit at the amount of information Lexa had unloaded in the space of a few seconds.

"I didn't know you were… I hadn't realized-" she stuttered. 

"Don't worry, I'm not a traumatized orphan, Clarke," Lexa said with a self-deprecating smile. "Anyway, it all worked out. Even got a scholarship."

"Still. That must've been hard."

Lexa nodded in acknowledgment. "When I got into college, it was like an all you can eat buffet. Politics didn't feel exciting anymore. But my counselor told me change could come from anywhere."

"So you took up writing?"

Lexa's expression suddenly changed, like she was in pain. "No, not right away."

Clarke left it at that, not wanting to push. A few minutes later, she stopped on the path and took Lexa's arm.

"Come on."

She guided her behind a pine and past a couple shrubs, where finally they reached the flat rock that overlooked Costial and its surrounding mountains. Lexa took off her backpack, stopping just a few feet from the edge.

"Jesus, Clarke."

"I know."

They took in the view for a few minutes, until Clarke laid out the quilt she'd put in her own bag. She sat down and looked up at Lexa, noticing just then there were tears in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" She worriedly asked.

"Just give me… I need a minute."

Clarke waited patiently, knowing they had both reached a point of change. She would stay here the entire night if Lexa needed it.

Lexa sat down next to her. "I never wanted to confuse you," she finally said, her voice full of regret. "It's just that I didn't expect you."

Clarke caught her eyes, hoping Lexa wouldn't look away. She didn't.

"But you took the first step."

"I was… hoping I was ready." Lexa swallowed hard. "I keep to myself and I don't get close, because… because the only three people I chose to love passed away."

Clarke froze, hardly even blinking as she absorbed Lexa's words.

"First there was Luna, my best friend since I learned how to walk. We did everything together for years. Had our best and our worst ideas together. She drowned during a family vacation." Lexa's fingers dug into a patch of grass by the quilt. "Then there was Ontari, in junior year. She was my first… everything. Most of the time she was angry because her mom was a drunk, but she was kind with me." Lexa's jaw clenched. "She was stabbed by some lunatic for seventeen dollars and her bracelet."

If Lexa had managed to keep her voice from breaking before, her efforts were in vain this time.

"And then Anya," she said tearfully.

Clarke sat closer.

"Hey, you don't have to-"

"No," Lexa abruptly said. "I want to. I need to." She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "Anya was my sister - how I imagined a sister would be anyway. She took me under her wing in undergrad. Pushed me toward journalism when I hesitated and kept me from making bad decisions out of anger. Without her, where I am today would only be a dream." Lexa's voice steadied then as she contemplated the three blades of grass in her hand. "Four years ago Anya lost her fight against breast cancer. Her last words to me were, I fought like hell, didn't I?"

Lexa let go of the grass. "You were right that night at the bar. In a way I do use people for their stories. I eat up their words and I spit them back out because my own stories - they're no good. The good ones are all tainted. I don't talk about my past because my memories only have ghosts in them. And nothing hurts more than realizing the only people who knew you are gone."

Clarke felt stricken, overwhelmed with sadness for the woman baring her soul in front of her. She couldn't imagine losing a best friend, let alone three. She couldn't imagine having so many of her memories tarnished by sudden, senseless death. Losing Wells would be like losing a piece of her heart. He knew her fears just as well as her dreams. He knew how to make her laugh and how to get her to stop crying. If he disappeared from her life, Clarke could see how that would feel like losing a part of herself. Memories shared would be wrecked by grief.

"When the visions happened," Lexa continued, "suddenly it was like hope was on everyone's lips. Lincoln was the first to tell me his. I was on the opposite coast, living life like a robot, when my estranged cousin calls to tell me he's seen us dance together at his wedding." Lexa smiled at the memory. "I thought he was losing his mind - couldn't even remember him honestly. But then more reports came in. And he kept calling, kept talking to me about Costial, this beautiful city he'd always wished my grandma and I visited. Apparently she used to send him postcards every year. For her sake, I agreed. I reconnected with Lincoln and… I fell in love with Costial."

Clarke knew how easy that was. It hadn't taken her long to know she'd build on her dreams here. After college, leaving had never even been in question.

"I wanted to do something to honor it," Lexa said as she stared at the skyline. "I know there are already thousands of pieces on visions out there, and I know there'll be thousands more after mine, but they won't be on this place. They won't be about Indra Keene reconnecting with her brother thanks to her vision of them having dinner. They won't be about Jonathan Murphy working hard to get his GED after seeing himself graduate college. I know I haven’t been here long, but this place is the first that's felt like home. I thought it deserved to be written about."

Lexa looked at Clarke. "And you… I guess I wanted to know what hope looked like for you. You're at the café every day, always smiling at people, even the rude ones. You seem so happy, so eager to put in the work to make your dream a reality. I couldn't help but wonder what else you might dream about. But really I just transcribe what I hear. I'm no more than a typist here."

"You sell yourself short."

Lexa shook her head. "I don't mind being the one listening. I like how I fit in Costial. When I got here - when I was driving with the trunk of my car crammed with my stuff, I passed the welcome sign and I… I just felt so relieved. Like I could finally breathe. Move forward."

"And you did."

Lexa nodded. "When I found out the Gazette was hiring it all clicked into place. But the pain crept back eventually. Change isn't… Well, old habits die hard and all that."

"But you've already brought so much good here. Look at your article on the Mountain Men."

Lexa shrugged. "Hermit solidarity."

Clarke chuckled softly. "You're not a hermit, Lexa. You clearly have a talent with people… It's not just all because you listen. But you also need to be kind to yourself. Does Lincoln know?"

"Lincoln understands more than he lets on I think. He's been the best support I could ask for, but it's different with family. You… you made me want to hope again."

"You can."

"Anya said the same."

Clarke waited a beat. "Lexa… do you think you're cursed or something?"

Lexa lied back on the quilt with her hands on her stomach. "It's not like that. Clearly there are powerful unknowns out there, but I don't believe a witch placed a curse on me, no. What I do believe is that some people attract bad energy. That no matter how hard you try, your place in the world is destructive."

"No," Clarke breathed out, horrified. "I don't believe that one second."

"But wouldn't you wonder - in my position? Wouldn't you try to put your theory to the test?"

"So you're just going to be alone for the rest of your life? That's your big experiment?"

Lexa shrugged. "I have everything I need - a good job, good apartment. It's not like I don't know anyone. Lincoln's practically introduced me to half the town. I know how to be sociable. I know how to work a room. I don't need anything more."

"People talk a whole lot about what they need in this town," Clarke sighed. "But what do you want?"

Lexa swallowed thickly as she looked up at her. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

Lexa reached for her hand, hesitant at first, just fingers brushing. "Your vision... if that's what you wanted from me, I could give you that. I could be that person."

Clarke knew what Lexa was offering - wish fulfillment. Sex without the next morning breakfast. Sex without intimacy. Clarke had gone down that road before. She was good at it.

"No." She said the word before she even thought it. No, she couldn't do it. She couldn't spend a night with this woman and watch her slip out into the night. She couldn't pretend it hadn't happened the next morning; that they could go back to normal. There was no normal with Lexa - there never had been. "I want all of you, Lexa. If you're not ready for that, and I understand it, then we can be friends. But you need to stop looking at me like you do because otherwise I'll..." Clarke shook her head. "I won't even be able to be that. I did the whole casual thing and frankly I'm over it."

Lexa nodded silently, then retracted her hand. Her brow furrowed in thought, but she didn't add anything.

Clarke lied down next to her and sighed. "I think you're stronger than you know and I think your vision proved it. Your future doesn't have to be some kind of condemnation to solitude."

"And what if I hurt you?"

"My father used to say pain is a part of relationships, even the best ones. It doesn't mean we stop fighting for them."

"I don't mean hurt you by forgetting to clean the oven, Clarke."

"That would definitely be a blow." Clarke turned on her side, taking in Lexa's jawline and the fading tear tracks on her cheek. "But I don't believe in curses or bad energy. I believe in people and people acting on their choices. You're not alone. Not anymore."

Lexa turned to face her as well. She brushed a finger down Clarke's temple, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You're very stubborn, Clarke Griffin."

Clarke smiled. "You have no idea."

* * *

They packed up quietly after snacking on some pieces of honey cake, the emotional toll weighing heavily on both of them. Clarke knew Lexa needed the space, but she'd said her piece and it had felt right. The ball was in Lexa's court.

They went down the same path they'd taken, zigzagging with the river. Clarke thought to bring up Lexa's article, but felt a strong drop crash on the top of her head and froze.

"Oh no."

Lexa frowned. "Did you forget something?"

"This is your first autumn here, right?"

"Yes?" Lexa replied hesitantly.

"Hm. Well, there's this thing called the Costial shower. Usually in the winter, but sometimes after a long week of rain it creeps up on you. Doesn't last longer than a few minutes, but yeah."

Lexa looked up. "I don't feel anything."

As soon as she said it, a downpour started. Lexa flinched at the sudden wet cold, the weight of the rain making the tip of her green hat sag.

"Lovely," she deadpanned.

"Run."

"What?"

Clarke bolted like a bat out of hell.

"Clarke!"

Before she even knew it, she started laughing as Lexa called her name behind her. Luckily the trail was more grass than mud, not yet too slippery. Lexa caught up to her.

"I'm pretty sure you can't outrun rain," she yelled before laughing herself.

Clarke hadn't felt like this in a long time; adrenaline pumping through her as she laughed like a kid on the playground. She spotted what she'd been running toward just a few feet away.

"No, but you can reach the canopy in time!"

She slowed to a stop and then pointed up. Lexa realized the rain didn't reach them anymore, though they could still hear its angry fall. They were sheltered by the dense crowns of the trees, high and thick above them.

Clarke bent down with her hands on her knees, her laugh fading. "Ah, fuck. Haven't run like that since college."

Lexa pressed her back against a tree, catching her breath as she arched her brow at Clarke. A few drops still dripped down her face, but their clothes weren’t too wet.

"What?" Clarke asked. "It was finals week and I wanted tacos before closing time."

"I know I left my journalist cap out there, but you could've mentioned this."

"I really didn't think this would happen."

A slow smile spread on Lexa's face. Clarke felt her heart race, this time not from running.

"Lexa."

"Yes?"

"I told you not to look at me like that."

"Only if I wasn't sure."

Clarke held her breath, not knowing what to say for once. Lexa crossed the path and stopped in front of her.

"I've… been running my whole life. Moving from place to place thinking it would be easier each time. Running's never made me happy." Lexa exhaled deeply, nervous but not hesitant. She let out a small laugh. "Until now."

Clarke pulled on the straps of Lexa's backpack and kissed her. She felt Lexa cup the back of her neck and moaned, this kiss nothing like the one at the café and yet just as talented at making her legs weak. This was slow, purposeful, the full meaning of it hitting Clarke like a force. Lexa nipped on her bottom lip.

"I want all of you too," she said in a low voice, as if they weren't already alone in a forest. "I can't promise I won't mess up, but I want to try."

"Okay," Clarke stuttered in response, dangerously affected by Lexa rubbing circles on the back of her neck.

"Is slow okay?" Lexa asked.

"Slow is good. Slow is perfect."

"Thank you, Clarke. For being stubborn."

"My pleasure."

* * *

On the drive back, Clarke found it hard to stop smiling. Their shoes occasionally squeaked, but the discomfort was worth the memory that preceded it. Lexa took off her hat and started braiding her damp hair, humming along with the music Clarke had turned on. Lexa insisted Clarke drive home and didn't need to drop her off, as the view on Costial had made her want to walk in its streets for a bit. Clarke desperately needed a hot shower, so didn't protest too long. 

She understood the reasoning better when Lexa followed her to her apartment door. 

"I see how it is," Clarke grinned.

"A proper first date always ends on the stoop. That's what my grandmother used to say."

Clarke leaned back against the door. "First date, huh?"

Lexa stepped closer. "Slow," she murmured.

"Absolutely."

Lexa pressed a kiss against her neck. When Clarke thought she'd pull away, Lexa instead pressed closer and started sucking slowly. Clarke's mouth parted open and she closed her eyes, dropping her keys when she felt Lexa's hands on her waist. Her arm went around Lexa's neck, breathing harder when Lexa's tongue licked over her pulse, soft and tender and yet more sensual than Clarke had felt in a long time.

Lexa pulled back with a satisfied smile. "I want to take you on another date."

"You better," Clarke rasped.

"Hmm. I'll text you."

"Are you sure you don't want a towel or something?"

"If I stay one minute longer I don't think I'll leave, Clarke."

Clarke's eyes darkened. "Fuck. Okay. Get out of here."

Lexa had the gall to smirk before she turned around, walking down the hall like she was worth a million bucks. Well, Clarke thought, she could do slow too. She could wind up Lexa Woods very, very slowly.

-

[part nine]

[starkerforlife6969]

Single Dad Baker Peter x Lawyer Tony

There was a misconception about divorce lawyers when Tony was at law school.

His classmates at Harvard sneered at him whenever he took it as an elect, semester after semester. They thought that the money was in corporate, that the prestige was in finance, that the fame was in criminal.

Family law, they sniffed, was for silly little things.

Tony hadn’t given them any credit then, and he doesn’t give them any credit now.

Ask anyone. He’s the most renowned divorce lawyer in the country. He’s one of the wealthiest men in the state. He’s on more retainers than plastic on teenager’s teeth. Rich heiresses and paranoid old men, wealthy immigrants and not-so-idealistic trust-fund students know better than to enter into the law-binding contract that is marriage without Tony Stark ready and waiting in the wings to come and save them some day from utter devastation.

Sure, Tony doesn’t believe in love, how can he? With everything he’s seen? But he does believe in loss. He’s seen wholesome people lose their homes, seen kids torn apart by separation, seen ruthless, vindictive jerks - men and women- tear their partner to shreds for reign over the holiday home. For custody. For triumph.

Tony wears his tailored suits, and lives in his penthouse apartment looking over the city, he drinks expensive coffee and he sleeps on a thousand-thread cotton sheets, but he knows that the only thing a partner is good for, is one night.

Repeats? No thank you. But here’s his card. One day, when you make the mistake of falling in love (a temporary state) and divorce arrives (inevitable. Horrible) he’ll show up on his steed (a Bentley) and his sword and shield (a fountain pen and a stack of papers) and he’ll win.

Oh he’s saved tech-tycoons 50% of their business. They’ve repaid him with a few percent here and there, stakes and shares in stocks and bonds, and he has more money than he knows what to do with.

You’d have to be out of your mind to think he’d ever kiss someone on the lips and put a diamond on their finger, just to see them take half of it away in a few meagre years.

No thank you.

* Tony comes back to New York after a month long holiday in India (what do you mean he networked and picked up a few new clients? Royalty looks ever so good on the old resumé, not that he’s needed one to get a job for a long, long time), there’s a new bakery around the corner from his penthouse.

He squints at it, trying to decide whether or not he’ll venture in tomorrow morning.

It’s called The Parker Place. It’s painted a sweet lavender, and there’s a chalkboard sign outside that says: We serve hot drinks too! with a smiley face and a heart. It’s nice and neat and-

“That’s been there for the better part of a year, dipshit. Nice tan.”

Oh. Maybe he should spend a little more time exploring his city. Tony turns with a smile. “Nat. You’re looking well.”

She is, but then again, she always does. Her hair’s pinned up today, and her pencil skirt and blazer are some sort of silky material that he wants to reach out and touch. But her stilettos are weapons, and he still has a bruise on his calf from when tried something. “I’m sure.” She rolls her eyes, “taking on your workload for a month didn’t have any impact on me at all. Not like I have my own case load.”

He hums around his smile, and nods at the bakery. “Any good? They serve coffee?”

“Pretty good,” she says noncommittally. “Though, I rate according to convenience and this is a little out of my way…”

“Why are you here? Not that I don’t appreciate the welcome party.”

She doesn’t give anything away- she has a brilliant poker face, like everyone in this game- but he’s known her for too long now. Over pizza and late nights studying for finals and Mock Trials with hang overs- “Rumlow called. Wants to hire you.”

Tony blinks in surprise. “I’m Kate’s retainer, she hired me years ago.”

“Rumlow’s offering triple. Fury wants you to switch.”

Tony scoffs at that. “I’m Kate’s. Besides, I can’t drop her without-“

“Fury can get you cause, Tony. Kate’s been taking Class B-“

“She has to,” Tony snaps, “married to that thing. Fury’s not my boss, Nat.”

The red-head looks bemused. “Technically-“

“I’m not dropping Kate. I want to put Rumlow in the ground. it’s about time they get divorced, he’s a fuckin’-“

“I know.” Nat cuts him off, softer. She shakes her head a little. “You’re a real softie, you know that?”

He bristles a little in offence. “I’m a shark.”

“Every other time you follow the money, but when you see a good person you go all warm-hearted and soft.”

Tony flips her the bird and heads into the lobby. He can feel the weight of her stare on the back of his neck and decides to be especially vicious when it comes to destroying Rumlow. He wants blood. He’s a shark, not a softie.

*

The sight that greets him when he steps into The Parker Place on Monday morning is so fucking cute he nearly melts on the spot.

And then he catches himself, and he scowls and puts on his air of casual, charming, charismatic. His default setting.

Besides, it’s not that cute. It’s just a very handsome man with fucking fluffy Disney curls and big eyes at the counter, covered in flour, with a young girl- just as covered- with the same brown hair and adorable laugh, and they’re mixing a bowl of what smells like heaven.

It’s not cute. Not even when the man reaches over to smear chocolate on the little girl’s nose and she tries in vain to lick it off.

Not cute at all.

Instead, he busies himself with looking around the place. It’s nice. Airy and inviting. There are shelves of cupcake decorations and cake stands on one side, freshly made loaves of bread on the other. Behind fancy glass cases are doughnuts bursting with cream and an assortment of toffee pastries.

It smells phenomenal. There are sheets of freshly rolled dough on baking sheets ready to be slotted into the many ovens behind the counter. For now, though, the ovens billow out the delicious scent of vanilla and sugar.

