#sad what tumblr did to the image quality but. sigh.

[blaretartstuff]

Blasts your mystery twins with my transgender beam

little bonus sketch with ~lore~ under the cut

likes <<< reblogs

Basically right after the comic, the twins steal their dad's clippers and give each other haircuts. The next day at school is picture day. Filbrick is making Stan wear that shirt as punishment; he assumes the whole thing was Stan's idea.

[knickynoo]

Back to the Future: The Animated Series, s02ep01 “Mac the Black” Review and Commentary

Previous episodes linked here.

In this episode: Marty is a liar, liar, pants on fire, Doc and Clara seriously need to work on keeping the DeLorean locked up, and I am nearly broken by the funniest scene this goofy cartoon has ever done.

Took about a month off from doing these reviews, but I'm back and ready to tackle season 2. I still don't know if Tumblr fixed the issue with the photo and gifsets getting messed up (and won't until I post this), so if the images are getting stacked again, it isn't my fault.

Let's jump right in.

Doc's season 2 opening broadcast begins on a deserted island, on which Doc has become stranded while attempting to sail to Jamaica.

He was trying to follow the same route a pirate did in the 1600s—using only his sail and the wind to guide him. It did not go well. Doc lets us know that he forgot to bring along a compass. What a goofball.

His predicament reminds him of something, and he says, "You know, at one time, my son Verne wanted to be a pirate. Well, actually, what he really wanted was an earring. Or was it a tattoo? This one's a bit complicated, so I'll let Marty explain it." This then brings us right into the cartoon, where Marty takes over telling the story.

Hope you get off that island, Doc!

As we head into the cartoon portion of the episode, Marty tells us that the whole thing started when he lied to Jennifer about a concert. *sigh* If anyone was hoping that Season 2 Marty would be better than Season 1 Marty, I regret to inform you that we're not off to a great start. You see, Marty was supposed to get tickets for himself and Jen for the "Walk DMC" concert (ha! clever), but he didn't. In fact, we learn that Jennifer had asked him two months prior to get the tickets, but he forgot. So far, this is typical Marty behavior. He tries to smooth-talk a guy who works at the concert venue and explain his sad story. Because apparently, it wasn't just that he said he'd get the tickets. He told Jennifer he was "a friend of a friend of the drummer" and they could get front-row seats. He also told her they could join the band's after-show party and have pizza with them.

You lie?? You tell MULTIPLE LIES to Jennifer?? Jail for Marty.

The worker responds by tying a nearby garden hose to the railing to craft a large slingshot to put Marty in and catapult him away. And you know what? Good for him.

After flying through an alleyway and crashing into several garbage cans, Marty lands in front of Jen wearing a look of shame on his face and a banana peel on his head.

So sad. Poor little garbage-covered banana-head boy. Maybe don't tell lies; ever think about that?

Jennifer asks why Marty couldn't just remember to buy the tickets in the first place. Instead of owning up to his forgetfulness, Marty doubles down and lies even more, trying to convince Jen that the whole band got sick and had to go home. She is not happy with him. The jock from last season who Jen was tutoring (Kelp) comes by then and asks her if she's doing anything tonight. "Yes, I'm saying goodbye to Marty McFibber," Jen replies as she hops into Kelp's car.

Wonderful. 10/10 reponse, Jennifer.

We leave Marty running after the car as the scene transitions to Doc's house, where he's working on a machine that will help them all with the tedious process of canning all the tomatoes from their garden. As expected, it malfunctions immediately. Doc gets sucked into the machine, and IT CANS HIM.

I need you all to understand how long I laughed at this scene.

Please. I—

That is a whole entire man in that little glass jar. Look at him!! He is just sitting on the counter inside a container! Doc can be easily stored in a cupboard now!! Even though the quality is terrible, you can see the distress on his face. This machine seriously just sucked him up and smooshed his 6'1" frame into a jar!!

The series should have ended right then and there, with this being the last scene because I don't think there's anything that can possibly come close to this in terms of cartoony humor. It can only be downhill from here. I had actual tears in my eyes while trying to grab these screenshots.