There’s muffins, croissants and cake all lit up in display perches, chocolate sprinkles, vanilla sponges and sugar dusted cream-filled puffs. The small, silver bell above the door gives way to the sound and scent of happiness, sugar, and home-spun food.

Tony doesn’t even know where to look.

He’s the only person in the shop this early, and he glances up at the chalkboard propped against the wall and reads the drinks options in handwritten cursive.

Caley Coffee! Tina Tea! Hannah Hot chocolate!

Tony’s not so sure those are brands.

“Oh! God! I’m so sorry!” Comes an effusive voice, and Tony is suddenly wondering whether it’s the little girl responsible for all those exclamation marks.

Still, he can’t help but smile through his shark facade when the beautiful young man wipes his hands against the front of his blue apron and hops up behind the counter. Is he here all alone? No way he’s able to manage this workload. “It’s fine,” he nods, feeling a little off his game. He wants to be suave. Wants to wink and do a little flirting, because this gorgeous slip of a thing would be divine for a night-

But the man’s daughter is still avidly mixing the huge purple bowl dotted with flowers, and Tony doesn’t feel right flirting in front of a kid. Not to mention, the man’s probably taken. There’s no wedding ring, but the man’s covered in four. He probably removed it.

Not that marriage is a huge obstacle, anyway. They always crumble.

But Tony’s not about to violate one. “I’ll have a-uh- a Caley Coffee.” He says as he steps up to the counter.

His breath catches for a second. The man, up close, is even more attractive than Tony first realised. He’s not attractive, he’s beautiful. It’s a sort of beauty Tony’s never seen before, outside of twilight era, Hollywood movies. Fading starlets, a type of beauty he thought might have died out a long time ago, along with the black-and-white pictures his mom used to watch.

His eyes are honey, and his lips: strawberry. There’s a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, and his skin is like smooth cream.

He’s positively edible.

“Oh yeah,” the man blushes- fuck. That blush. Tony watches it hungrily. “Sorry about that, Hannah names all the drinks because she says everyone deserves a name.”

Tony can’t help but crack a smile. “Sounds like a smart girl.”

Hannah looks up from her bowl and beams. “I am a smart girl!”

“You’re just smart,” the man chuckles, effortlessly making the coffee without even having to look as he adds milk and sugar and creamer- all things Tony hasn’t asked for, but he’s not about to stop the man now. “Girl or not, you know that, baby.”

“Yeah, I know,” she nods, “I’m smart!”

Tony could watch them all day.

“So, are you new around here?” The man asks, handing Tony his coffee and ringing it up. It’s cheaper than Tony thought, so he pulls out a few extra bills to put into the tip jar.

Tania the tip jar, according to the label.

“No, no, I’ve been away. I live just around the corner.”

“Must do something fancy,” the man teases, taking the money. “Suit like that.”

Tony tries not to preen. “Lawyer.”

“Oh god, Hannah-Montana,” the man whispers, aghast, and the brunette’s head snaps up immediately, already giggling at her father’s antics. “An actual shark has walked in here and you didn’t warn me!”

“A shark!” She squeals, looking at Tony with enormous honey eyes, “you’re a lawyer! Lawyers are sharks in snappy suits, and they snap snap snap and give law suits!”

Tony’s cheeks ache a little, from how hard he’s smiling.

“You’d be amazed at the sorts of things they have in story books now,” the man teases apologetically. “I hope you have a good day, Sir!”

He can’t help it. It slips out. “Tony.”

The man goes that lovely pink again and nods shyly. “Peter Parker.”

* There are a few reasons Tony can’t get The Parker Place out of his head.

For one, that coffee was goddamn fantastic. Sweet and high quality roast, an exotic, but homey flavour- he’s craving more.

Second, Peter Parker.

Maybe even Hannah, a little.

He never thought being a shark could make a kid laugh, but hey…he hadn’t hated it.

It’s only the first in a series of blows today, but Rumlow buckles like a baby calf. Kate stares at Tony; tears of hope and gratitude in her eyes, and Tony ignores Natasha’s knowing look from the back of the court room, and wraps the woman up in a hug.

Divorce cases rarely see the inside of a courtroom when Tony’s working them. It’s normally huge meeting rooms in sleek offices, with glass tables and leather seats and gorgeous views.

It’s elegant, and sometimes there are vases full of honeysuckle on the table and it doesn’t look like a place where people sign their love away.

Tony knows better, of course.

* When he goes into The Parker Place on Tuesday morning, it’s to get some coffee. Definitely not to try and find out whether or not Peter’s attached.

When he steps inside, however, Peter and Hannah aren’t there. Instead is a friendly looking guy in a Hawaiian shirt with a huge grin. “How can I help you today, Sir?” He beams, and Tony wonders whether this bakery has some sort of magic power. Everyone here is obscenely happy.

There are a few other customers milling about, considering the different cakes in the case, and he orders his coffee, trying not to feel the sense of longing that permeates deep into his core.

The coffee’s still excellent though.

* Stane isn’t a great lawyer, but he gets under Tony’s skin. Rumlow did a smart thing hiring him.

As he heads home on Tuesday evening, a light drizzle hanging over New York, he’s surprised to see the lights in The Parker Place shining brightly; a radiant gold in the otherwise murky, lightless street.

He’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Inside, everything’s spick and span. The counters gleaming and wiped down, and Tony can see Peter fiddling with something on a baking tray.

Tony opens the door. The bell dings, and Peter looks up.

“Tony,” Peter sighs happily, “I hoped we’d make a repeat customer out of you! But it’s always hard to tell, you know? There are so many places just like this in New York.”

“Your coffee was amazing.” Tony manages, and it’s not as subtle as he’d have liked, but it makes Peter blush again.

“Thank you, please- um- sit, I’ll be with you in a second, I’m just trying to finish these scones before tomorrow.”

Tony sits on the pale blue wooden chair and feels all the stress of the day leave him. He watches as Peter squirts gooey filling into each puffed shell; watching as they fatten up happily, and he tries for the love of god, not to get an erection. He clears his throat, “so where’s Hannah?”

“In bed, thank goodness,” Peter laughs, and Tony takes him in- there’s a few dark circles under his eyes, his hair’s a little frizzy and his sleeves are starting to come down. It’s the end of a long day. He gestures to the ceiling, “and I’ll be able to hear if she gets out of bed. Thin floors.”

Tony glances up in surprise. “I didn’t realise you lived- above.”

“It’s a nice little apartment,” Peter nods, dusting the scones with flour or sugar. “It was a big risk moving here- I had to sell the house, but…” he nods, a content smile on his face. “It was the right thing to do. We’re- we’re doing okay.”

Tony wants so much he aches. “Hannah’s mom…”

“Oh no, it’s-“ Peter huffs out a small, sad laugh, “it’s complicated.”

Tony wants to brush the sadness away. Wants to feel Peter’s cheek under his palm. “I’m a smart guy,” he offers.

“Well my- my parents died when I was really young, I don’t even- remember them, but my Aunt took me in. She raised me, and then a few years ago, she…she fell in love. They had Hannah, but-“ Peter turns, sliding the tray into the fridge and hiding his face. “They passed away, and- now Hannah’s mine.”

The sense of loss hangs heavy in the air, and when Peter turns around- he’s smiling again, like everything’s okay.

“We’re happy,” Peter whispers, “it was- hard, but we’re…” he gestures to the shop and the pastries and the smiley faces drawn on the chalkboard. “She’s my little girl, and we’re gonna be okay.”

Screw one night, Tony thinks, speechless. What about the rest of our lives?

* “Well what are you doing, little miss?” Tony grins, sitting opposite Hannah as she scrunches her face up over homework.

She looks up at him, eager for the distraction. “Daddy said if I finished all my homework, I could have a peanut butter cupcake.” She pouts, looking down at her work. “But this is hard. Mr Lo made it look easy, but it’s not.”

Tony clucks sympathetically, before looking over her little work sheet. He shakes his head fondly. “You are damn smart, sweetheart. Every single one you’ve answered is right.”

She perks up at that, looking down at her work with surprise and renewed enthusiasm. “Really?”

“Ya huh.”

She races through the last few, and bar one silly mistake, finishes it all. She scampers off into the kitchen, and returns triumphant, with a peanut butter cupcake in one hand, and a mini pancake in the other.

Tony takes the pancake eagerly and they both chew in contented silence for a moments. “You always such a nerd?” He asks conversationally, and she giggles.

“Daddy says we’re equals pequels.”

Tony hums thoughtfully around his delicious mouthful. “How’s that?”

Hannah licks all the icing off her cupcake. “It means- if I don’t do homework, daddy can put me on the naughty step. And if daddy says a bad word, I can put him on the naughty step. We’re a demo-cacy. And and, if daddy knows more, I should listen to him as much as I can, like with boring stuff like-“ she looks a little sulky, “playing with fire, but if I know more- daddy tries to listen to me! Like, on how pirates speak, or or what flavours taste best in a cheesecake!”

Tony chuckles. “That’s quite a modern take on parenting. I approve.”

He looks up when the last rush of customers leaves, and finally Peter’s free. He’s covered in edible glitter and a light sheen of sweat, and there are a few diced rose petals still on his fingertips as he comes over and ruffles Hannah’s hair. “Hannah-Banana, eating that peanut butter cupcake, I can only assume…?”

“All finished, daddy-doughnut!” She chirps, and Peter kisses her with sticky lips.

Then he looks at Tony, a little shyer, a little braver. “I’m closing up soon, Tony, maybe…you could come up? For tea? And danishes?”

* “I’ve put on at least five pounds since meeting you.” Tony grumbles, squinting at himself in the mirror, even as he takes a huge bite of one of Peter’s raspberry cream danishes. The flavour bursts across his tongue, and Peter laughs, coming around with a tray of tea.

“You’re as dashing as ever, Tony, and I think you know it.” He teases, as the two of them sit down.

Tony watches Peter take a long, deep sip, the smell of jasmine tea in the air, and he wants.

“I don’t…” Tony croaks, when Peter meets his eyes, and everything is there; exposed, between them. “Love is…”

“Very real,” Peter promises, gesturing to Hannah’s bedroom.

Tony sighs. “That’s a different kind of love, Peter. That loves never goes away. Romantic love…it fades. Always.”

“Okay,” Peter murmurs, his honey eyes sad, “I wouldn’t know anyway, right? I’ve never had it.”

“Me neither,” Tony whispers.

*

On a sunny Saturday morning, Tony pinches his nose and looks through the annulment contract, Peter’s slicing peaches, and Hannah’s playing with a complex looking forest set.

“Have some eclairs, Tony,” Peter urges sweetly, setting down a heaped tray. “You worry too much, you’ll win like you do every other time.”

“I don’t know,” Tony sighs, reaching for the chocolate coated deliciousness. “Both of them are vicious- they’re tearing each other apart.”

Peter brings over another plate- this time, topped with gooey, chocolate chip cookies. Hannah comes racing over to grab three. “I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be solved with a bit of sugar and some maple syrup.”

Tony feels reluctantly fond. “Peter, property division is a little more refined than that.”

But of course, as he chews, he wonders.

* Susan and David pause when they walk into the meeting room in the sleek office building among the New York sky rises.

Tony grins winningly. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says as he beckons them in, “it was a colleague’s birthday and there were left over cookies.”

“It’s not- a problem.” Susan chokes, as the two of them enter the room. She sits down stiffly, eyes on the heaped stack. The room smells of melted chocolate. “We actually-“ she gestures to David awkwardly, “we met in a cooking class.”

David nods, looking anywhere but Susan. “First week was desserts.”

Susan stares at her nails. “I burnt mine so badly, but David, he…”

“Swapped ‘em. She was so worried the teacher wouldn’t like her, like we were kids.” His laugh is wet.

The two people in this room are human. The ones who were in here last week, fighting for custody over the house and the dog and the garden shed tools- those were animals. Tony gestures for them to sit, and as soon as they do, David bursts into tears.

“Have the fucking house,” he whispers, so quiet Tony almost doesn’t hear it.

Susan wipes her black, mascara-coloured tears. “He’s your dog.”

*

“Daddy told you,” Hannah laughs, decorating her cupcake with blueberries. Tony hoists her into his arms and tickles her till she cries mercy.

Peter comes out of the kitchen, covered in custard and bread crumbs, and Tony crosses the bakery floor-

And kisses him.

* Peter’s skin tastes like sugar- it never fades, but Tony’s always had a bit of a sweet tooth.

They fit together, slot in a way Tony never expected.

He loves Hannah fiercely, is overwhelmingly protective, and understands his work a little better now. Love is strong, but it’s balanced on life and circumstance, which is weak and flimsy. Sometimes love falls and cracks.

“I love you,” Tony whispers, as he and Peter snuggle in bed. They’re in Tony’s apartment- they’ve just christened his kitchen- baking wise, and Hannah is fast asleep in one of the guest rooms.

Tony’s childproofed the shit out of this place. He can feel Peter’s smile curve along his shoulder, “love you too,” he says, muffled.

But Tony means it more than that.

So, the next day he comes in, and hands Peter the annulment.

Peter looks down at his hands- covered in clumps of dough- “as romantic as legal documents are, handsome, I’m-“

“I’ve signed it already.” Tony breathes, “if we ever divorced- you’d get half my money- I’d be entitled to nothing. I wouldn’t take anything from you. It’s all yours.”

Peter blinks. “Tony, we haven’t even-“

“We will,” Tony blurts, feeling unhinged and desperate, “I’ll end up baking you some disgusting cupcake, but you’ll eat it because you’re too lovely to decline, and then you’ll find the ring I put into it, and we’ll get married and then life will fuck us, Petey, and then we’ll divorce and-“

“Oh Tony, Tony,” Peter cries, rushing around the counter to gather the older man into his arms. He gets raw dough all over Tony, but Tony doesn’t care. Just leans into Peter’s embrace as the younger man peppers his face with kisses. “You’re such a romantic skeptic, I can’t deal with you. I love you, and I will love that proposal, you glorious man.”

Tony gazes down at him, tears in his eyes, “but what happens when-“

“When life tries to fuck us?” Peter whispers, twining their fingers together, and he smiles. “We’ll fuck it right back. I promise.”

From anyone else, Tony wouldn’t believe it.

Right here, he does.

* “Bet you never thought you’d see the day, huh?” Tony mutters, adjusting his bowtie.

Hannah’s in a frilly white dress, tossing rose petals into the air.

“Actually,” Nat grins, fixing his bowtie for him, “I saw it coming a mile away.”

* He loses his fear somewhere along the way.

Between school runs and tantrums, between the highs and lows of Peter’s business as customers come and go. He loses his fear somewhere along their cotton anniversary. Somewhere around Peter burning casserole for his special birthday surprise dinner and the fantastic make up sex on Egyptian threads.

He loses his fear even when faced with the never-ending line of couples wanting to hire him. For the gold diggers and the sunset clauses and the genuine destructions of love.

He loses his fear because he comes home every night to Peter. To Hannah.

Peter crawls onto his lap in the middle of Aladdin and stretches out against him like a cat. “Let’s go on holiday,” he says around a yawn, “I always wanted to go to France.”

“I’ve gone a few times,” Tony hums, carding his fingers through Peter’s hair, “I’ll take us. You like the sound of that, Hannah?”

She gives him a thumbs up, eyes on the movie.

He’s gonna see her grow up, Tony realises. He’s going to drive her to college with Peter, sit at her High School graduation and cheer embarrassingly loudly.

He’s going to go grey and Peter will find him even sexier than he already does. Peter’s going to get better and better and better at baking.

Tony’s going to spend the rest of his life this happy. This in love.

The truth hits him, and the fear leaves. It evaporates.

He’s home.

“You love me,” he breathes, alight with certainty, and Peter snorts.

“Only a lot.”

“I will never divorce you.” He vows, speaking of a future certainty that he always warns his clients against. Breaking every rule he’s ever known. He was trembling at their wedding- even though he loved Peter with everything, he was still so scared of the transience of their love-

Now he knows.

“Good, good,” Peter says around another yawn, “I’ll never divorce you either. You’re my Tony.”

His Tony.

It’s all he ever wants to be.

Hannah notices the cuddling and leaps onto the couch with them, and Tony holds them close and is content.

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - Psalm 91:4

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael Rating: T  

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: If you think I have an actual plan, ineffable or not, for where this fic is going, think again. 'Winging it’ is not just a title: it’s precisely what I’m doing.

***

Aziraphale had no intention whatsoever to open the shop that day. 

He hadn’t even planned to stay in it, because a new Korean restaurant had just opened in Holborn and he was dying to try it, metaphorically speaking. Normally it would take some twelve minutes via the Central like - or the Piccadilly line if he felt like walking for approximately one minute and fifty-seven seconds longer from his shop - but that day, according to the radio, there were severe delays on all Tube lines due to signalling issues. 

‘Signalling issues’ meant, in that one specific case, that all screens were inexplicably showing obscene phrases while loudspeakers refused to broadcast any announcements, opting to blast out I'm In Love With My Car at full volume instead. Engineers had yet to figure out how to make it stop, as turning off all power hadn’t worked. Signals meant for train drivers kept blinking quickly, spelling out SOS in morse code over and over.

Aziraphale was… reasonably certain it had been entirely Crowley’s work, both because it would fit his style and because, the previous evening, he did tell him not to bother with the Tube. 

“No need to get underground, Angel. I’ll come pick you up in the morning,” he’d said. 

And now he would be late, most likely, lamenting the insane traffic he’d be caught in after forgetting, somehow, that traffic jams tend to happen when London’s public underground transport grinds to a complete halt.

Would he ever learn better? Aziraphale rather hoped not. He found it endearing, although he wouldn’t subject Crowley to the humiliation of being told as much to his face; and, right now, it gave him some extra time to pop into one of his favorite bakeries and have a bit of a late breakfast before Crowley got there. He’d get an extra croissant for him to try, he thought as he went to open the door and stepped out. Maybe he’d eventually get him to chew his food instead of swallowing it whole like a snake, wouldn’t that be--

Before he could finish that thought, Aziraphale fell. Azirafell, if you will. He stumbled, really, on something right at the doorway - a heap of clothes, it looked like. Not as bad as a fall from Heaven would be, but the meeting with the pavement was still an unpleasant experience. 

“Ooow! What was-- oh. Oh dear.”

What he’d mistaken for a heap of clothes left at his doorstep was, in fact, a heap of clothes. Only with a body in the clothes. Not the dead kind of body, hopefully. But really, it was a bit worrying how someone stumbling over him hadn’t even made him stir. 

Oh please, sir, don’t be dead, because then I’ll want to miracle you back to life and that is frowned upon without permission. Not that I know precisely what my standing with Heavenly authority is at the moment, but I’d really prefer not to meddle with it any more than necessary. 

Lifting himself from the pavement - he’d miracle the smudges off his clothes later - Aziraphale went to crouch next to the man, put a hand on his shoulder, and shook him. “Sir? Sir, are you-- oh.”

Aziraphale had always found the smell of blood uniquely unpleasant and if not for his angelic nature, the sight of his own reddened palm would have made him feel physically sick. But at least the man was alive, because he had felt life, beating steady in his ribcage. Who knew how he’d come to be hurt like that - stabbed, perhaps, knife crime in London was getting quite awful - but he’d come to the right place. He’d heal him, and be on his way. 

A quick glance - no, no close enough to see anything yet; but oh, how many people had walked past without even noticing him? - and Aziraphale lifted his hand to heal the man. Only that he chose that moment to stir weakly, to turn, and the blessing he’d been about to utter died in Azirapale’s throat when he saw his ashen-pale face. Or at least, a good part of it.

It was Gabriel, and not the Gabriel who occasionally delivered him a nice dinner when he was peckish but too enthralled by a book to get out to a restaurant. It was the Archangel Gabriel, passed out at his doorstep. Wounded, bleeding and absolutely, entirely, impossibly-- human. 

No. No, it couldn’t be. It was unheard of - surely, he was wrong. It was only someone who looked an awful lot like him, Aziraphale thought. But as he reached for his face, and gingerly pulled up his eyelid, he found himself looking at a familiar, distinctive purplish eye. Only that now the pupil shrank at the light, and he made a choking sound, still unconscious. His brow was covered in cold sweat, hair sticking to it. 

The blood on his back. Where his wings would be. 

Celestial nature or not, Aziraphale found himself feeling… vaguely sick. Not sick enough to return his rather delicious dinner to the world, but enough to decide he could do without croissant that morning.

“Gabriel?” he called out, mind reeling. There was no reply, except for a shuddering breath when he turned him, accidentally putting pressures on… whatever had been done to his back. Whatever had been done to his wings. 

You know what’s been done to his wings.

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

Ah, of course, the curious chap. There is always a curious chap - no curious enough to check on the man motionless in a shop’s doorway, but enough to wonder when a second man is kneeling over him and it might already be too late. With a brief shake of his hand, Aziraphale miracled the blood on his palm away and turned to glance back. He smiled. 

“All is going wonderfully,” he said, causing the man to pause and blink, his expression turning vacant. “Actually, if you could help me bring this gentleman inside and then forget everything that happened to go your merry way, that would be brilliant…”

***

Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Hell, looked displeased.

In itself, that was nothing out of the ordinary: perpetual brooding was only fitting their position, after all. It would be a very cold day in Hell when demons went around looking pleased, and that was not the day: temperature was holding steady at around 62 degrees Celsius, which would be 143 degrees Fahrenheit for fellows across the pond. Not quite the fiery burning pit mortals imagined, but still hotter than the highest temperature ever registered on Earth, despite humans’ clear determination to match it in the near future.

However, something was slightly out of the ordinary. Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Hell, looked extremely displeased.

“An angel fell.”

“So it’s been reported, my Lord.”

“And it’s not here.”

“No, my Lord.”

“Why. Is it not. Here.”

Beelzebub growled. The flies around their head buzzed. Dagon looked at Hastur. Hastur looked… very uncomfortable. Good. He squirmed. Even better. 

“I… I don’t know, my Lord. I only heard whispers, you know they never speak the names of the Fallen again--”

“Because they’re not our names anymore,” Beelzebub said with an impatient wave of their hand. “We will name it. It is ours. All the Fallen are ours.”

“But it should have-- landed here,” Dagon spoke up. “All the Fallen do.”

“Maybe it’s not Fallen?”

Two pairs of eyes, plus the fragmented ones of several flies, turned back to Hastur. 

“I mean, cast out of Heaven, but didn’t turn up in Hell? Maybe it fell, but didn’t Fall.”

A fallen angel, yet not Fallen. It would be unprecedented, an amusing puzzle to solve… and Beelzebub hated amusing puzzles to solve almost as much as they despised fly paper. 

“If it was cast out of Heaven, it’s ours. The other side doesn’t get to change up the rules now - I demand an explanation, and a new soldier for Hell,” they snapped, and stood. Not much of a difference in terms of height, but it did make Hastur step back reverently. “Bring me the Messenger,” Beelzebub ordered, their voice a low buzz.

Hastur blinked.

“... The phone, for Satan’s sake,” Dagon snapped. “Bring us the phone.”

*** 

“Come ooooooooooon.”

Crowley’s phone rang while he was in the middle of a long groan, forehead firmly pressed against the wheel. The result was a long, continuous honk that was lost in the midsts of dozens more long, continuous honks. Bloody traffic.

“I don’t deserve this,” Crowley mumbled, ignoring the fact he was the cause behind all of it and perhaps he did, after all deserve some of it. Why had he done that, anyway? He didn’t really have to do anything, with Hell doing its best to forget he even existed and thus not sending out any orders anymore. It was a matter of mere habit, at that point. Everyone is supposed to have at least one bad habit, demons most of all.

Maybe he should take on smoking, but Aziraphale would so protest the smell and-- ah, right. Aziraphale. Phone. He was late, wasn’t he? With a sigh, Crowley tapped the screen to take the call, face still burrowed against the wheel - though he muted the honk for the sake of being able to speak.

“Bit of traffic here, Angel. I’ll be there in-- give me half a hour, and--”

“I, uh, think we might have to reschedule.”

Aziraphale, suggesting they delay trying out a brand new restaurant? That alone set off more alarm bells than a gang of chimps in charge of putting out a grease fire. Or Boris Johnson in charge of managing Brexit, which was basically the same thing. 

Crowley immediately sat up straight, turning his full attention to the phone. “What happened?”

“Nothing! It’s just... oh, I suppose something did happen. You see, I was about to walk out - you know that really good bakery across the road? It opened where that Patisserie Valerie used to be, a small independent business, and they make the most delicious croissants. They use less butter than they would in Paris, they’re a bit more like an Italian cornetto, and I thought you’d--”

“Angel.”

“Right, right-- I’m getting side tracked. As I was saying, it’s a small independent business and they have it so hard these days, I figure that if needed I could give some help--”

Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes behind dark lenses and drove the car forward for a grand total of three meters before stopping again. It was the greatest gain he’d made in fifteen minutes.

“Aziraphale. I am in the middle of one of the worst traffic congestion this city has ever seen--”

“Oh, I do wonder who caused it. Clearly the work of a wily demon who did not pause to consider consequences. Or did he?”

“That’s entirely beside the point,” Crowley protested. “What I’m saying is, we are going to that restaurant. We can miracle the bakery some clients if need be, no reason to reschedule--”

“Ah, it’s not about that.”

“... No?”

“Gabriel is here.”

Oh. That arse - the utter and complete bellend who had tried to have his angel destroyed in Hellfire. The memory of his words as he believed he was sending him to his complete annihilation - Shut your stupid mouth and die already - was enough to make Crowley hiss in fury. He’d have been worried, too, if not for the fact Aziraphale’s blabbing about bakeries wasn’t the sign of someone in distress or in imminent danger. And he probably wasn’t listening to the call - maybe he was outside the shop.

“Fine, fine, change of plans - we’re meeting at rendez-vous point number 3. Then we’re going--”

“Listen, it’s best if we reschedule and you come here. Gabriel--”

“Has no business being there. Tell him to go to Heaven,” Crowley snapped. 

“Well, I don’t think he-- can.”

“... Wait. What?”

“I’m not sure why-- well, this is unprecedented.”

Crowley blinked, mind struggling to grasp what he’d just heard, and he didn’t even realize immediately that the line of cars ahead of him had begun moving. The car behind him suddenly honked, and Crowley waved his hand. The BMW’s engine died in a sputter of sparks and smoke, and the Bentley moved another couple of meters.

“Did he - Fall?” he asked. It seemed absurd - no one had Fallen in so long - and he was too surprised to have time to feel any sort of satisfaction over it. 

“Yes and… no.”

“... Did you drink?”

“Only tea. Just… try to get here.”

“All right. Then we’re heading out, because whatever happened to him we’re not rescheduling.”

“Crowley, he’s in quite a state. I can’t just walk out and leave him here in the shop like this.”

“Of course not. First you kick him out.”

“Crowley.”

A sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll come see what this is about.”

“Thank you. I am quite confused--”

“So I can kick him out.”

“Not while he’s like this! It wouldn’t be-- nice.”

“I’m a demon, not being nice is usually my thing. And he tried to destroy you.”

A pause.  “... When he’s better, surely, it wouldn’t hurt.”

Crowley grinned. “Now you’re talking,” he said before ending the call and advancing another bloody meter, wondering just what the Heaven was going on.

***

“That is classified information.”

“Don’t classified me, Michael.”

“It is policy and you know it.”

“You were always ready to throw policy out of the window when it suited you, though. Or else this back channel wouldn’t exist.” 

Beelzebub’s voice was odious as always, buzzing through her brain, oozing malice. Michael clenched her jaw, but had nothing to retort to that other than empty phrases and falsehoods. 

Gabriel was always best at those - “There are no back channels, Michael” - and that was why, between the two of them, he was the messenger and she was the warrior. They worked well together. But Gabriel was no longer there, nor one of them: for all intents and purposes, the Archangel Gabriel had ceased to exist the moment he’d been cast out of Heaven. His duties were divided up between herself, Uriel and Sandalphon; his name would be spoken no more.

“I know one of yours fell,” Beelzebub was going on. “Don’t bother denying it. What I do not know is why has it not showed up here, in its rightful place. It’s been a long time since we got a new Fallen. We’re ready to throw it a party.”

“With sulphur involved, I imagine.”

“Our side quite enjoys sulphur.”

Not Gabriel. He would hate every second of it - but there is no more Gabriel, is there?

No Archangel Gabriel. No back channels. Michael shifted the phone on her other hand, trying to block out the memories of cries and pleas, ripping noises and ragged sobs. 

“Plus, since when do you concern yourself with what a demon would enjoy? This one is no longer your concern, and given that Crowley has gone native-- yes, Hastur? Ligur who? Oh, yes. Him. Given that we lost two demons last week, it seems only fair we claim this new one.”

And do what with him? Michael’s mind went back to the trial of the demon Crowley, of the test they had made to ensure what she had brought truly was holy water. She remembered the usher being thrown in, screaming, pleading, asking what it had done to deserve destruction.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Please! Please! No!

Michael hadn’t thought much of it, then; it was the kind of thing demons would do, and she would not flinch for the fate of a lowly hellish creature. Mercy was not for them. But now…

It hurt it hurts it hurts please stop it stop it please–  Michael, please!

“He’s not yours.” Michael’s voice rang out suddenly, sharp as glass - sharp enough to make Beelzebub fall into a confused silence for a few moments. When they spoke again, their voice was a low buzz full of anger… and what might have been genuine curiosity. 

“Oh? And how come?”

“Because he’s not like you.”

“... Do I hear an Archangel defending the honor of a demon?”

“He’s not a demon,” Michael snapped, causing them to fall silent again on the other side of the line. “He’s not one of yours. You can’t have him.”

Another few moments of silence, followed by furious buzzing. “We’ll see about that,” Beelzebub seethed. “I’m done wasting time with you. I demand a meeting with Gabriel, at least he can--”

“He is unavailable,” Michael snapped, and ended the call before throwing the phone on the ground and crushing it under her heel.

***

After putting the phone down, Aziraphale could only sit and… well, wait. 

The shop was silent, the way he liked, except for the slow, regular breathing of someone sleeping in the middle of the room, where he’d miracled a carpet into a mattress to lean Gabriel onto. His breathing hadn’t been that quiet only ten minutes earlier, when he and the… volunteer had laid him down on his stomach: it had been labored, short gasps and shuddering exhales.

Once alone with him again, Aziraphale had miracled his clothes away and he’d seen… precisely what he’d expected to see, really, but that didn’t mean he’d been prepared. 

On Gabriel’s back, over the shoulder blades, there were two gaping, bleeding wounds. Something had been torn from there, leaving behind a mess of mangled flesh and, Aziraphale was rather sure, the tiniest glimpse of exposed bone. It was unsightly and quite serious, but healing it was, for an angel, a simple enough matter. 

And he had healed them: a gesture over the wounds, and they closed… but marks had remained, dark and ragged scar tissue where angelic wings had been torn away. Those were not the kind of wounds dealt by a mortal, or a mortal weapon; those were wounds only a supernatural being - angel or demon - may have caused. It wasn’t like anything mortal could harm an angel like this, and of course the missing wings were only a part of it.

Along with them, Gabriel had been stripped of his celestial nature. It seemed impossible, but proof was before his eyes. How could that have happened? Who had done such a thing? And why--?

“Nnnhh…”

Gabriel had groaned, shifted weakly. He hadn’t lifted his head, despite having been healed; Aziraphale suspected he had not yet adjusted to his new condition. Going from angel to mortal would probably feel like going from the power of a nuclear power plant to that of a depleted battery in energy saving mode. 

“Gabriel,” he’d called out, crouching next to him. Gabriel’s barely open eyes flickered towards him, the only part of him to move, cheek still pressed against the mattress. He seemed to struggle to put him into focus, but then there was something - a spark of recognition. He’d known who he was, at least. “You’re safe here,” Aziraphale had said, like he had the slightest idea of what or who had caused it. His shop didn’t even have the defenses to keep a crazed old nipple-counting witch hunter out while he was on a conference call with the Voice of God. Maybe he should take precautions, given the fate he and Crowley barely avoided by deception.

If this had been a trap, I would have been fooled entirely. 

Gabriel had worked his jaw, but not a word came out. He’d tried to lift his head, and Aziraphale pushed it down. “No, no. Don’t try to get up,” he’d said, and glanced briefly at his back again. “... What happened?”

For a moment there was no reaction, then Gabriel’s eyes shifted back on him. He looked dazed, but this time he managed to reply. “My wings,” he rasped. “Can’t feel my wings.”

“Yes, that would be because-- er.” He’d made a vague gesture and tried to change the subject. He ought not to feel sorry for him, after what he tried to pull with Hellfire, but ah, he was soft. Maybe it was a good thing that Crowley was coming. He was the one there when Gabriel had tried to destroy him, after all. He would have more sense than him. Maybe they should kick him out before he caused them problems.  “Who did this to you?” he had asked instead.

Part of him had expected the name of… some sort of demon, perhaps; for what reason they would do this to him he couldn’t begin to imagine, because it just wasn’t how they operated, but-

“Michael,” Gabriel rasped, and Aziraphale blinked down at him, not comprehending. 

“Do you want me to call Michael?” he’d asked. Just what he needed, dealing with her now. Was she going to blame him for this? Of course she would. He had no intention to drop by in Heaven and face her, but maybe a quick phone call--

“Michael--!”

Gabriel had tried to rise, faltered, and fell heavily on his side. His eyes were wide open, staring at him and yet at nothing, chest rising and falling quickly. It was so uncharacteristic of him that it had taken Aziraphale several moments to recognize it for what it was: absolute, blind panic.

“No no no no no--”

“Shush,” Aziraphale had said, and he’d held out a hand in front of his face. The panic had faded and his features smoothed in a vacant expression. “Now, you’re going to sleep. And you’re going to have--” the most wonderful dream, he would usually say in such cases, but he’d held back. All right, he may be soft, but even he could tell Gabriel did not deserve wonderful dreams. “... A reasonably pleasant dream,” he’d finished lamely.

Oh, Crowley would be so disappointed. 

And Gabriel had gone to sleep, sure enough, naked from the waist up and scars on his back in plain sight. Aziraphale had put a blanket on him - so he wouldn’t get cold, he thought, but the truth was that looking at those scars made him uncomfortable - and then he’d called Crowley. 

And now he waited. As the minutes ticked by, Aziraphale leaned his chin on his hand, staring at the still, sleeping form of what had been an Archangel until very, very recently. He thought back of his expression, the name that had left him, the terror in his voice. 

Michael. Did Michael do this to him?

The thought seemed absurd, but then again he’d never truly expected her to gift Hell some Holy Water to destroy a demon; he had never truly expected his own side - no, not my side anymore - to try and destroy him with Hellfire. He’d never known them as well as he thought he did, and how could he? He was on Earth all along while they stayed in Heaven, pulling the strings of a world they did not understand or care about.

But I was the odd one out. The curious fellow who’d stay on Earth rather than take promotions to go back upstairs - Gabriel was one of them. 

Why turn on him? Why cast him out? Why make him human, instead of having him Fall the traditional way - and why would they be so brutal about it? What reason could there be? His thoughts kept going in circles and oh, that was going to give him such a headache, wasn’t it?

Well, for Heaven's sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors.

Crowley had quoted Gabriel’s words to him with a shrill, mocking voice over a glass of wine; while the thought of what they’d barely escaped was rather chilling, it had made him laugh. It made him chuckle now, some tension leaving him. Crowley was on his way, however slowly in the traffic, and it made him… a bit less worried. They’d figure something out, they always did. 

They had worked out how to face the wrath of Heaven and Hell and come out unscathed; dealing with an ex angel who hadn’t fallen as much as landed squarely on his face on Earth shouldn’t a huge problem. 

He wasn’t wrong on that. It would turn out to be a huge annoyance.

***

"He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart." Psalm 91:4

***

[Back to Prologue]

[Next]

[tbehartoo]

Fading Ink

A late entry for Lukanette September. This was due last week. Not beta’d but spellcheck didn’t have anything bad to say about it so??? Please enjoy.