After freeing himself from the jar, Doc discovers that the problem was due to a washer being missing from the machine. He soon finds it when Verne wanders in showing off his cool new earring (made using the washer and a piece of bubble gum).

Verne explains that he wants an earring so that the cool kids will stop teasing him for always wearing his coonskin cap. Clara and Doc forbid him from piercing his ears, and Verne stalks off angrily. He puts on the TV and starts watching a pirate movie, which gives him the idea that he'd be able to get an earring if he was a pirate. Uh oh.

Verne sneaks out of the house to steal the time machine, which he does a lot, by the way. You'd think that Doc and Clara would have that thing securely locked up given their youngest child's tendency to just take off into the night like that.

As he's speeding off down the road, Verne runs into (and almost runs over) Marty, who is sadly walking down the road. Marty cheers up at seeing his little buddy and asks Verne to give him a ride to his car. No, "Hey, Verne, what are you doing out all on your own?" or "Whoa! You're eight-years-old; you shouldn't be driving!!" He just. Gets in the car and lets Verne continue to operate the vehicle.

Verne is happy to give Marty a lift to his own car, except he has to run an errand first. The display panel has been set for the Caribbean in 1697, and Marty is pumped to go hang out at the beach. He makes zero attempts to talk Verne out of this.

After arriving and donning some time-period appropriate clothing, the boys head straight into town, where Marty immediately gets himself into trouble. He overhears a pretty girl named Maria talking about how she can't return home to Spain until she meets the man of her dreams she's been waiting for: Mac the Black. Marty decides it's a very good idea to pretend he's Mac the Black (on account of he and Jennifer had a fight, remember? So, I guess he's just decided to throw the whole relationship away and pursue a relationship with the first girl he meets in 1697.)

Well, it turns out that Mac the Black is a wanted man, so a bunch of guys with swords chase Marty all around for a while. He then meets a group of pirates who are honored to meet him and have traveled far to find him. They've got a whole crew and a ship, and they put him in command of it and carry him off.

Meanwhile, Verne comes across a flyer advertising a cabin boy job on pirate ship. "Low wages, bad food, free earring," the paper says, and Verne is thrilled. He ends up on the same ship Marty is on, though Marty is less than enthused about the situation. He wants to just get back home and suggests he and Verne sneak out using a smaller boat.

Verne refuses to leave without his earring, though. Marty is soon informed that they're heading to "Smiling Skull Island" to meet up with some of his "old crew." After arriving, Marty's act swiftly falls apart when he's met by the REAL Mac the Black. After a series of truly ridiculous events, Marty and Verne are captured and forced to walk the plank. They're saved from their fate at the last minute when the Spanish army attacks.

We learn that Maria, who Marty had met earlier, is actually "Special Agent Señorita Maria Estrada of the Spanish Armada." She's been trying to capture Mac the Black—along with the stolen Spanish fleet's ship—and thanks Marty for his help.

With all the peril finally behind them, Marty and Verne hop back into the DeLorean and head home. Marty has learned a very valuable lesson about telling lies, and we get a scene of him and Jennifer on her porch, where Jen is finishing reading an apology letter Marty has written to her.

"Oh, Marty, that's the sweetest letter you've ever written. The longest, but the sweetest," Jen says as we get a look at her entire porch filled with paper. Marty had a lot to apologize for.

Also, I still don't understand why Jen's character design looks like that. That is NOT Jennifer.

We return to Real Doc, who is still stranded on the desert island. He spots a ship in the distance, but it turns out to be a pirate ship that's about to shoot a cannonball at him. This brings us to our experiment portion of the episode, where we learn how to make a "cannon" using a soda bottle, vinegar, baking soda, and a cork. Watching it in action made me have fond memories from my youth of dropping Mentos into bottles of diet soda and watching it explode in the backyard. Good times.

After the experiment, we go back to Doc for a moment. He announces that he's off to the store to buy the supplies to make a soda bottle cannon to fire back at the ship (this man has problems). The pirates fire at Doc but miss, and he sticks his tongue out and blows raspberries at them in a taunting manner. The episode ends there. Doc's just. He's stuck on that island, I guess.