Luka hadn’t expected the phone call from Maria or her request, but he got why she’d asked him to do it. He’d seen a local tattoo parlor that specialized in this kind of thing on his news feed a couple of days before, so he called for an appointment and was surprised when the owner herself offered to move some things around to accommodate his need. He was standing in front of the shop looking at the “Closed” sign and wondering if he’d gotten the time for the appointment wrong when a woman ran up to the door.

“Hey there,” she said as she moved the large paper bag in her hand to her opposite arm so that she could rummage in her purse. “Are you Luka? I’m Marinette. I think we spoke on the phone yesterday?”

Luka nodded as he watched her juggling coffee cup, paper bag and her purse. “Uh, can I help you with something?”

“Yes, thank you!” the coffee cup and paper bag were thrust into his open hands so that she had both of hers available to finally find her keys. “I keep meaning to put them on a hook or something so I can find them easier, but I tend to forget that until I’m standing in front of a customer being very unprofessional and making us even later than I was already running.” 

She said all of this while unlocking the security grate and rolling it up, opening the front door and flipping on the lights. Luka chuckled and followed her into the shop. He watched as she locked the door behind him a little wary.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said nodding at the door and ushered him past the front desk into the office. “Since it’s just the two of us here I don’t want anyone wandering in, not until I have Ivan at the front desk in any case.” She chuckled, “Something about seeing a highly tattooed rugby player wearing a death metal shirt just sort of discourages wanderers.”

He snickered at her statement but realized he needed to answer her question, “Uh, yeah. It’s fine.” Luka started looking around at the art on display on the walls and all over the office. “Wow, this is amazing,” he said pointing to a particularly intricate design at the front of a look book as he took a seat at the round table in the middle of the room.

The woman smiled and nodded. “You wouldn’t believe how much I had to practice that one before Tikki said I could put it out on display.”

“Who’s Tikki?” he asked, confused when the woman put the coffee cup and a napkin in front of him.

“My mentor and the former owner of the Lucky Ladybug,” she answered as she picked up a tea kettle and disappeared from the room.

Luka took the time she was gone to look through the design book. She was back after just a moment and had switched the kettle on.

“My staff prefers a variety of warm drinks,” she said as she waved toward a small area stocked with sugar, creamer, hot cocoa packets, stir sticks, and various brands of tea. “Not too many of us drink coffee so I brought that for you, but if you want sugar or cream you’ll have to add it yourself.” She got out her own mug and nabbed two tea packets before sitting at the desk in the corner. “Please feel free to ask if there’s something you might need. Or if you’d prefer tea, that’s also available.”

“What?” it took less than a second for his brain to realize what she’d said. “Oh, thanks.” He took the cup over to the counter and began mixing things to suit his taste. The lever on the kettle switched off while he was on his way back. By the time he sat down, Marinette had poured out her hot water and pulled out her sketchbook.

“As our special guest you get the first choice of the pastries,” she said as she pointed toward the plate she’d filled with a variety of morning breads. 

“Oh that’s not necessary,” he said with a small smile.

“Oh, but it is,” she said as she continued to get out pencils and erasers and wake up the computer. “When I told maman and papa that I had a client dropping by my shop in the morning, it became very necessary for you to have a plethora to choose from. Please, grab one.” She looked at him archly. “You don’t want to break mama’s heart, do you? Make sure you pick a couple to take home with you, too.”

“This seems a little excessive,” he said as he put a warm cheese danish and a flaky croissant on the napkin in front of him.

Marinette chuckled. “It is a lot excessive, but Papa lives to feed people and Maman does what she can to help support our mission. So tell me Mr. Couffaine-”

“Luka, please.”

“Okay,” she smiled warmly at him. “So tell me Luka, what are you hoping to achieve here? Do you want to just modify or completely disguise the design? Did you want to connect it with others you have? Or do you want to have it covered with color that basically matches your own skin tones?”

“I hadn’t thought about it too much,” Luka said unable to look up at the artist. “Maria asked me to get rid of it because she didn’t want to have anything connecting me to her, but- I didn’t really think of the how.”

Marinette reached out and put a comforting hand on his forearm. 

“That sounds like a really painful conversation to have.” He nodded and she continued, “Tell me Luka what does that tat mean to you?”

Luka took a deep breath. “Maria was my first real, my first serious relationship,” he confessed. “We were both young and we both knew that there was a chance that it wouldn’t last, but-” he broke off. He looked up into her eyes begging her to understand.

“But you wanted it work?” she asked quietly. "And you wanted something that would last as long as your love for her?"

He nodded.

“Do you regret getting that ink?”

He shook his head. “I don’t regret any of my ink, maybe some of my placement decisions,” he smiled as he tapped the side of his neck that had a small snake nestled there, “but not one drop of ink.” Took a deep breath and released it. “I learned a lot from Maria. I learned how nice it is to have a hand to hold, a heart beat to fall asleep to that isn’t your own, what love is and even what it isn’t. There was a lot I learned about the importance of actually communicating with each other openly and honestly. I learned what betrayal and heartbreak feel like. And I learned that I could survive all of that, even when I didn’t think I could.” He paused, “I don’t want to forget that even if she wants,” he took a deep steadying breath, “wants to forget me.”

“Those are all admirable lessons, no wonder you’d want to preserve them,” Marinette said quietly. “I’d suggest that we find something that has the same meaning for you, while erasing the design that stands for her.” She patted his arm and then sat back and picked up a pencil. “I’m very sure that we can help you through this.”

Luka took another deep breath and a small smile found a way to his lips. “Thank you.”

They spent the rest of the morning discussing possible images that had special meanings to Luka, his favorite designs among the various look books they had, and other choices that he would have to make. He showed her some of his other tattoos that were in the same area as Maria’s design, and Marinette took the time to note them and their placement on his arm and shoulder. The last thing that Marinette did before Luka had to leave was to trace the design to have the actual size and outlines to know how to design the covering tattoo as well as taking a couple of pictures to get a good idea of the colors involved.

They set up another morning meeting for him to go over potential designs and Luka hurried home clutching a few of the remaining pastries with a lighter heart then he’d had since he  answered Maria’s call.

After the second meeting, they spent the next two weeks texting back and forth as Marinette asked clarification about symbols and pictures Luka had chosen as meaningful and how he might want them combined. She also asked about his surrounding tattoos and their backstories. Luka asked about how she got into her profession and why her shop was so adamant about removing tattoos that people wanted erased. Once they had exhausted the topic of skin art they moved on to Luka’s music (he sent her a few links so she could listen) and Marinette’s role as permanent taste tester for her parent’s baking experiments (she promised him an opportunity to have the full Tom et Sabine guinea pig experience once he was back in town). They discovered that they had quite a few places around town that they both enjoyed going to and Luka was surprised that they hadn’t run into each other before this. Marinette listened as Luka told her everything about his time with Maria and she reciprocated with stories of her past partners. They talked about their heartbreaks and laughed over silly moments and clever memes. 

Luka was surprised how quickly it felt like he’d met up with his best friend after a long separation, instead of someone who was practically a stranger. There were people he’d known for years that he didn’t feel as comfortable to be himself around as he did with Marinette. 

By the end of the second week, she sent three possible designs for him to choose from. Luka was floored by what he saw. Each design was so different from the other, and yet he could tell that Maria’s tattoo would be well and truly erased, while the meaning would not. When he was still trying to choose over a week later, Marinette invited Luka to another early morning appointment to see if she could help him eliminate at least one of the designs.

Luka showed up carrying coffee for himself and tea for Marinette as well as a bag with breakfast sandwiches from his favorite bagelry. Marinette was frantically searching her bag for keys and Luka couldn’t help but laugh.

“I told you I’d pick up breakfast so you’d have time to beat me here,” he said when she whirled to look at him. He noticed the pink growing in her cheeks, but didn’t remark on it. “What happened?”

Marinette yawned before replying, “We had a group walk in about an hour before closing wanting to get matching tattoos. They were suspiciously sober and totally sincere.” She looked up with what looked like tears in the corners of her eyes. “One of their rugby teammates was in the last stages of an aggressive cancer. He’d been worried about his little girl growing up and not knowing who he was and what was important to him.” She stopped for a moment to collect herself. “One of them recorded the conversation and he’d listed several things,” she smiled weakly up at Luka as she pulled out keys and turned back to the security gate while continuing her story. “Later they realized his list contained as many items as there were teammates. The four who had visited him sent the video out to the rest of their team and asked for suggestions to put the guy’s fears to rest.” She got choked up as she flipped on lights and locked the door behind them. “They all decided to get a tattoo together. We came up with a very simple design: a rugby ball, one word from the list, and an infinity sign under it.” She grabbed a tissue to dab at her eyes, but continued to usher Luka into the office. “We only had two people that could do the actual inking.” She chuckled, “Ivan was so busy trying to get everyone prepped that I think he might actually skip his next practice because he can’t stand to see that ball again so soon.” Luka offered a smile as she continued to talk. “We just had to disinfect and reset because they’d already discussed placement and everything. They got all the guys from the team down here, too- including their coaches. They wanted to go by his house this morning to show off their idea.” She’d just switched in the computer when she looked at the table to see that Luka had set up a place for her to eat, she joined him at the table. “While they were getting their tats they talked about the guy. They talked about what he’d brought to their team, and what he’d taught them, and how much they were going to miss him.” She took a sip of her tea and sighed. “It was pretty emotional and it lasted long past closing time. But they were good guys. They ordered in pizza and we even found some cardstock so they made him a card to take by today, too.”

“It sounds exhausting,” Luka replied as he unwrapped his sandwich.

“It was.” Marinette reached for her sandwich, but decided to put her arms on the table and rest on them instead.

“We could’ve rescheduled,” Luka said. “I’m not an unreasonable ogre about this.”

“You’ve been a peach,” Marinette said through another yawn. “But I know that Maria has hounded you about not getting that taken care of yet.”

“You do?” Luka was surprised. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.

“Did you forget I follow your band on Insta?” she muttered. “There was some girl going off about you not doing the simplest thing she asked and then telling you you couldn’t have her design on your body for like-” she stopped to think “-twenty lines in all caps. I don’t know her personally, but I was pretty sure that was her.” She made herself more comfortable on her pillow of arms. “You deserve better treatment than that from someone you love.”

“Oh, you saw that?” Luka had blocked her and removed the comment as soon as he saw it pop up.

“Well, seeing as how she did it at least four times in thirty minutes that I know of,” she smiled through closed eyes at him, “Yeah. I saw it. It made me want to do two conflicting things.”

“Which were?”

“Redo the design bigger and better, but add neon and blacklight inks so that it shows up under any, and all, lighting conditions.”

Luka was sniggering at the suggestion. “And the other?”

“Put such a kickass design over her ink that she can’t ever claim to have that connection to you again.”

She said it with such warmth that Luka couldn’t help feeling a spark of happiness at her words. For the first time he was actually eager to have Maria’s tattoo paved over.

“I think we should go with that second idea,” he replied.

She sighed dramatically. “Well, you are the client so you do get to make that choice. But if you want to go the first route, I have some really excellent neons I’ve been dying to try out.”

They both chuckled, but were interrupted by the computer signaling it had finally booted up.

Marinette raised her head from the table, but hadn’t opened her eyes when Luka put a hand on her shoulder.

“You said you’d put the designs in an animation to show me what they’d actually look like on my arm, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Would it be okay for me to watch it while you grab a quick cat nap?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Marinette said as she got up. “But I’ll show you how to switch between the three designs and you can take your time looking.” She sat at the computer and pulled up a couple of programs, then motioned for Luka to come over to the desk.

“This is the file where your designs are stored. You just have to open it up and click on either the LC 1, LC 2, or LC5 to get the designs I showed you. This program,” she pointed to the one showing what looked like a generic 3D model of a human with a photograph of his arm superimposed on it in the display, “knows how to take the design from the file and put it in the right place and orientation. We can manipulate it later to get it just right, but you can turn the model and the arm to get a better idea of how it will look to you and to the people around you.”

She quickly demonstrated by clicking on LC 1 and the first design was up and covering Maria’s tattoo. 

“That’s pretty cool,” Luka remarked watching intently.

“This layer isn’t opaque, so you actually get a pretty good idea of what this will look like in real life. I know you were worried about how bright that green was but if you look at it now-”

“It’s exactly the shade I was describing to you,” Luka said with a little awe.

“See? I told you I knew what I was doing.”

“I never doubted for a minute.”

“You doubted the green for two days,” she reminded him.

“Well that’s not exactly a minute,” he said in his defense.

“True.” She couldn’t help another yawn. “I’m going to go drink my tea and eat the lovely breakfast someone so thoughtfully brought to see if I can wake up some. You can join me or play with this-”

The words had barely left her lips and Luka was reaching out to grab the mouse to click on the next design.

“Well that answers that question,” she said with a smile and exchanged places with him.

She showed him how to turn the arm and the model then sat at the table with her tea. She tried not to stare while he clicked and hummed at the different designs. But she stole a glance as often as she could.

She thought over what her job meant to people as she ate. Those guys last night were memorializing a fallen comrade. Luka was removing the last piece of a hurtful relationship. So many others had come to redeem painful mistakes from their past, or embed lost children forever into their hearts. Countless women had received freedom from abusive spouses or pimps through her work, those ones were always done for free. Good times, heartbreaks, family and friends lost and often ones found were all etched into the people that came through her doors. It was a privilege to be a part of so many people’s stories.

She became aware that Luka had stopped clicking and stood up to see what he’d chosen.

“I want this one,” he said as she drew nearer.

Marinette stopped in her tracks. “But that’s not even- I mean it’s not a final- How did you even get to that?”

Luka pointed to the file where his designs were stored. “I wanted to see what these LCS designs were.” He grinned at her. “Imagine my delight when I saw that you’d done sleeves to incorporate my new design with my old ink, too.”

“I was just doodling that stuff.” Marinette was still recovering from seeing his delight at the warm up practices she did. “It was like doing random drawing prompts or those cooking shows where you get five ingredients and have to make a meal. It wasn’t like a serious design choice.”

“Why not? This one is perfect! I has my music, my family, some of my other art interests and even a really rad snake that looks like it should be on my next record album. This is so my life tied together in a beautiful picture” He looked up at her. “This is totally what I’d want to see every day when I wake up. Please, tell me we can do it.”

Marinette nodded. “It will take several visits just for the line work,” she pointed out.

“I can make time for that,” he said with a grin.

“Only the part that covers the old tat will be at the low price I told you. Some of this will be a lot more expensive.”

“Okay. That’s fine by me but I only want you to do it. No one else from the shop.”

“But my apprentices can do the fill for so much cheaper-” she began.

“No, Marinette. I only want Maria’s tattoo covered by ink from the hands that took the time to find out who I am and what I need to be happy. I want it not only covered but I want the area around it filled with the music and love that you bring out of me.” He reached up and took her hand. “We can do that, can’t we?”

She stared deeply into his eyes and found nothing but love and admiration in them.

“When do you want to start?” she asked.

He broke into a grin. “How about now?”

“We have to wait for Ivan to get here, and I have to look at my schedule, but I think I can work you in.”

Luka let out a whoop and sprang up to be pulled into a tight embrace. He was leaning down to give her a kiss when she put a finger across his lips, halting him.

“No dating till after it’s finished,” she said. “Nothing good ever comes from kissing your clients.”

He laughed and pulled her in for another hug.

“Okay, but when it’s done I’m taking you out. Okay?”

She nodded. “Okay.” She took a step back from his arms and waved at the table where their half finished breakfast waited. “I can zap these for a minute and we can finish our food while we wait.”

In a couple of minutes they were sitting at the table and Marinette looked at Luka.

“I still say the expense is going to be pretty high for a struggling musician.”

Luka smirked at her. “M I regularly tour with Jagged Stone. I can afford to have you on retainer for the rest of our lives. I’m only struggling because I’m fronting my own band, with Jagged’s backing, and I’m not used to being the one everyone knows.”

The amazed look on the woman’s face made Luka laugh. Luka’s laugh made Marinette laugh. Marinette’s laugh made Luka laugh harder. 

Ivan was greeted by the sound of laughter when he turned the key in the front door’s lock. He smiled to himself. It was going to be a great day.

[kiruuuuu]

Don’t worry, generic or not, I appreciate every compliment, @tubby-custard68! Thank you ❤ And this prompt is fantastic: I love Bandit/Jäger, I can feed @magehir‘s obsession with Blitz/Rook and I seem to enjoy writing about drunk people for some reason. I hope you like it! (Rating T, fluff/humour, ~1.5k words)

.

“Look, is it normal for Germans to be absolute snobs about beer?”

Bandit side-eyes the young Frenchman next to him curiously while he pays for his smokes. He distinctly remembers Jäger telling him to be nicer to Rook despite the fact they’re all at least ten years older than him and the only one who really cares about him is Blitz. Even so, he insists on dragging his boytoy wherever they go which is fair enough, Bandit supposes, he does the same with Jäger as well when the SAS operators go out for drinks, only Jäger isn’t as timid and young and desperate to fill silences as Rook. “Yeah”, he replies in an effort to humour him, “we invented and perfected beer, I’ve not found a single foreign brand that I like.”

“Oh! They have ice cream!” Excitedly, Rook bounces over to the small freezer and peers inside, making Bandit sigh inwardly.

“Make it quick. And are you sure you want to spend all the money you just withdrew on -” He trails off as he turns around, finding the Frenchman with an armful of various popsicles and even a few tubs of Ben and Jerry’s as well as a comically guilty expression. “Jesus Christ, when people ask you to buy a round, they don’t mean fucking ice cream, you moron, put it back. My God, just being in the same room with you must be like herding kittens.”

“Elias doesn’t complain”, Rook chirps, pouting slightly but at least sorting the ice cream and returning it to the freezer, leaving only an almond Magnum that admittedly looks very tempting right now. Rook pauses momentarily before reaching into the cold box once again, fishing out a second one and approaching the till to pay.

“He’d never complain. You could probably piss in his mouth and receive heartfelt thanks for it.” The cashier is now looking at him weirdly so he leaves the store they spotted on their way back to the pub and shakes one of the cigarettes out of the pack, places it between his lips. It’s not that he dislikes Rook, it’s more that he prefers the Frenchman to not be anywhere in his vicinity. Before he can light it, however, there’s a popsicle shoved under his nose. He blinks once, twice, unsure what to do because he does like Magnums. “I hate almonds”, he says and Rook rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be a bitch”, he says which, okay, he deserves that one, so Bandit puts away the cigarette and instead rips open the wrapping. “And don’t pretend your boyfriend is much better. We’re all wearing rose-coloured glasses here and it’s not going to kill you to admit it.”

“Tell yourself that, I’m not the one completely dick whipped here.” The chocolate breaks between his teeth with a satisfying crunch and distracts him from the fact that Rook isn’t walking next to him anymore but rather has stopped, staring after him with an entirely unamused expression. “What?”

“Remember when his car broke and you were unfailingly on time for a week because you offered to give him a lift and didn’t want him to feel bad about being late? Because I do. And you weren’t even together then, that’s how desperate you were.” Bandit scowls at him and earns a chuckle in return. “How do I know about this? You whined to Elias. Endlessly.”

“Now’s the perfect time to shut up, baguette du fromage, it’s not like you’re any better. You hover around him like a mother hen – I get second hand embarrassment just from the way you coo over the idiot.”

“But that’s my point. We’re in the same boat, we both are stupidly in love with a German dork.”

“Speak for yourself”, Bandit grumbles and turns away to keep walking. He’s getting oversaturated with young operators who think they know better than him despite the fact he could theoretically be their dad. A horrifying thought. “I got the better deal, in any case. My dork knows how to suck dick at least.”

“Yeah? You really want to go there?”, Rook asks and tries to sound challenging which gets undermined by his face flushing a cute shade of red. “Why does everything have to be a competition with you?”

“Oh, we can make it a competition. About which of our boyfriends is the bigger dumbass.”

“What does that even mean?”

Bandit ponders his own suggestion for a short while as they both eat their ice cream in silence. “How about… we keep buying them alcohol and the one who refuses first wins. And don’t think it’ll be easy, Marius is wary now because I do things to him drunk that he wouldn’t let me do to him sober, so he’s got a strong incentive not to end up shit-faced.”

Rook grimaces at the mental image. “Really, I don’t need to know what you grandpas get up to in your free time.” And the only reason why Bandit doesn’t immediately retort something equally as snide is because he’s actually looking forward to the challenge now. They negotiate the rules the rest of the way until the youngling finally agrees right before they dive back into the thick, stuffy air of the pub they left about half an hour ago, maybe more. They ended up taking their time, surprisingly. Bandit suspects Blitz and Jäger sent the two of them away together on purpose, hoping they’ll end up bonding over God knows what even though they’re nothing alike and share next to no common interests.

A high-pitched shriek reaches their ears even before they spot Bandit’s teammates and they look at each other dubiously, both of them realising it’s Blitz who produced that noise. They find the two huddled by a corner table, fighting over a phone and sporting wide, goofy grins that immediately spark a feeling of dread in Bandit. “You’ve never been sent to the principal? Really?”, Jäger is asking incredulously as they approach the table, only to completely abandon whatever it is they were doing as soon as he catches sight of Bandit. He basically catapults himself out of his chair and wraps himself all around him, leaving entirely too wet kisses on the side of his neck and face and mumbles: “Hey babe, you were gone forever.” Blitz follows him suit, not to be bested by his friend, and hums contentedly into Rook’s shoulder after embracing him tightly.

They’re wasted. Rook and Bandit exchange another glance, this one decidedly bemused. Even in their shared exasperation, Rook mouths babe at him and smirks. “Hey, croissant, what is it that bees make out of pollen again?”, Bandit wants to know.

“Honey?”

“Yeah? What is it?”, Blitz replies dazedly and Bandit snorts at Rook’s defeated expression.

“The fuck did you guys do while we were away?”

“Okay”, Jäger starts and interrupts himself by sucking so viciously on Bandit’s skin that it actually hurts, “okay, look. We didn’t – Elias found some money after all and we were bored and there’s this Rice Purity Test online and -”

“You’re a depraved human being”, Blitz tells him gravely and the two devolve into helpless giggling again, much to their boyfriends’ dismay.

“How much did you drink?”

The two Germans untangle themselves from their lovers and start counting, correcting each other to the point of having to start over, dropping references to their test results that leave them breathless and holding on to each other for support as they slowly delve deeper into hysterics and it’s hopeless. Nowadays, they rarely get to spend time alone so Bandit can understand the sentiment of wanting to catch up, shoot the shit, whatever, only this definitely went too far. He forgot that they’re notorious for enabling each other. Rook watches the whole thing both resignedly as well as extremely amused, mirroring Bandit’s mood perfectly and isn’t this just great. They get to bond after all, even if it’s over the combined stupidity of two people that unfortunately do mean a lot to them.

“Let’s cancel the challenge”, Bandit tells him with a sigh, “we both lose.”

Rook laughs good-naturedly, making Bandit realise he’s not actually that bad after all. Maybe they can have other competitions in the future – it’s rare enough that Bandit can mock someone else for being as ridiculously infatuated as he himself is. “Yeah. I agree. Let’s just get them home, I think they’ve had enough.”

“Are we going hooome?”, Jäger picks up on the most important part of what they just said and melts against Bandit once more, all eager and loose limbs. “Are you going to do the thing again?”

“Of course I’m going to do the thing. You look so pretty when you cry.”

“Oh my God”, says Rook and this is an added bonus to keeping him around because Bandit thoroughly enjoys the scandalised expression on his face that only worsens when Blitz starts whispering in his ear as well.

[phoenix-k-scriven-fiction]

Mermaids, Macking, and a Little Thing Called Murder

At the age of twenty-three, Ana has all the freedom of youth, and a goal to match: she wants to chronicle the facts and fictions of unsolved crimes that happen to be surrounded by rumors of something beyond the natural. Whether kidnappings mired in faerie tales or property destruction explained away as ghosts, there’s always both a mundane story and a magical one behind every mystery, and splicing the two together spoke to the local culture in a way that made Ana downright giddy.

Unfortunately for Ana, the research trip to Grandmarch Bay unveils something entirely unexpected: an actual mermaid. Even as her research into a death from over twenty years ago starts to turn up startling elements that just don’t fit, she finds herself circling closer and closer to the girl with the gorgeous laugh.

Ana’s still unraveling the story for her book, but those eyes and that voice and that pretty, pretty face may prove to be more of a distraction than she can afford.

Welcome to the first chapter of my original story and the first publicly-available installment of my “Fae Horizons” universe. Chapters will be released to tumblr a week after Patreon for those who can’t afford to pledge. For early access, become a patron now!

Chapter One

Ana lifted a hand to her head to keep her hat in place, squinting against the wind that tore down the coast. It didn’t take more than a moment’s thought to decide that the temperature was low enough to warrant her bomber jacket. She ducked back inside, pulled on the brown leather, and left. A glance at the skies as she stepped out of the Bed and Breakfast showed her only pale clouds and a handful of seagulls.

At least it wasn’t raining.

Sturdy heels thudded quietly against the cobblestone of the side road, just as grey and mottled as the sky. The scuffed brown toes of her boots peeked out from under swishing blue skirts with every step, and she felt a tiny bit of tension bleed out from her shoulders as she made it to the flatter asphalt of the main road. Cobblestone was nice, of course, but it was so much easier to trip on than a flat surface.

Ana aimed for the bakery, a small part of her perking up like a child when she heard the bell over the door tinkle as she stepped through. The small building was warm, and the smells that drifted over from the display case were comforting. There wasn’t anyone in sight, so she tucked her hands behind her back and strode up and down past the glass for a few minutes, taking the time to make her decision for breakfast.

“Oh!”

Ana looked up and saw a woman stepping out of the backroom and into the store proper. Early thirties, maybe, probably Latina, and clearly one of the bakers, if the flour she was wiping off of her hands and forearms was any sign. Ana smiled and gave the woman a small wave. “Hi.”

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” the woman said. “I’m Janice. What can I get for you?”

“Can I get a chocolate croissant and two squares of the banana bread?”

“Coming right up!”

Ana waited at the cash register, credit card in hand. She passed it over when Janice came.

“Sorry, but I’m going to need ID if you want to use a card,” Janice said, giving her an apologetic smile. “I know everyone here by name, so I don’t need an ID most of the time, but for strangers like yourself…”

“Not a problem,” Ana said, digging out her license. “By the way, I don’t suppose you could tell me where I could go about getting information on the town’s recent history and urban legends, could you?”

“The library might be a good place to start. Or, well, the librarian, I guess,” Janice said. “I’d also give the pub a shot, in the evening. Some of the retired fishermen have a whole host of stories, you know?”

“I figured, yeah,” Ana said, smiling in what she hoped was a flattering manner. “So… can I have my card back?”

“Sure, Miss Ga…” Janice’s smile fell as she tried to read the name. “Um. Ga—”

“Ljiljana Gavrilović,” Ana cut her off, holding back a sigh. Every time. Wasn’t Janice’s fault, though, so she didn’t really deserve the bitching. “Don’t bother trying to say it; American ears can’t pick up some of the sounds properly. Call me Ana.”

“Can’t say I’ve seen a name like that in a while,” Janice said, handing the license over and moving to swipe the credit card through. “Russian?”

“Serbian,” Ana said, pulling the smile back up. “Still Slavic, but further south.”

“Serbia…” Janice made a face like she was trying to remember something. “Like the whole Kosovo thing?”

“…yeah,” Ana said, her voice almost as flat as her expression. “Like the whole Kosovo thing. Where’s the library?”

“Down the street and take a left into Hudson Court,” Janice said, passing over the card and bag of baked goods. “Are you o—”

“Thanks,” Ana said, turning and heading for the door as she slipped the card back into her purse. It swung open with a tinkle of bells that Ana did her best to ignore as she stepped back out onto the street and headed in the direction of the library.

Of course the one thing the woman knew about Serbia was the freaking Kosovo conflict. Of course it was. Why had she expected anything else?

She slowed down after a few buildings and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. The woman hadn’t known how much of a pet peeve this was. She hadn’t deserved the rudeness. And—

Ana looked down at her hands and, with conscious effort, unclenched the one that didn’t have a paper bag of goodies hanging from it. Her nails, short as they were, had dug into her skin and left deep indentations. There wasn’t any blood or ripped skin, though, so it didn’t seem like she’d damaged herself, at least.

She took another deep breath and turned, heading for the library.

o.o.o.o.o

“The Higgins drowning?”

“Yeah,” Ana said, leaning forward and trying on a smile. “I’m a journalist, but recently I’ve been trying to do a book on deaths that had supernatural stories attached to them. Gathering basic facts on the case is first, then local legends for context, and then the actual story.”

“Hm…” the woman tapped her pen against her lips. “I can help you find the newspapers, though they’ll be on microfiche. We’ve only got the last twelve years digitized, and this was… twenty-three years ago? It’ll be hardcopy, and I can’t let you take it out of the building since you don’t have a card with us.”

“I can work with that,” Ana said.

“You might be able to get some information from the police, if you drop by,” she continued. “There’s only about two dozen people there, and they don’t get much activity in a town this small. They’ll probably have time for you.”

“Only?” Ana asked.

“We’re not quite that small,” the librarian said with a wry smile. She shifted just enough for Ana to see the nametag on her chest. Laura. Huh. “But yes, I think I can make this work. You may want to stop by the pub on the waterfront. The retirees like to talk about this sort of thing, so you’ll be able to get the local legends out of them, for your background research.”

“I figured,” Ana said with a nod. “Are there any other possibilities, or can I start with the papers immediately?”

“I think that’s a good base for now,” Laura said, getting up. “I’ll show you the newspapers you’ll want, and once you’re done with those, I can point you in the right direction for the rest.”

“Thank you.”

“Adam! Come take over the desk for a minute!”

The microfiches weren’t in the best condition, but they were still more than workable. They gave Ana minimal information, but enough that she’d be able to turn what she’d found into the bulk of the introduction for the chapter on the Higgins drowning. She jotted down the names of the people involved, from the officers to the reporters, and made a note to stop by the newspaper’s main office and see if they had some more information.

As the clock struck noon, she reluctantly finished up what she could and moved back to her computer. Much as she loved working on the book, she did still have a day job, and while she was allowed to choose her own hours, to work from home, and to travel as she wished… she nonetheless did need to actually work. She did still have articles to write for the site.

Right. So. Today’s assignment was… compiling opinions on some new brand of lipstick. It had been out for two days already, and was from a popular enough company that there were probably reviews from makeup vloggers and on the company’s own site already.

Shouldn’t be too hard, she thought, and got to work.

o.o.o.o.o

On a sunny day in late August, 1995, twenty-seven-year-old William Higgins was found dead on the beach by a family out to enjoy the weather.1 Just a few hundred feet beyond the town limits of Grandmarch Bay, the death fell into the town’s jurisdiction, and was investigated by a detective from the local police department.2 The body was severely bruised, in a manner that suggested there had been a struggle with an attacker, and covered in scratches that forensics suggested occurred around the time of death. The scratches occurred in patterns that appeared to be made by either human or animal, rather than being caused by the rocks underwater after the drowning occurred.3

Higgins’ family and friends had related to the police and reporters that he had been drawing away from them recently, and visiting a set of caves north of the town. His truck was found near the caves, but the only prints found in the area matched his shoes. The case was declared a murder, but never solved, and all suspects were released due to a lack of motive and evidence.

o.o.o.o.o

“Hey.”

Ana looked up from her computer, though it took a few moments for the last wisps of ‘chemical compositions liable to cause allergic reactions in those with peanut sensitivities’ to clear from the front of her mind. She blinked at the man in front of her. “Er… hi?”

“I’m Adam,” he said, leaning over the table and holding out one hand.

“Ana,” she said, reaching out to shake the hand. “What’s up?”

“I’m one of the librarians here,” he told her. “It’s a bit slow here right now, so I have some free time and figured I’d check in on how you were handling the microfiches. I was wondering if you needed some help with that project you were telling Laura about?”

“Not at the moment,” Ana said. “I shifted into doing some articles for my day job a few hours ago, so right now I’m working on that. I can come find you once I go back to the research project, if you’re still game to help.”

“Ah. Any idea when that’ll be?” Adam asked.

Ana looked down at her computer and tried to gauge the word count. “Hour and a half, maybe?”

“My shift’s over in two hours, so if you still need help and I’m still around then, feel free to call me over,” Adam said, nodding. “You’re not the first person to come through looking for information on that case, but I think you’re the first that’s trying to put together both the mundane facts and the stories.”

“I like fusing the two,” Ana said. “There’s a level of intrigue there, I think. Why twist the facts when presenting them as they are and then showing the stories alongside is just as interesting? It’s… I’d say it’s more of a cultural study than anything. I’m not trying to solve the mysteries, or declare that there were supernatural forces involved. I just want to know what the stories were.”

“Seems interesting.”

“It is, but I really do have to get back to work, so…” Ana gestured at her computer again, and smiled as Adam excused himself.

Ana went back to reading the health report.

o.o.o.o.o

And here I was, Ana thought as she jumped around the video from one of the beauty vloggers and tried to find the quote she’d wanted to pull, doing her best to make sure she had it word-for-word, Almost forgetting how incredibly gay I am.

It really wasn’t a good idea to get distracted by how cute the vloggers were when she was supposed to be working. That was one of the job hazards, though. Obviously.

She dropped her head onto her arms and groaned.

Holy shit, I am so gay.

“Miss?”

Ana raised her head, and met the eyes of a little girl who couldn’t have been more than nine. “Hi?”

“Are you okay?” the little girl asked.

“I’m fine,” Ana said. “I’m just a little tired. My job is taking a while to do.”

“Okay!” The little girl said, waving as she left.

Ana pushed herself up straight and tilted her head to work out the kinks. Her neck crackled, an ugly sound that was loud enough to draw the attention of the girl from earlier, but Ana put a finger to her lips and winked at the girl, who covered her own mouth with her hands and ran off, giggling. Ana hunkered down and focused as best she could, finally finding the quote and finishing off her article. With a few minutes taken to make sure her links and references were in order, she sent it off to the editor.

Leaning back in her chair, Ana stretched and groaned. Her head fell back with a heavy sigh, and she tried to reorient her mindset towards the case she’d been researching. One glance at the microfiches was enough to have her sighing yet again, and she pulled the reader towards herself to hook it up to her computer again, and moved to reo—

Her stomach growled.

Oh. She’d skipped lunch, hadn’t she? Damn. It was almost three o’clock, and the library closed at seven…

Ana sent another look at the microfiches, biting her lip. She had the time… but she didn’t really want to put lunch off any longer, now that she’d remembered to be hungry, and she didn’t want to bother Laura to get it out again later, and she didn’t always want to rely on just the PDFs she’d saved…

Biting her lip, she got to her feet and headed for the front desk. Her things were visible from there, so it wasn’t much of a risk to leave them there for a moment or two.

“Well, hello there!” Adam said as she approached, grinning. “Something come up?”

“I was wondering if you guys had a printer on hand? I need to go to lunch, but I’m not done with the microfiches, and I don’t want to bother you for them again later. I’d like hardcopies to look over later anyway, so getting them printed would be best,” Ana explained.

“I have about fifteen minutes left,” Adam said, “Which should be just enough to help you out with that. Laura! I’m gonna go help the outta-stater!”

Laura, in the middle of checking out a book for a middle-aged man, lifted a hand in acknowledgement, but didn’t look over.

“So,” Adam said as he led the way over to the printers. “Where are you headed after your lunch?”

“Newspaper office, then police station, depending on how long the first takes,” Ana said. “After that, probably tomorrow… I’ll see about visiting people of interest, especially if the officers or reporters aren’t employed anymore, and then I’ll go down to the tavern that’s apparently on the waterfront to see if any of the older fellas have the mermaid stories I came here to find in the first place.”

“Organized,” Adam said. “Do you have those microfiche files saved anywhere?”

“I got them as PDFs on my computer,” Ana confirmed. “Can I print from there?”

“No, sorry. It needs to be from a library computer, so I was hoping for a USB,” Adam admitted. “Well, I guess we can bring the microfiches and the reader over and go from there.”

“You’re the specialist here, so sure,” Ana said.