This was a weird one. Not really that enjoyable on account of Marty being (as usual) terribly out of character. Unfortunately, this is just Who He Is in the world of the cartoon. Very sad. I also am disappointed that we only got a few seconds of Clara and Jules. But the scene of Doc in that glass jar was phenomenal. Five out of five stars.

Join me next time to see Doc run into an old enemy from college who tries to eliminate him, Jules, Verne, and Marty by luring them into an active volcano.

[retrievablememories]

like you | jungwoo

title: like you pairing: jungwoo x black!reader genre: fluff, college!au request: “Hi. I’m requesting a fluffy imagine where Y/N is a senior in college and Jungwoo is a freshman in college. Y/N gets upset because people keep picking on him because he is asian and she defends him. This causes Jungwoo to get extremely clingy/flirty and develop a crush on Y/N. Y/N is not used to recieving affection so she feels skeptical” word count: 3.8k warnings: cursing, instances of racism a/n: this one was pretty fun to write, i love writing college-inspired stuff for some reason lol. tumblr fucked the image quality but whatever. the title comes from the song off story op 1. stan kim jonghyun girlies!

“Who’s that guy in your Medieval History class?” Your roommate, Mira, randomly asks you one day. She’s hanging off the edge of your bed, her textbook on the ground in front of her as she fists her hands in her hair and tries to comprehend the words swimming on the page in front of her.

You turn away from your desk to look at her. “That’s a random ass question. Have the words finally fried your brain? I don’t even know what guy you’re talking about.”

She looks up at you, crossing her arms in front of her and resting her chin on them. “Fuck this homework man, I’ve had enough. I wanna know who’s the guy in your History class, the black-haired one? The Asian dude?”

You think for a moment. You do remember who she’s talking about; he sits closer to the front of the class, though you’re not sure how she knows him. She’s not even in the same class. He has cute features, though you haven’t paid him much mind—you know from the first day’s icebreaker that he’s a freshman exchange student, but any other details have escaped your mind.

“I don’t remember his name at the moment...what about him?”

“He seems kind of awkward, like...I’ve only really seen him with one other boy. It’s kinda sad...he could use a friend or two.”

“You’re assuming he’s awkward? Maybe he’s just shy, or doesn’t want 800 different friends,” you say, turning to another page in your notebook. There are only a couple of reasons why she’d ask you about a guy, and you can guess what her plans are. “If you want to be his friend, you can. Ain’t nobody stopping you.”

“Well, shit, can’t you like...introduce me? I don’t wanna be a weirdo going up to a total stranger!”

You laugh incredulously. “Girl, he’s a total stranger to me too. If you really want to be friends, just say so...or say you’re with that Freshman Committee who pairs upperclassmen mentors with the new students. I’m sure that’ll work well.” In actuality, you’re not entirely serious or sure about that, but it’s better than listening to your friend complain.

Mira sighs, going back to her textbook. “Ugh, you never wanna help me get guys. Fine...I could try it, but if I end up looking like a fool I’m blaming you.”

You only have Medieval History on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so you have to wait another day before returning to class again. After keeping your ears open for the roll call, you figure out that the guy’s name is Jungwoo.

He appears to be really into the subject and participates often, asking and answering questions whenever the professor engages with the students. You’re only taking Medieval History to fill out the last credit for your Social Studies electives, so you never expected to be all into the subject; but the teacher does a decent enough job of making the class not totally boring. 

Jungwoo has a pretty proficient grasp of English, which makes you wonder if he did a lot of studying before he got here. He mispronounces a word when asking the teacher about a certain concept in the reading material, though, and a couple of girls who sit behind him laugh. You furrow your eyebrows at that, wondering what their problem is.

Later, when you’re leaving class, they pass by you and you hear a bit of their conversation.

“Shit, if you’re gonna move over here you should at least know English first,” one says, screwing up her nose.

“Seriously, it’s so embarrassing. I thought Asians were supposed to be geniuses or something?” Both girls laugh at that, and you roll your eyes at the ignorance. They’re gone only seconds later, although your mind keeps drifting back to their comments for the rest of the day.

Over the next week, you notice that those same two girls seem to spend more of their class time giggling over Jungwoo’s mannerisms and speech than actually participating in the class. It quickly begins wearing your nerves thin; you’ve never gotten along well with people who are assholes just for the sake of being mean.

If Jungwoo notices—which you figure he must, because their cackling is too obvious not to pick up on—he doesn’t acknowledge it. This only makes you more irritated, knowing that he probably isn’t interested in picking a fight with these girls; but that doesn’t mean he should continue being disrespected.

You reach a point where you can no longer stay silent during a lecture on Medieval cuisine, where the girls keep whispering silly jokes about Asian food. You clear your throat loud enough to make a few heads turn, including the girls doing the laughing. “Excuse you, I can’t hear the teacher over the noise,” you say pointedly, crossing your arms. They both give you salty looks at that comment, and you have to stifle the urge to throw something at the backs of their heads when they turn around.

This is going to be a long semester.

Things come to head one day when you’re all waiting outside the classroom for the professor’s last class to leave. Jungwoo is standing beside the classroom’s door, while you’re seated on a nearby bench, trying to stay awake after studying until 2 a.m. last night.

The two girls walk into the hallway, including a boy you don’t recognize; you figure he’s probably a friend or boyfriend. You kiss your teeth at their entrance and try to return to your thoughts, but you’re quickly taken out of them again when you see the trio stop in front of Jungwoo.

The first girl, who seems to be the ringleader, speaks. “Hey, what’s your name again—Ching? Jing?”

“We need some homework help! And since you seem to be the teacher’s pet…” Both girls look at each other and laugh at that. Jungwoo furrows his eyebrows, an unimpressed expression on his face.

“I don’t think that’s—” Jungwoo starts, but the other guy cuts him off, putting his hand to his ear in an exaggerated gesture.

“What was that? We need you to enunicate, no one knows what the fuck you’re saying.” This time, all three of them break into laughter. 

The tiredness drains from your body faster than any caffeine could achieve as you watch the scene unfold. Some of your other classmates look on, shifting uncomfortably, but no one moves to say or do anything. Before you can really think about it, you’re already up on your feet and walking towards the group.

“Maybe if your miserable asses spent more time studying the lectures instead of shitting on a fellow student, you wouldn’t have to beg for help.”

All three of them, plus Jungwoo, turn their heads in your direction with varying expressions on their faces. The main girl speaks up, putting her hands on her hips. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

“You, bitch! Who else? Y’all love picking on someone you know is too nice to say anything back. That’s weak as hell and says more about you than it ever could about him.”

Your voices start getting louder as the girl gets up in your face, and before anything can pop off, the professor comes storming through the classroom door.

“What the hell is going on here?” he shouts over the arguing.

The girl backs down after the professor makes his appearance and turns to look at her two partners in crime. “Girl—got the damn teacher out here, come on, we ain’t got time for this shit.” They both walk away in a huff, their male friend trailing behind them, and some other students give them sideways glances as they pass. The guy throws you a dirty look before he leaves, and you don’t hesitate to flip him off.

“That’s an unexcused absence on your record!” The professor calls after them, shaking his head. Meanwhile, Jungwoo has been watching the whole scene with shocked eyes, and he keeps looking at you as you shrug and head into the classroom.

The next time you have your Medieval History class, the two girls don’t show up. Maybe they’re too embarrassed to come back to class, but whatever it is, it’s above you now.

After the professor finishes his main lecture, he flips through his copy of the class textbook for the day’s assignment. “Everyone, turn to page 273 in your books. I want you all to read and analyze this text on Romanesque architecture, then answer the 3 discussion questions on page 275. You can get into groups of no more than 3 if you wish, but everyone needs to turn in their own individual answer sheet.”