Printing out the paper copies did indeed take the full fifteen minutes, and Ana packed away her bag with a sense of satisfaction. She’d actually gotten a lot done today.

“So.”

Ana yelped, scrambling not to drop her bag and turning around.

Adam stared at her, wide-eyed. “Uh. I promise I wasn’t trying to scare you?”

Ana put a hand to her chest, willing her heart to slow down. “Holy smokes. Okay. Hi. I kinda thought you left already.”

“Sorry,” Adam said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I figured that if you’re from out of town, then you probably don’t know any of the good places to eat. If you’re okay with eating with a stranger, I could show you someplace before you head for the police station.”

Ana squinted at him. “Like… a date?”

“Uh, no.”

“Oh, thank god,” she muttered.

“…should I be offended?” Adam asked.

“Dating while on a research trip is just a level of complicated that I really don’t feel like navigating right now,” Ana admitted. “Also… lesbian.”

“Ah.” Adam nodded for a few moments, and then said, “Trans.”

“I didn’t want to assume.”

“I’ve been on T for long enough that I don’t think most people realize it,” he said. “So…”

“I hang out in a lot of queer circles back in New York, and after a while there’s just a feel for who happens to be which shade of the rainbow,” Ana said.

“So what you’re saying is that you’ve got gaydar?” Adam said with a grin.

“And I saw the trans flag pin on your shoulder strap,” Ana admitted, nodding at Adam’s bag and laughing when she saw his mouth open and close in surprise. “So… lunch?”

“How do you feel about clam chowder?”

o.o.o.o.o

“So... small town, trans kid. It’s safe here?” Ana asked as they walked down the street, hands hanging off the strap to her messenger bag.

“Well,” Adam hedged, drawing the word out. “I grew up here, so there wasn’t really much of a choice in both being myself and being in the closet. Either I didn’t transition, or I got out of the closet. Or left, but I do like it here, so...”

“I think I can get that,” Ana said, nodding. “So everyone’s okay with it?”

“I think they just got used to it, honestly,” Adam admitted. “I left town for a few years when I was getting my degree, and I looked different enough when I got back that I just... I don’t know. College was good to me. Going away for that long means that I went through the in-between stages of transitioning in a safer environment.”

“But home is home?” Ana guessed.

“Yeah.”

Ana bit her lip, mulling over what the best question to ask now would be. “So... what did you study?’

“Informational sciences,” Adam said. “You?”

“Double major in journalism and anthropology,” Ana said. “I like writing and I like studying culture, so... yeah. Minors?”

“Hebrew, believe it or not,” Adam said, and then grinned when Ana raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“As someone who knows another language due to growing up with it,” Ana said. “I’m always weirdly impressed by people who learn one later in life.”

“I mean, I did know some growing up. Learned some from my parents and at the synagogue. This was just refining and expanding it and whatnot,” Adam said. “You?”

“Serbian.”

“No, no,” Adam laughed. “I mean, like, your minors.”

“Oh! Uh, didn’t have any room in my schedule since I was double-majoring, honestly,” Ana admitted. “I did do volleyball, though? Club, instead of division, but it was definitely enough to keep me in shape.”

“You could probably bench me, huh?”

Ana snorted. “Hardly. I could probably bench a kid, but not most adults.”

“Most?”

“Some people are smaller or skinnier than others, and I’ve got shoulder muscles for days,” Ana said, stopping to turn to Adam and flex, holding the pose for just long enough that the joke of her jacket blocking the actual view managed to soak in. She chuckled and dropped her arms, setting back off down the sidewalk. “You?”

“Track,” Adam confirmed, and then slowed down and veered to the side, holding open the door of a restaurant off to the side. “After you, milady.”

Ana blinked at him. “Really.”

“Can’t have a little fun playing with the idea of old-fashioned chivalry?’ Adam asked.

“We’re not exactly at a Ren Faire,” Ana said, but gave a shallow curtsy anyway, skirt swishing as she lifted it. She walked past him and through the open door. “Now show me this clam chowder you claimed is the best in town.”

“Damn straight I will,” Adam said with a grin, following her in.

[coffee-obsessed-writer]

Hooked on a Feeling (Teaser)

Dean Winchester x Reader

Song: Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Swede

A/N: Part 3 in the “Hunting for Home” Series. Just a little teaser... I swear this is supposed to be done already. But, you know.... LIFE.... The reader has been staying in the bunker for a while, and Dean FINALLY makes his move.

Hunting For Home

Part 1: The Halloween Party 

Part 2: Over the Hills and Far Away

Warnings: None really, YET - OH maybe a line of dialogue from the show. Just one though ;)

Only tagging a few for the teaser: @srj1990 @aquivercactus @kazosa @sorenmarie87  @soythedemonqueen @lefthologramdeer @rockyhorrorpictureshowstyle @redm81

The bunker was cold in the mornings. You had mentioned it once and the next day Dean returned from a quick outing with a brand-new bathrobe and pair of slippers. Being cute, he chose a pair of ninja turtle slippers for you, but secretly you didn’t hate them.

Waking up before Dean was never unusual, but being up before Sam was not something that had happened in the three weeks you had been staying with the Winchesters. Sam was up with coffee made and breakfast on the counter most mornings, to which you were always grateful.

As you made your way down the hallway, you realized that the kitchen was still dark, and the smell of the perking caffeine was not in the air. Flipping on the light, you stood with your hands on your hips and wondered where the youngest Winchester was.

Your stomach began to growl while you were putting the coffee on, and decided to return the favor and make the guys a nice big breakfast. Pulling your cell phone from your robe pocket, you turned on your favorite playlist and let it play. Getting all the ingredients out, you went about making breakfast and enjoying the music.

Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Swede queued up and you hit the volume up a few decibels. With the stove going and oven on for the croissants, the kitchen became warm enough to take off your robe. You threw it over one of the stools, and dancing to the music, moved about the kitchen preparing a big breakfast.

Ooga-chaka Ooga-Ooga Ooga-chaka Ooga-Ooga

Cracking the eggs into the bowl, you moved the whisk to the beat of the song and when the lyrics kicked in, you didn’t try to stop from singing along.

I can't stop this feeling Deep inside of me Girl, you just don't realize What you do to me

Pouring the eggs into the pan, and laying the bacon into the other, the aromas of morning filled up the kitchen causing your stomach to growl louder. You were so wrapped up in cooking and the song, you didn’t hear Dean shuffle his way into the entry of the kitchen.

The music wasn’t the thing that had woken him, but it was what finally got his feet out of bed and on the floor. It was the allure of the coffee and bacon sizzling that prompted him to head straight to the kitchen. Dean could hear her singing along to the music and felt the grin unravel across his lips.

Stopping right outside of the entry, he watched her move around the kitchen with abandon, swaying her hips to the music and singing along. Her (y/h/l) (y/h/c) hair still messy from sleep, and wearing the t-shirt he’d lent her when she first came to stay, Dean watched her quietly, the smile never fading.

Y/N had become his favorite part about being home. She was only supposed to stay long enough to weather the fallout from the shifter hunt and grieve for Harley. After a week, she seemed to be dealing with everything and when she offered to go, Dean’s scrambled for a reason to get her to stay.

He was surprised by the reaction he had to the notion of her leaving. Somehow, he convinced her to hang there a bit longer and when she saw that even Sam was on his side, she decided to stay.

Lost in thought, Dean didn’t hear Sam coming down the hallway. A hand clapped down on his shoulder causing Dean to jump and clutching his chest. Sam snorted a laugh and shook his head.

“What are you doing?” Sam peaked into the kitchen and saw Y/N still grooving to the music. “Ah, being a stalker, I see.”

“Shut up, am not,” Dean looked away quickly, trying to avoid his brother’s gaze. “Just didn’t want to interrupt, she’s clearly having a good time in there…” he trailed off as he glanced back into the kitchen, the smirk playing at his lips again.

“Right, whatever you say Dean. I don’t get why you don’t just ask her out. She’s been here for weeks you guys clearly have something going on. What’s the problem?”

“Just… shut up Sam,” Dean grumbled and walked into the kitchen.

“Hey,” Dean said loudly so you could hear him over the music.

Spinning around with an egg covered spatula in your hand, you greeted the brothers with a nod and smile.

“Morning boys, breakfast will be ready in a minute. Coffee’s on if you want some,” you said and motioned to the carafe on the table with your chin and went back to the eggs.

Sam cleared his throat loudly and when Dean threw him a warning glance, Sam stifled a laugh and went about pouring coffee.

When the food was eaten, and plates were cleared, Sam’s cell came to life. Unsure of the number, he answered and quickly excused himself to take the call. Dean helped you clear the plates to the sink and continued to hover once everything was washed and put away.

“So, uh, what’s on your plan for the day?” Dean asked leaning on the counter, watching you pour the last of the coffee into your cup.

“Not sure, why? Need me to do something?”

“No, I, uh… well,” Dean stood up straight again, and you noticed that he was more fidgety that normal.

“You alright? Maybe you should cut back to decaf in the mornings,” you teased and reached for his coffee cup which he quickly moved out of your reach.

“You don’t mess with a man’s coffee Y/N, that’s just bad hoodoo,” Dean sipped from the cup and ran his tongue across his bottom lip before placing it back down.

���Maybe Sam caught a case, he took off out of here quick,” you were half paying attention to Dean and walked to the table to grab your bathroom from the back of the chair.

When you turned, Dean was standing in front of you, close enough to make you feel slightly uncomfortable, yet excited at the idea of being within such local proximity.

“Actually,” Dean paused and cleared his throat, “I was wondering if maybe, uh, you’d want to go out…”

“Need me to run some errands or something?” you asked nervously. Leaving the bunker wasn’t exactly easy for you. Even though you’d planned on leaving much earlier, every time you thought about being out there on your own again, the anxiety started to be too much.

“No, well… maybe,” he said, the corner of Dean’s mouth flickering into a little smile, and you could tell that he was nervous. “I mean, would you wanna maybe go out… with me?”

The last word hung in the air as Sam burst into the room, an excited look on his face.

“Got us a case, grab your stuff and let’s go,” he said looking at Dean and back to you.

“Dude, we’re having a conversation here,” Dean huffed, giving Sam his best “what the fuck” face.

“Dean, it’s a case… Jodi has something for us…” Sam paused as the realization of what Dean was doing washed over him. “You know what, never mind. I can handle this one, why don’t you just stay here and uh, do what you’re doing.”

“If you have to go work…” you started and stopped when Dean shook his head.

“No, its fine. Sam can handle whatever it is. Right, Sam?”

“Yeah, absolutely. It’s a simple poltergeist I think. Jodi and I can handle it,” Sam said with confidence, folding his arms over his chest and smiling at Dean. “Besides, I can always call on Cas, too. He’s been oddly, available, lately.” Sam shrugged and went to leave. Hanging on the door frame as he turned left down out the doorway, he called back, “have fun kids!”

Feeling a slight blush rise in your cheeks, you laughed nervously and turned back to Dean. “You sure you don’t wanna go with him?”

“I’d rather stay here,” he said, passing a curiously look to you, “if you wanna… that is.”

“I do, wanna go out with you,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. “It’s just… this sounds stupid, but I’m not really comfortale leaving the bunker, yet. I’m sorry, Dean—”

Dean took your hand in both of his and smiled in only the way Dean could. “It’s fine. We can have our first real date here.”

“Really?” you asked, somewhat sarcastically yet relishing in the way your hand felt in his.

“Sure. I mean, what’s the point of having a super cool secret bunker if you can’t make some modifications for date night,” Dean chuckled and nervously licked his bottom lip. “So, tonight? I’ll swing by your room around seven?”

Drawing in a deep breath, you could feel your knees starting to quiver as you exhaled. “Sounds perfect.”

  Its not like you hadn’t already kissed him. In fact, you and Dean had fooled around several times since that first night at Harley’s party. You usually ended up putting on the brakes, or got interrupted and never were able to get back to where things were headed. Then, as you settled into life at the bunker and Dean was out on more and more hunts, things had sort of stalled between you.

You felt your nerves starting to take control and remembered the breathing exercises you learned while posing as a Yoga teacher in New Hope chasing down the Djinn a few years back. Passing by the mirror while pacing the room, you paused for a second and took one last look at yourself before hearing the knock at the door.

Swallowing hard, you exhaled one more shaky breath before opening the door. Dean stood in front of you, with a small bouquet of cellophane wrapped flowers and a bag of M&Ms. You couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of him standing there, hands full with gifts of adoration and a goofy smile on his face.

“Hi,” you said, trying to quell the butterflies that suddenly came alive in your stomach.

“Hey. Uh, here… I got you these,” Dean handed the flowers and candy towards you. “I went up to the Stop and Go up the road to get some stuff, for tonight… They didn’t have boxes of candy, but who doesn’t love the candy that melts in your mouth and not your hands.”

Dean was rambling, and you didn’t really want him to stop. Seeing him behave as nervous as you felt, somehow helped settle you.

“Its perfect, thank you.”

You smiled at him and felt the swell of excitement as he held out his elbow for you to link into.

“Ready?”

“We’re going somewhere?” You felt nervous again until Dean shook his head.

“No, I threw a little something together here,” he said leading you from your room and down the hallway.

Walking down the metal staircase to the lower level of the bunker, Dean pulled you to a stop outside one of the warehouse doors.

“Close your eyes,” he said excitedly as a large grin sprawled across his lips.

“Really?”

“Yes, dammit, I worked very hard on this and feel it deserves a big reveal,” he said, his face unreadable as to whether he was really joking. “Eyes, closed. Or I don’t open the door.”

“Jeez, Winchester. You’re bossy.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he said more to himself than to you, “C’mon woman, close ‘em.”

Sighing, you did as commanded. When he was sure you weren’t peaking, Dean took you by the hand and you heard him open the large, heavy doors. He guided you into the room which was much warmer than the last time you had been in there. Coming to a stop, he took the Stop and Go loot from your hands and cleared his throat.

“Ok, you can open them.”

You opened your eyes, unsure of what to expect, but found yourself speechless at the transformation of the storage room. Thick, black, velvet drapery covered the concrete walls, lined with soft white Christmas lights, casting a soft illumination to the room.

Taking it all in, you continued to notice little touches he thought of and added. The normally bare and cold floor was covered in a variety of rugs, blankets and pillows strewn about. In the middle of the space was a chabudai-style table with two large pillows next to each other on one side.

The smell of food began wafting through the room, and that’s when you noticed the spread Dean had laid out for your date. Along the left wall he had put out all your favorites from the local take places.

“I, uh, wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got a little of everything,” Dean said, a nervous chuckle caught in his throat. “Hope this is okay.”

You turned to tell him that it was more than okay, that it was perfect, until you spotted the large white sheet covering the far wall.

“What’s that for?”

“Oh, yeah!” Dean darted behind you and pulled out a cart from the corner that had an old projector attached. “Thought we could watch a few movies. Sam figured out how to hook up the laptop to it—”

Without thinking, you threw your arms around his neck and kissed him square on the mouth. He didn’t freeze or hesitate. Dean didn’t miss a beat in wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing you back greedily. Putting your hands on either side of his face, you pulled back gently, but leaving your face close to his.

“It’s fucking perfect, Dean. It couldn’t be more perfect,” you said and paused as a thought crossed your mind, “unless…” you escaped his embrace and stepped over to look at the stack of movies he’d chosen as potential options.

As you looked through the stack, you eased a little at some of his selections. Easy Rider, Reservoir Dogs, The Departed, and Dirty Dancing… You stopped and picked up the case, holding it up to him with a curious smirk.

“Really?”

“What? It’s Swayze.”

“But… Dirty Dancing?”

“Hey… It’s Swayze. He’ll ALWAYS get a pass. How can you not like that movie? She’s hot, he’s cool. What’s the problem?

“No problem really, just surprised you would pick it out, Swayze or not.”

“Well, he’s bad ass in everything. Oh, speaking of…” Dean reached around you to the bottom of the stack of DVDs, “how can you not love this movie?”

Dean holding up an old copy of Roadhouse with a giant grin was just what you needed to finally feel completely relaxed. His smile alone was enough to make you feel at ease, but having your usual banter was what you needed the most. All day your mind had been flooding with what it would feel like to be on a “date” with Dean. Would it be awkward? What if you had nothing to talk about? What if he tried to kiss you and you turned your head at the wrong time?

This… this felt right. It felt natural and you were excited to spend the night sitting close to him, eating a bunch of food and watching a great mix of movies.

“Ok, fine. We can definitely pick a Swayze movie. As long as we can also watch Reservoir Dogs, too. I had the soundtrack on this morning and I have an itch to watch it now.”

“I remember, that’s why I picked it,” Dean’s shining green eyes caught your (y/c/e) ones, the way they were taking you in caused that flutter deep down in your core. “This morning, I mean. I recognized the soundtrack and thought you’d want to watch it.”

“I didn’t realize you noticed,” you said softly, enjoying the swell of electricity growing in the air.

“I notice everything about you,” Dean took a step closer to you and lightly brushed a thumb against your cheek. He was leaning in to kiss you, a breath away from your lips again when the tinny sound of Smoke on the Water began playing from Dean’s pocket.

Yanking the phone from his pocket with a grunt of frustration, he saw Sam’s name flashing and answered it.

“What?” he snapped and offered you an apologetic smile. You watched as he listened to Sam, his eyes rolling back a few times and passing a grunt of acknowledgment now and again.

Dean was pacing around the room mumbling something to Sam, his hands animated in frustration.

“Sam. Sam… Sa—” he stopped pulled the phone from his ear and hung his head. Putting the phone back to his ear, he finally got his moment to speak. “Sam, dude. Its my night off. If you and Jodi can’t handle a simply haunt… yeah, yeah, ok, poltergeist, then why are you even in the business. C’mon, man. You guys got this. Call me tomorrow and let me know how it goes, ok?”

He paused again and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, alright… alright. I’ll call him. Yeah…” Dean held the phone away from his head again suddenly. “Jerk hung up on me.”

“What the hell is going on?” you asked, curious and nervous at the same time.

FULL PART TOMORROW 

(I hope)

[donaldresslerfanfic]

Cake Pop Lady.