Sighing, you open your notebook and rifle through your backpack for a writing utensil. When you look up, you jump a little from shock; Jungwoo is standing near your desk with his things in his arms.

“Hi...could we work together?” He gives you a gentle smile.

“Oh, sure, that’s fine with me!” Jungwoo takes the empty seat beside you and you push your desks to be closer together.

“I never got to say,” he starts, “but thank you for doing that last week...you didn’t have to.”

“Well, I would hope any decent person would...I didn’t want to just sit there and watch you be insulted. It’s so unnecessary...” You quickly flip through your textbook, completely overshooting the assignment page and having to go back. You feel a little flustered at this kind of attention, because you weren’t really doing it to be noticed or heroic.

Jungwoo smiles at your modesty, though he doesn’t try to push the matter.

At the end of class, after you’ve both turned in your assignments, you and Jungwoo leave together.

“Thanks for partnering with me today,” you tell him, and he nods in acknowledgement. “I guess I’ll see you next class?”

“Actually, do you want to eat lunch with me? I mean, at the cafeteria today?” he asks. His eyes seem to literally sparkle in anticipation of your answer, and you find it hard to turn that face down. Plus, he seems nice enough; this could be a good way to introduce him to Mira.

“Sure,” you say, grinning.

You and Jungwoo head to the dining hall for lunch, talking about anything that comes to mind along the way. You find out that him and his roommate, Jaehyun, have been best friends for awhile before deciding to go overseas for college; his roommate has been to the U.S. before, but this is his first time. He talks a lot more than you expected him to, but you figure some people just need time to warm up before they get comfortable.

It doesn’t take you long to find Mira after you get to the cafe, and you plan to let her take the reins with the conversation, but Jungwoo continually does his best to keep you roped into the dialogue. You realize you don’t mind that, though—it’s nice to have someone who actively engages you rather than lets you fade into the background.

Jungwoo quickly makes the desk beside yours his new spot in class. He sticks close to your side during lectures and even when you walk to the cafeteria or back to your dorm, always thinking of something new to tell you about. With any other person you’d quickly get tired of this borderline clingy behavior, but something about him keeps you interested, even when you’re talking about stuff that would be boring to others—like Medieval History.

The two girls eventually make their return, glowering silently at you and Jungwoo but not saying a word. Their object of laughter and mockery is no longer available for harassment; who knows who they’ll try to terrorize next, though you hope the answer is no one.

“You don’t mind that Jungwoo always wants to hang out with me, do you? Since I know you kinda liked him and all.” You ask Mira at lunch one day, when Jungwoo leaves the table to get the straw he forgot. You feel a bit sheepish. You didn’t mean to “steal” her prospective man away from her, but you and Jungwoo have taken a liking to each other, and you enjoy being in his presence.

“Jungwoo? No! I actually have my eye on another guy in my Nursing class now, he’s really funny and he owns a collection of vintage records…” You snort, unsurprised that her attention has drifted already. Mira launches into a whole spiel about this new dude, even detailing how the color of his irises is just shy of being “true hazel green.” She pauses in her speech to bat her eyelashes at you. “Besides, it seems like you two have something going on already. I wouldn’t dare get in between that.”

You almost drop your food in your lap. “Uh, what?”

“Don’t be shy. You two are practically tied at the hip, and Jungwoo already talks to you like you’re his girlfriend. It’s only a matter of time at this point.”

“I seriously doubt that,” you say, suddenly feeling very put on the spot. You don’t think Jungwoo sees you like that at all, and you’re a little irritated that your roommate would suggest it, jokingly or not.

She sighs and shakes her head. When she spots Jungwoo walking back to the table, she tries to act casual and wrap the subject up. “Suit yourself, but I’m always right about this kinda stuff. Watch.”

Every year, your college throws a Welcome Back party on the last Friday of the first month in the semester. You initially didn’t have plans to go, much preferring your friends’ kickbacks where you don’t have to avoid sweaty and horny stranger dudes all night. However, Jungwoo turns to you one day after class ends and brings it up.

“Y/N, there’s gonna be a party on campus at the end of the week...are you going?”