Rating: M

Warnings: Strong Language, Sexual Content.

Word Count: 2322

Donald Ressler X OC Maggie Waters.

Chapter: Thirty Five.

Chapter Index

Story on Wattpad

Maggie.

I didn't wanted to get up as early as Don had gotten up to. I knew why his Mondays started suspiciously early, and this one wasn't any different. He had the commission thing at 9 but he was up and at it at six. Again, I knew why. His NA meetings were Mondays.

I don't know if he knew I knew he still went, because even I thought he had stopped going, that he thought he was too good for them. That wasn't the case, he'd been clean for almost two years now and ever since I detoxed him he attended the meetings.

I felt the bed sink in next to me, then Don's hand crawl up from my waist to the side of it. He leaned in and gave me a kiss on my jaw, then moved down to my neck.

"Remember the commission is at 9, hopefully I'll be done before lunch, I don't know how long it's going to take but I'll take a taxi now and you can come pick me up then"

"Okay" I groggily replied, feeling another kiss on my neck, then the bed move again as Don got off it and walked out.

I was about to drift to sleep for another hour or so when I heard my coffee machine start, it was an expresso machine and thus, it needed to be manually handled, meaning: someone was in my kitchen.

I stood up and walked down, thinking maybe Don was going to miss the meeting to get in time to the commission.

Donald wasn't in my kitchen, it was Raymond. Drinking from a little cup the coffee from the expresso machine and eating some croissants Don knew I liked, which I why he always brought them for me on the way back from his morning run.

He slid a cup to me as I fixed my hair a little.

"I'm planning on going back to bed, thank you" I said humorlessly "and yes, Ray, you can totally eat one of my croissants"

He chuckled and cleaned his fingers with a tissue.

"I need to speak with Agent Ressler"

"Too bad, he's not here"

"Then where?"

"Why do you want to talk to him?" I sat down in the stools near him.

"Agent Keen is being targeted by an assassin I'm sure the bureau would like to have behind bars"

I just sighed and crossed my arms over the table.

"He's in a meeting, NA meeting. It's a few blocks away from the White House, in Cardozo I think" I said reluctantly.

"Thank you" he replied shortly, then searched in his jacket and pulled out a  piece of paper. "There's a building in downtown DC that I need you to check out." He took a little piece of paper and handed it to me "it's an office building, it's the sixth floor I'm interested in. I need you to go there and inspect it thoroughly. Walls, floor tiles, accomodations, even the brand of tea the secretary drinks"

I just took the paper and sighed.

"We're close from finishing Maggie, I appreciate your help"

I nodded again and felt a tap on my shoulder as Raymond walked behind me and exited my house from the French doors of my back yard.

I took a shower and dressed up to go out and do this thing for Raymond. Might as well get it all over with before having to go and pick up Don.

The office building wasn't tall compared to the ones around, 20 stories, quiet side of town. Clearly old since the lobby was really marmoly. I climbed up the elevator to floor six with a purse to my wrist and my phone in my hand, opened on the camera app and taking photos of everything.

Senior year Drama Class don't fail me now.

"Hello" I leaned into the desk, measuring it's height with mine. "I need an appointment with Dr. Huffnaggel please"

The desk was made out of refined light brown wood, PVC exterior, on the other side there was a computer, the usual office supplies, no personal effects which was good, a chair in which the secretary was sitting on.

She looked up at me and gave me a warm smile.

"Yes of course, what's the motive of the consultation?"

"My uh" I pretended to sutter. The walls were pale white, the letters of the office behind the secretary read "Dr. Oren Huffnaggel, marital therapy and counselment." I had to get a good look at those to make out the font.

"My husband has just been admitted to the army and-" I still had it, I covered my mouth while tears striked down my eyes. "I'm just so anxious and I can't stoop thinking he's going to die" I whispered at the end. I quickly cleaned up my tears and gave her a weak smile "sorry, it's just been too hard for me, I haven't slept a full night in days and-" thank God she interrupted me, because I was running out of things to say

"Why don't you take a seat and I'll get you some water"

I nodded while she motioned and the seats behind me. As soon as she was out of sight I shamelessly took pictures of the place, the doors, the lights, the floor tiles, the couch, taking a closer one to get the fabric right, the decorations and such.

I sat down when I heard the click of heels coming back to the reception area and waited for the secretary to hand me a glass of water. I gave her a thankful nod as I took a little sip, then watched her go around the desk and write something down a paper. She doubled back and handed me a little card

"Given the urgency of the situation in can set up an emergency appointment at 10, how does that sound?"

I let out a little sigh of relief and took the paper

"Yes, that sounds amazing, thank you so much..." I waited until she told me her name

"Dorothy, and it's no problem. I'll see you tomorrow" she gave me a sweet smile and returned to the desk when another person came in. I left the glass in a side table and stood up.

Perfect, I could review the pictures today and tomorrow I could come back and settle some things if I'm not sure.

It was still early for me to go back home so I got to work. I printed the pictures, then headed to one of the providers Gina had when it came to costume made furniture. I spent maybe an hour looking through samples of fabric to get the one in the couches look the same, then I headed to the paint shop and got the colors for the walls outside and inside, the tiles were difficult because they were this hideous green and I didn't know if I'll be able to get the right pattern.

While moving from a shop to another I got a call from Don, saying that he was good to go. It was well pass lunch time but I was still hungry.

I drove down to the White House and parked a few blocks ahead, switching seats while I waited. Don liked to drive.

He came around a few minutes later, opening the door and handing me a little bag while he took a seat.

"What's this?" I said peaking inside.

"I don't know, it's one of those YOLO bags"

I laughed, throwing my head back a little, he chuckled a bit too. He could be really funny when he wanted to.

"You mean a swag bag?" I said between chuckles.

"Yeah one of those" he cut the corner and began driving "don't eat anything of it though, it might be poisoned" he playfully warned.

"Well, I'm hungry so might as well" I fished something out of the bag and gasped "I freaking love cake pops, you have no idea." I unwrapped the cake pop and gave it a bite. I hummed in content and looked at Don. He looked a little upset "you okay?" I said, touching his arm.

"We'll see. For now, Hamilton, Equinox? Where do you want to eat?"

"Au Bon Pain" I named, digging in the bag again.

There was only one spot in a side high table which we took, I ordered a César salad and Don ordered a turkey sandwich, and since it was lunchtime rush hour, we got served fast.

"So, how did it go at the thing?"

"I don't know, the Director and I stated out cases and-"

"The director of what?" I asked, stirring my salad around.

"The Director of Clandestine Services, who is also a member of the Cabal. I think he's the one Reddington has been targeting this whole time"

"Mmm" I hummed and nodded "and then what?"

"And then, Laurel Hitchin will take the case to the President and give us his decision"

"And she's what of the President?"

"She's the National Security Advisor"

"Is she the cake pop lady? Is that why you said they might be poisoned?" I joked, he smiled and looked up at the TV. Frowning, he took his phone out of his inner pocket and dialed.

I looked up and watched the screen above us. The Breaking News were about Liz Keen being shot and killed during an FBI raid that clearly hadn't happened under Don's approval. He said a few words on the phone, then hung up and turned back to his meal.

"That's not true right?" I asked, referring to Agent Keen.

"No, it's not. Navabi has been trying to reach me to get my opinion on how we will handle this new case Reddington gave us, seems like they did a good job."

"You've got a good team A.D Ressler" I teased, making him smile and finally look at me.

He'd been really distraught today and I had gotten so used to having him over me all the time, now that I had gotten nothing all day, I missed it.

I reached out and ran the back of my hand on his cheek, making him lean his head to the side and place a kiss on my hand.

"Hi" I said with a smile. He took my hand and gave it another kiss.

"I have a lot on my plate today" he said in an apologetic way. I gave him a little smile and nodded

"I know" I replied. He leaned in to give me one short kiss before standing up and clearing our bill.

While we walked out, hand in hand, I spoke up, making noise over the little uncomfortable silence.

"I was thinking to invite my sister this weekend, you know, I have to set up the guest bedrooms and such. I'm trying to keep myself occupied you know, since my boyfriend is never home"

When we were getting close to the car he pulled me by the hand and made my chest bump up to his, leading his hands to my waist.

"Your boyfriend is never home? Sounds like a real douchebag" I chuckled and led my hands to his neck

"He might, but he catches baddies for a living and looks very hot doing so. He's a keeper"

He smiled again, looking down at my lips and leaning in to kiss me slowly. He finished off with another kiss on my forehead and unlocked the door of the car.

"Want me to drop you off somewhere?" He asked. I climbed on the passenger seat and twisted my eyebrows at him.

"It's my car, so I'm dropping you off somewhere and move along with my business. I have a lot on my plate as well"

He snorted a little laugh and turned the engine on.

I knew he knew I was working with Raymond, and it was a little weird that he didn't ask. But I was relieved as well, I really didn't like lying to him.

That night he was not at all happy. As soon as I saw him walk to the kitchen where I was and tore off his tie, I worded myself carefully.

"Cake pop lady screwed you over?"

"Damn right she screwed me over, he set me up to work with the Director. Share Intel. He wants Liz and Reddington dead, and having him there while we're still in touch with them is going to make me give explanations I don't want to give. Everything Reddington is doing-"

"I'm going to stop you right there" I rudely interrupted "I'll listen, but first. Have you ever seen anything like this?" I pulled out a picture from a Manila folder and showed it to him. It was a statue of a stupid horse I had to get.

"No" he said a little upset "Maggie this is-"

"Important, I know, which is why I got the unimportant stuff out of the way. Now sit, I'll listen" I motioned at the stool next to me

While he sat down I turned off the computer and closed it, watching as how he unbuttoned  his shirt and sighed.

I stood up and placed my hand on his forehead, moving it sideways and messing up his hair a little. He pulled my by the waist while I rounded his shoulders with my hands.

"You've been doing great. And you're being forced to work and to trust people you don't want to. I'm confident in you Donnie, I know you'll pull through this"

I hugged him and made him rest his head on my shoulder as I ran my hand on his neck, putting a little pressure on the side of his spine, he was really tense and knotted up all over.

After a while he placed a kiss on my neck and pulled the computer closer to him.

"Here, I'll help you find that stupid horse"

[lairep]

Chat Noir Finds Out (Part 2)

Summary: This is the simple, straight-forward tale of how Chat Noir found out Ladybug’s true identity and how he dealt with it.

He dealt with it expertly like the heroic cat he was and definitely didn’t mess anything up.

Nope, he didn’t mess anything up at all. 

Next Part || Part 1, 4 || Ao3 Link || Other Works

yells into the sun “help i don’t know what i’m doing!”

Chapter 2: The Day After Chat Noir Found Out

“Plagg, what should I do?”

Adrien was hysterical. It was only fifteen minutes before he has to be driven to school. He was going to see her and he wasn’t ready and he didn’t know what to do.

Last night was a complete blur, and it was a surprise he even remembered he just discovered Ladybug’s civilian identity. Actually, no, that was the only thing he remembered. What happened the rest of yesterday was a complete mystery to him.

To add to the mystery, that very morning he woke up—he didn’t remember falling asleep either—the first thing Plagg did was not ask for cheese, but to gently remind him that his name was Adrien Agreste. He couldn’t fathom why. At the back of his head, he vaguely remembered a lot of Marinettes, but it couldn’t have been so bad that he’d forgotten his own name, right?

…right?

In any case, today was a brand new day. Today was the day after he found out Ladybug was actually Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the girl who sat behind him in class every day. And today, she would be sitting there again, just like always.

Ladybug would be sitting behind him in class today.

Adrien paced around the length of his room, his hands in his hair, unable to figure out which feeling he should be feeling at the very moment.

Excitement? Guilt? Happiness? Nausea? Back-flipping? Melting into the carpet?

What should he do?!

“About what?” Plagg replied, voice a little muffled from his face being in the middle of his Camembert wheel.

“About Marinette!”

“What do you want to do about it?”

“I don’t know what I want to do about it! She’s Ladybug! She’s Marinette!” He waved his hands in the air for emphasis, vaguely aware that he probably looked like a complete lunatic at the moment.

“And you’re Adrien.”

“Plagg, that’s not helping.”

“Sure, it is,” Plagg lifted his head up from his cheese and lazily made gestures with his paw, “She’s Marinette, and you’re Adrien. Her classmate Adrien. All you have to do is be like the classmate you are every day.”

“But I’m not just her classmate. I’m her Chat Noir!” He startled a little when he realized what he said, blushing crimson. “I-I mean, I’m Chat Noir! I’m not hers—yet. I mean, that is to say…”

Plagg groaned and buried his head in cheese again. “Oh, please.”

Adrien paused from his pacing as a thought came to him. Nausea came to the forefront of what he was feeling. “Should I tell her?”

“Tell her what?”

“That I’m Chat Noir. That I know she’s Ladybug.”

“Sure, why not?” Plagg said simply, laying on top of the Camembert. “No one’s stopping you.”

“But if I tell her, she’ll definitely hate me!” He waved his arms some more. “She didn’t want me to know! But I found out!”

“It’s not like you did it on purpose,” Plagg defended, sounding invested now. “It was going to happen eventually. So just tell her.”

There was a pause. Adrien cupped his face in his hands, his eyes going wide.

“But…”

“But what?”

“But she’s so cute!” he blurted out, horrified. “I’ll die! I won’t be able to handle it!”

“Uh, kid—”

“Plagg, what should I do?!”

“Well—”

“I’m just so happy!” he interrupted, squishing his face with his hands, unable to stop the smile from forming, “she’s Ladybug and she’s so incredible and I get to see her in school today!” His smile dropped abruptly. “She’s going to hate me!”

“Oh, for the love of cheese,” Plagg groaned out.

A knock on the door interrupted Adrien’s hysteria. “Adrien, it’s time to go to school,” came Nathalie’s voice.

Oh, no. School. Marinette! He wasn’t ready!

-

Adrien was surviving so far.

So far, meaning, he was surviving while he got out of the car and climbed up the stairs to school. He was surviving while he arrived in the classroom. He was surviving while he took his seat, trying and failing to avoid the glorious view of one Marinette Dupain-Cheng who has yet to notice his entrance because she was excitedly telling Alya something.

He was surviving while Nino greeted him with their usual fist-bump. He was surviving while Alya looked up at him and said good morning. He was surviving until he turned to greet back and came face to face with Marinette who had just looked up from her conversation with Alya.

He died when Marinette said, with a hint of a blush on her adorable face, “Good morning, you dream! I mean, Adrien!”

He was dead when he blurted out, “I love you.”

He heard Nino splutter from beside him and saw Alya drop her phone onto her desk. Marinette let out the cutest little squeak and made the prettiest surprised face before he realized what he’d said.

“—yooouuur good morning! I love your good morning, I mean—” he flapped his hands about, feeling like his face was on fire “—it was a really cute greeting, I mean, good, not cute, not that I’m saying you’re not cute it’s just the greeting was good, not like it was any different from a normal greeting it was just that you said it so I—” they were all just staring at him now, Marinette’s face as red as her Ladybug suit “—I’ll just stop talking now.” He turned around and dropped his face in his hands, refusing to look at his friends.

“Smooth,” he heard Plagg whisper sarcastically from inside his jacket.

Adrien was dead, he had died; he wasn’t even really alive right now. This was hell and he was dead. Dead in hell.

“Dude, Adrien, you alright?” Nino asked quietly after a few moments, tone tentative.

“Yeah, I’m completely Marinette,” Adrien mumbled through his hands.

“You what?”

“I mean, fine! I’m completely fine, Mari—Nino!” he borderline yelled, waving his arms at his friend. Nino looked at him like he was an alien that replaced his best friend, and Adrien couldn’t blame him. He didn’t really feel like he was Adrien right now either.

He felt the vibrations of Plagg’s subdued laughter from within his jacket.

Oh god, the humiliation.

Please, let the ground swallow him whole.

Please, god, take him away from this mortal coil.

-

Things were awkward for the rest of the day.

Very awkward.  

In fact, things were so awkward that Adrien took it upon himself to employ Chloe as his anti-interaction-with-people shield.

And things were really bad if Adrien considered Chloe clinging onto him like a monkey to a banana tree to be a welcome distraction.

He couldn’t look at anyone. Not his classmates, not even Plagg. Looking at Nino just made him feel guilty and looking at Alya just plain scared him. And he especially couldn’t look at Marinette. Despite the fact that his eyes always seemed to gravitate towards whichever direction she currently was, he couldn’t look at her.

Adrien just didn’t know how to deal with all this. There was no manual for this!

After that morning’s fiasco, he had managed to embarrass himself a total of seven more times. He counted each and every agonizing moment. It wasn’t a lot as a number, but it felt plenty enough.

The first was during roll call, when Ms. Bustier called on his name for attendance. He had hollered, really loudly, “I’m Marinette!” in place of ‘I’m present!’ and had to spend the rest of homeroom with his face on his desk, avoiding everyone’s gazes. Plagg had been so delighted that he laughed for a whole five minutes in his jacket.

The second time was during math class when he was asked to write a formula on the chalkboard, and he’d somehow managed to replace all the numbers with letters of Marinette’s name. Needless to say, Ms. Mendeleiev and the rest of the class were confused. Thankfully, nobody commented on it. Ms. Mendeleiev merely told him to work on his handwriting and let him go. That was when Alya had begun looking at him suspiciously though.

The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth times, he had referred to several distinctly not-Marinette people as Marinette while talking to Nino on four separate occasions. Mistakenly referring to Juleka as Marinette? Fine. But confidently referring to Principal Damocles as Principal Marinette? Decidedly not fine.

Nino wasn’t stupid; he definitely knew something was up. He’d brought it up more than once, but Adrien was at a loss on how to explain. Plagg had snickered each time he got a name wrong, so Adrien shoved him in his bag so he can stop feeling the vibrations of the kwami’s laughter against his chest.

The seventh time was the worst. It involved Plagg, a croissant, Marinette’s shoe, and him tossing said shoe to the other side of the school courtyard. He really would rather not relive the details, thank you very much. But by that time, Alya had switched from watching him suspiciously to full-on glaring at him like he’d just declared he was Hawkmoth.

And these were all before lunch time even rolled around.