“Hmm, probably not...Welcome Back parties are always lowkey messy and filled with freshmen who don’t know how to act…” You momentarily forget that Jungwoo is a freshman, and you have to walk your comment back a bit. “Not saying you’ll be like that, though!”

He waves it off. “It’s fine. It’s just, me and Jaehyun are going and thought it’d be fun if you came too.”

“Well…”

Jungwoo rests his head on your shoulder and hugs your arm. “Please? I want the prettiest girl in school to be my date.”

You pat his hand and laugh off his comment, unsure how to accept his compliment. “Since you asked so nicely…I’ll go. But I’m bringing Mira with me. It’s been awhile since I’ve gone to a campus party.”

“Yes!! That’s fine, Jaehyun will probably like her,” Jungwoo says, smirking. You still don’t get how they haven’t formally met yet with how your friend circles overlap, but you know it’s coming soon. Obviously, Jungwoo knows something you don’t, judging by the look on his face, but you don’t inquire about it.

You and Mira spend the night of the party getting ready with Megan Thee Stallion and City Girls blasting through your dorm room. She was a little resistant to the idea at first, insisting that campus parties were too corny for her taste, but you eventually convinced her to go. 

As the hour approaches, there’s a knock on your door. You’re still putting the finishing touches on your makeup, so you tell Mira to answer it. When she does, Jungwoo and Jaehyun are standing there.

“You guys are here already? Who let you in?” she says jokingly, though you wonder the same thing; you can’t get into a dorm you don’t live in without a key card.

“Some guy downstairs. Maybe your dorm needs better security.” Jaehyun laughs. “I tried to tell Jungwoo it’s still early, but he was ready to leave.”

“Walking in on two girls getting ready, how presumptuous of you,” Mira giggles, pretending to shove Jungwoo’s shoulder. You roll your eyes hard and try not to laugh in the mirror. “But you’re here now, so might as well come in.”

Jungwoo makes a beeline straight to you, placing his hands on your shoulders like he wants to give you a massage. “Hi pretty girl.” He smiles at your reflection, and you almost drop your lip gloss on the floor.

“Oh, h-hey, Jungwoo! The party tonight better be fun...if not, you owe me,” you say, trying to play off your nervousness.

Jungwoo acts reluctant about it, placing his hand in his chin and thinking deeply. “I owe you? Well, okay...anything you want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You can have my heart first, if you want.”

This time you really do drop your lip gloss, and Mira and Jaehyun watch with amused fascination as you mourn your lost makeup. But right now, you just want to avoid thinking about what Jungwoo has just said, and how it makes you feel.

The gymnasium where the party is being held is just as packed as you expected it to be, even at your group’s early arrival. It’s only going to get more crowded from here, but you don’t think about that as Jungwoo all but drags you to go dance.

You genuinely enjoy yourself for the first time in a while, and you’re surprised at just how much fun you can still have even with drunken dudes bumping into you every few minutes.

You’re too caught up in dancing with Jungwoo to notice, but Mira and Jaehyun are nowhere to be found. You only realize this after you two take a break during a slower song and you can’t spot her anywhere on the gym floor. You send her a text message, but you don’t expect to receive an answer anytime soon.

“Shit, they didn’t waste any time,” you laugh, and for some reason you can’t stop laughing at the situation. Jungwoo joins you until you’re both outright cackling, and some of the other party-goers give you odd glances.

You and Jungwoo spend most of the night dancing and partying with some of your other classmates. You both leave the gym one hour before the party ends, wanting to avoid getting caught in the huge rush of people who’ll be looking for fast food places to hit up. Instead of heading back to your dorms, you two decide to walk around the campus for a while, enjoying the still night air and the sounds of crickets all around you. You’re glad for the open air, because you were burning up in the gym with so many bodies around you.

Neither of you speak for a while, simply taking in the scenery and retracing your footsteps on paths you walk everyday to get to class. Jungwoo finally breaks the silence when you pass through a long path flanked on both sides by rows of flowery trees; this part of campus is so picturesque that it almost seems out of place.