So right now, Chloe was his anti-interaction shield. He felt guilty using his oldest friend like this, but he just could not deal.

He let Chloe drag him around the rest of the day to do whatever she pleased. They went to have lunch together and after school they went shopping. They were still shopping actually, he vaguely realized, as Chloe dragged him into another shop. All through-out the day, he sent apologetic texts to Nino and promised to tell him things soon. Like, maybe tomorrow. Or next week. Or next year. Or never.

Because how do you explain that you’ve just discovered your superhero partner’s identity and the shock was so bad that it scrambled your brain? Or suddenly being so in love with someone that you were practically mentally incapacitated, when just the other day you were gushing about someone else entirely? At least, in Nino’s perspective. He couldn’t exactly tell Nino he found out Marinette was Ladybug. Or that he was Chat Noir. He was in enough trouble with Ladybug as it were.

The only person he could tell was Plagg, and Plagg had stopped trying to be helpful the moment he realized watching Adrien flail around was more entertaining than anything.

Besides, Adrien mused as Chloe put a dress up to his chest and commented on how good he’d look in the yellow sundress, all Plagg could tell him to do was tell her he knew. As if it were that simple.

He couldn’t even talk to her without making a complete fool of himself. He just blurted out he loved her out of nowhere! No build up or anything. Just blurted it out in the middle of a morning greeting with no preamble.

Thinking about it made him shudder.

Talking to Marinette as Adrien was absolutely out, he decided, as Chloe pushed him into the changing room to try the dress on.

Only one thing to do now, he thought, as he put the yellow sundress on. He was going to have talk to her as Chat Noir.

He looked at himself in the changing room’s full-length mirror, absently thinking Chloe was right about him looking good in the dress. The colour really brought out his eyes.

As he examined himself, the yellow sundress falling neatly over his form, he realized he was going to be just fine. He was a handsome, strapping young lad, after all. Hero of Paris! Famous model! He put his fists against his hips and jutted his chest out. There was no way Marinette could resist him. He could totally do it!

What could possibly go wrong?

-

[this-is-a-chat-astrophe]

Unmarked

Soulmate au oneshot full of Marichat

AO3

They always thought they’d be alone forever. There had been stories of people whose soulmate mark didn’t appear by their thirteenth birthday, but for their first thirteen years Marinette and Adrien thought it was only a story. When their birthdays came and passed, they knew.

Sometimes Adrien felt like that’s why his mother left, because he was defective. He thought maybe that’s why his father became cold. He felt truly lucky to at least have Nathalie, who was the closest thing to a parental figure in his life. Maybe the lack of a mark was why his father forbid him from attending school, to protect him from the ridicule and hate. It took years to convince his father to let him attend school. Whenever magazines asked about his mark, he lied and said it was a secret. Nobody speculated that he didn’t have one for two reasons; one, a lot of famous people refused to reveal their marks, and two, it was practically unheard of to not have one. The last case of an unmarked person was decades ago in the United States; there was no documentation of an unmarked in Paris in all of history.

Marinette’s family was much more understanding. They gave her options and kept their promise of unconditional love. Instead of being forced to hide, Marinette chose to be open. She did not advertise her lack of a mark, but whenever someone asked she told the truth. Some were disgusted, others confused. The bakery even lost some customers but her parents never blamed her for that. She wasn’t happy with the hand life dealt her but she was determined to make the most of it. Years of consoling words from her parents prepared her for a lonely life.

Then a misunderstood blond gave her an umbrella and everything changed. For the first time ever she felt a romantic attraction, a craving for love.

Marinette felt dirty. Adrien already belonged to someone, or at least that’s what she was lead to believe, so she had no right to those feelings.

She both loved and hated being Ladybug. She loved that she could lie about not having a mark and go unjudged. She hated feeling like she had to lie.

Ladybug had been asked several times about her soulmate, but nobody thought to ask Chat Noir.

Then, one day, they did.

“I don’t have one.”

It was a scandal, front page on all newspapers and news websites. Admiration towards the charming cat turned to an overwhelming amount of hate. People yelled at him in the streets, the same hurtful words Marinette heard in her civilian life. Adrien finally understood what his father protected him from.

Seeing the hate Chat faced, Ladybug couldn’t lie to him anymore. On a cold January evening patrol, shivering in her super-suit, she told him the truth.

“I don’t have a soulmate mark. I lied. I didn’t want the hate I face in my civilian life to get in the way of protecting Paris.” Marinette knew this confession would reveal her identity -Marinette was the open unmarked in all of France- but she couldn’t hide it from him anymore.

Chat Noir smiled, soft and sad; he’d seen the hate Marinette faced. Nobody was stupid enough to attack a superhero with the power of destruction, but a teenage girl was a much easier target. Luckily, she seemed a skilled enough fighter to generally take care of herself. However, Chat still occasionally dropped in when the odds seemed particularly skewed.

“Maybe this is our mark, Bugaboo.”

Ladybug laughed and burst into tears.

The next day, Marinette went to school feeling like a weight was lifted. The heroes decided to continue lying to the press -protecting Paris was hard enough with one half of the dynamic duo hated- but she felt better now that Chat knew the truth. She thought nothing could ruin her good mood.

Then she saw Freakshow graffitied on her locker. It’d been weeks  since the last incident and foolishly let her guard down. She took out her books and did not cry. If anything, she was angry, but she held herself together.

To nobody’s surprise, Chloe tipped the scale and made Marinette snap. She was fine when greeted with “Oh look, the loser is here.” She walked calmly to her desk while Chloe said “How sad is it that nobody will ever love her.” It was Chloe’s next remark that made Mari’s blood boil and turned her vision red.

“It’s huge news that Chat Noir is unmarked too. Maybe that freak of nature will love her.”

Marinette threw her pen, leaving a streak of ink on Chloe’s jacket as it flew past. The blond’s mouth gaped.

“Chat is not a freak. You take that back!”

Chloe smirked. “Everyone in Paris has a mark except for you too. That obviously means you’re defective. The way he always screws things up for Ladybug makes him only slightly worse than you.”

Marinette lunged forward.

Chloe screamed.

Alya held Marinette back until the bell rang. Marinette took her seat, fuming. She had no pen.

Adrien visited Marinette that night as Chat Noir. They weren’t close as civilians and he felt that Chat Noir was better suited to comfort her.

He found her on the balcony, curled up in a blanket with a cup of steaming tea. “I heard about the fight at school.”

She opened her blanket to invite him in. The two sat side by side, the blanket draped over their shoulders. “We’re not ‘defective’.”

Chat rested his head on hers. “I know.”

They sat like that till the winter chill breached the blanket and Marinette ad to go inside.

On days when Marinette seemed really down and there wasn’t patrol, Chat visited her balcony. Whenever something upset her she went up there and waited, knowing he would come.

Then one night he didn’t.

Marinette’s day had been awful. On her way to school people yelled cruel words at her and one boy only slightly younger than her was bold enough to trip her on the busy street. Nobody offered to help her up but plenty of people trampled her things. Luckily Tikki hid in her jacket pocket that morning and went unharmed.

At school, her locker and desk had been covered in curses. Again. Chloe’s sunny disposition did not help but Mari tried her best to drown it out. Alya was out sick and nobody else dared to defend her.

After school Sabine sent her on an errand. The trip wasn’t far, only a few blocks, but she still managed to get shoved into an alley and ambushed by three older teenagers. On a good day she could hold her own long enough to find an opening to escape, but Alya’s cold spread to her and her usual agility faded. Luckily, someone stepped in. Unluckily, teenage model Adrien Agreste stepped in. The two put up a fight but weren’t fortunate enough to leave unharmed.

“It’s okay, just bruises and scratches.” He winced when he tried to smile. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’ve been through worse.”

That didn’t make him feel better.

Adrien escorted her on the rest of her journey to the grocery and back home despite her insistence that it was unnecessary and she was fine. They both knew it was a lie but didn’t say it.

Now she waited on her balcony with the blanket and tea, waiting.

The one time Adrien’s father paid attention to him and all he wanted was to escape. Gabriel sat at the far end of the table, a frown on his face as always, scolding his son for his recklessness.

By the time he released Adrien, it was late and he and Plagg were too tired to go out. Despite his nonchalance about his wounds, they hurt and there was no magical cure to fix them. He promised himself to visit early the next morning and leave a surprise.

But Marinette didn’t know that, so she fell asleep on the balcony with tears in her eyes. She was still there when Chaat arrived in the morning.

Chat originally felt bad coming so early but upon finding Mari sleeping outside he became glad. “Mari, wake up.” No answer. He nudged her with a gloved hand. “Mari, you fell asleep.” In a last ditch effort he said, “Oh no, Mari! You’re late for school!”

Marinette shot up, knocking the blanket to the floor with a scream. Her eyes went wide at the sight of Chat. “What’re you doing here?”

Her feline friend handed her a gift bag, smiling sheepishly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come last night. Family stuff. Apology gifts?”

“You don’t need to apologize and you definitely didn’t need to get me anything.” Sticking out the top of the bag was a bouquet of pink and white carnations. Underneath that wasa card.

“Read that after I leave, if that’s okay.”

She set it aside and pulled some fabric from the bottom of the bag. Unfolded, they were Agreste brand shirts and sweaters. Man’s Agreste brand shirts and sweaters.

Chat rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “I remembered you saying you like that designer and I never wear those anymore and my friend told me that some people find it comforting to wear friend’s stuff when they can’t be around so I thought you might like those but if you don’t it’s totally okay.”

He didn’t expect a hug.

“Thank you. This is really nice of you.” Marinette picked out a light blue hoodie that matched her eyes.”Do you want to come inside? I can get us some croissants.”

Adrien took a few seconds to contemplate. He should go home before anyone notices him missing, but a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. “Just a few minutes, Princess, then I should go home.”

A few minutes turned into an hour as Marinette recounted the woes of her previous day. Chat wished he’d visited sooner and that he could stay longer, but he had to leave.

That school day wasn't so bad with her new blue sweater to keep her warm in the winter chill.

“Hey girl, is that new?”

Marinette beamed, nodding vigorously.

Nino looked behind him to see what they were talking about. Upon seeing the hoodie, he turned to Adrien. “Hey, dude, didn’t you have one like that?”

Adrien nodded all the while thinking shiiiiiiiit. “Yeh, it’s my dad’s brand.”

Mari sunk into her seat, the hooded sweatshirt engulfing her. It was a gift from a friend.”

Alya eyes her closely knowing Marinette had hardly any friends. She said nothing about it, though, knowing her friend would explain when she was ready.

Alya wasn’t a very patient person and ambushed Mari during lunch.

Mari sighed, knowing that Alya wouldn’t stop till she got an answer. “Come home with me for lunch and I’ll explain.”

The girls settled into Marinette’s room with food and tea. “Spill.”

“The sweater is from Chat Noir. We’re friends.”

As expected, Alya screamed. “Do you think you could ask him for an interview?”

Mari agreed. Thankfully Alya maintained her respect for Chat and continued to report on the news objectively, as opposed to a lot of reporters who now painted Chat Noir in a different light.

Marinette roped Chat into the interview that night. She hadn’t expected him, her day went surprisingly well, so the knock on the roof hatch surprised her. His excuse was that his patrol led him to the area but honestly he wanted to see her in his sweater again and wanted to know if she'd read his card.

The hoodie was gone but Marinette did not disappoint. Instead, Mari wore a green shirt he’d gifted with plaid pajama pants.

“Nice shirt. It looks purr-fect on you.”

Mari rolled her eyes and cut to the chase. “Alya knows we’re friends and asked me to ask you for an interview.”

The next night was joint patrol so the trio met the night after in Mari’s living room while her parents were out for date night.

Several minutes of fangirling eventually led to the actual interview.

A: Do you enjoy being one of Paris’ heroes?

CN: I don’t think Paris really thinks of me as a hero anymore, but I enjoy being Chat Noir and working with Ladybug.

A: Do you think Ladybug views you differently knowing you’re unmarked?

CN: No way. Ladybug treats me the same as always. We’re a team and she constantly reminds me of it.

A: What are your thoughts on the change in how people treat you since you revealed that you are unmarked?

CN: I think people are afraid of different. It doesn’t justify how they act towards me or Marinette, the other open unmarked Parisian. The way I’m treated isn’t good but I can handle the mean words. Marinette’s treatment is far worse, and she’s brave enough to endure it all of the time. I only bare it in costume.

A: How well do you know Marinette?

CN: We’re friends. I’ve saved her a few times, from both akuma and civilians. It helps having someone who understands.

A: Has Ladybug voiced any thoughts about you being friends with a civilian?

CN: Ladybug has told me that she’s glad I no longer feel alone.

A: Do you think the absence of a mark could actually be your mark?

CN: Maybe, but it’s all speculation. It’s weird thinking there may be someone in this world for me after spending years convinced I’d be alone forever.

Alya whipped the camera around to Marinette, who was sitting on the floor playing Ultimate Mecha Strike III muted on the television.

A: Marinette, what do you think?

M: *not looking away from the screen* Chat Noir is a good person who deserves to be treated better, especially after working so hard to protect this city and the people in it.

The camera swung back around to Alya to close up the interview. She thanked the pair for the interview then left to post it on the Ladyblog.

“Do you think she’s right?”

Marinette paused her game and turned to Chat. “About what?”

They locked eyes, blush flooding both their faces.

“About the lack of a mark being our mark.”

“I don’t know.” Marinette gave Chat the controller. “To be honest, I wouldn’t mind being soulmates with you.”

Chat picked up the game, fiddling with the controls. It was a nice thought, having someone to love.As a child he thought it a guarantee. Little Adrien often played wedding and house games, fantasizing about a kind, funny soulmate. Maybe Marinette could fill that void. The thought made him realize that something important was missing from their friendship.

“You don’t know who I am.”

Chat put down the controller, letting his avatar die. Silence dragged on.

The front door rattled.

Muffled by the door, Tom said, “I guess Mari locked the door.”Mari took the jingle of keys as her cue to shove Chat up the stairs.

“Hide in my room,” she whispered.

While he ran up the stairs she moved back down them, reaching the last step as the door flew open. “Maman, Papa! How was dinner?”

She sat down with her parent, listening to their recount of the night, hoping desperately that Chat hadn’t escaped into the night.

A few minutes into their story Mari interrupted her parents with a fake yawn. “Can I go to bed? I promise I’ll listen to the rest tomorrow.”

Tom kissed her forehead. “Of course. Don’t forget that you’re helping us with those two big wedding order tomorrow.”

A brilliant idea formed in Marinette’s head. “Can I invite a friend to help?”

“Of course,” said Sabine, “as long as it’s not Nino. He’s a wonderful boy but he made quite a mess last time he tried to help.”

Tom and his daughter laughed. “Dear, he was eight years old.”

Mari kissed her parent’s cheeks and bid them goodnight.

To her surprise, Chat waited. Sitting in her desk chair, he greeted her with a grin. “Hi.”

Marinette sat on the floor next to him. He moved to leave the chair but she waved him off. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

Chat mentally opened his calendar, recalling the late-afternoon photo shoot and otherwise empty day. “I have a work thing in the evening but that’s all. Why?”

“We have to do two big orders in the bakery tomorrow and we’d love some extra hands.”

The cat’s face burst into a smile for a split second before scrunching into a scowl. “I can’t just show up as Chat Noir.”

Mari looked away, busying her hands by moving fabrics off her desk. “You don’t have to if you don’t want.”

He gasped. This meant… “You want to know my identity?”

“It’s up to you, mon chaton.,” she answered, deflecting the question. The honest answer was yes, she wanted to know. Marinette wanted to go to the movies and park and just out with her best friend , not just hide away. She trusted him.

Chat was giddy; now they could interact at school as themselves instead of Chat dying inside every time Mari was distant or awkward with him as Adrien. She was never like that with Chat, and now they could be free.

“What time should I be here?”

“As early as you’re willing. We’re not going to make you be here at 4:30 to help us right when we start.”

Chat grinned, standing from his seat. “4:30 it is, Princess.” Then he was climbing up the stairs to the loft and reaching for the roof hatch handle.

“It’s really not necessary!” Mari shouted.

Chat stopped and turned to her just long enough to wink. “Don’t forget to read the card, Bugaboo.”

The moment the roof hatch closed behind him, Marinette opened the card from that morning.

“Dear Buginette,” it began. Marinette snorted; he thought he was so clever. “I know things are hard and I wish I could be around more to help. We’re a team whether I’m physically there or not. The clothes are a reminder in case you ever forget that I’m always in your corner cheering you on. I just hope that when you eventually find out who I am you won’t be too disappointed. No matter what I’ll always be your partner, and hopefully you’ll always be mine. Love, your favorite alley cat.”

The letter put everything into perspective for Marinette. She liked Chat, maybe even loved him. She’s sure she could. And why not? Neither of them had a soulmate and this was their chance to be happy with someone. But it wasn’t the idea of being with just anyone that got Marinette’s heart racing; it was the dea of Chat loving her that spread a blush over her cheeks.

That night, instead of nightmares, her dreams were sweeter than anything her parents had ever baked.

The next morning Marinette woke up easily, to her parent’s surprise. Usually they had to drag her out of bed whenever she needed to be up early. Today she was showered, dressed, and in the bakery as 4:26am.

“Is your friend coming, dear?” Sabine asked, handing her daughter a croissant from the day before.

Marinette gladly accepted the food and slipped a chunk into her purse for Tikki; it wasn’t a cookie but it’d do for now. “Yes Maman.”

“What time should we be expecting them?”

A knock on the bakery door stole their attention.

“I’ll get it!”

Marinette stopped halfway to the door. She hadn’t expected to see her classmate on the other side of the glass.

Adrien smiled shyly and waved, hoping she wouldn’t notice how nervous or stiff he was.

She did, and the sight reminded her of every time someone asked about her mark. The fear of being rejected, the hope of being accepted, all of that was reflected in this boy. The same boy who gave her an umbrella and nearly stole her heart ended up stealing it anyway.

Marinette marched up to the door and opened it with a smile. “Thanks for coming, Adrien. It’s nice to see you.”

After letting out an audible breath of relief, Adrien smiled back. “It’s nice to be seen.”