“Tonight is really pretty,” he says, glancing at the starry sky.

“I know, right,” you agree. “It’s so nice outside. I’m glad you convinced me to go to the party.”

“I’m glad too. I really like being next to you...” Jungwoo’s eyes linger on your face for longer than you expect them to, and you look away nervously, unsure what that could mean. “But, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Oh? What’s that?” The sudden change in tone makes you a bit anxious, and you half expect him to tell you he has to return home after this semester ends. That thought makes you more disappointed than you anticipated. Your stomach curls into a knot.

“Y/N, I like you.” Jungwoo’s face is earnest, but your brain has a hard time catching up to the meaning of his words. You feel like you’ve been kicked in the chest—or maybe that’s your heart trying to knock its way out of your ribcage. You stop walking and simply look at him, unsure how to approach his confession. He stops too, turning to face you with gentle eyes.

“I-is...this a joke?” You finally blurt out. Jungwoo’s face draws into a confused expression. He shakes his head, his hair waving as he does.

“It’s not a joke at all. You are funny, nice, cool, brave, pretty…”

“A...are you sure this isn’t just because I defended you? Like, maybe you just feel really grateful about it—a-and we’ve only known each other a month—”

“Y/N, I know how I feel,” Jungwoo argues, grabbing your hands. He pauses for a moment as if he’s trying to come up with the accurate words to express himself. “I just...I don’t need a reason or excuse. I just like you.”

This is all far more than what you’re used to. You pull your hands away from Jungwoo’s for a moment, embarrassed and overwhelmed. You tentatively reach for his hand again after seeing the hurt look on his face, but you hesitate.

“I’m...sorry, it’s just…” You don’t really want to admit something so personal to him, but you don’t know how else to avoid completely hurting his feelings tonight. “I’m, uh, not really used to this kind of stuff…” Jungwoo raises his eyebrows at that.

“Used to...what? Someone liking you?”

“Well damn, when you put it like that…” You try to laugh it off, but you feel corny and sheltered at best. What must Jungwoo think of you, as a senior who’s never had a genuine love interest? You’ve had more than one college boy’s lust directed at you one time or another, but true affection is another thing entirely. That has been a much rarer find.

“Then...you can get used to it now. It’s never too late to experience love.”

“You really believe that?” you say softly, allowing yourself to feel a little relieved that he’s not laughing you out of town. But of course he wouldn’t. He’s not that kind of person, anyway.

“Don’t you?” You let him take your hand this time as he steps closer. “You deserve someone who will treat you nicely, tell you funny stories, carry your books for you..”

“Someone...like you,” you finish for him, thinking back to all the times he’s done those exact same things for you. You’re unsure how to approach the intense newness of this situation, and you’re a little afraid of him holding your sweaty palm, but you decide none of that matters when Jungwoo’s lips meet yours, his hand carefully holding your face.

Right now, the only thing that matters is this moment under the stars.

[sergeanttpoliteness]

➹one make out session, please➹ (peter b. parker x reader)

The sad and divorced man who's become a regular for the past year is constantly spilling his emotions to you, his favorite bartender. This wasn't something new; you can't count with both of your hands the times you've heard someone recount the odyssey of their life. But these flutters in your stomach were definitely something you didn't experience with your customers, and you definitely did not end up making out with them at the end of the night. Maybe Peter B. was your only exception, though.

(PART II) 

word count: 7.1k (sorry)

a/n: i tried like 8484 times to add a gif but tumblr wouldn’t let me so ((:: hello @ whoever’s reading this tho!! love how i went from 2k to 7k words lol, i’m sorry about that i don’t know how it happened. feel free to help me out w ideas and send requests if you want (: hope u enjoy !! Tiresome was a massive understatement when it came to having to describe enduring the same routine most nights. Not that you slept peacefully like a newborn baby all the time before taking a job as a bartender at the bar; but once in a while, when you returned home and watched the bright red numbers of the clock switch to 5 o’clock in the morning since your brain was punishing you by not giving you your well deserved rest, you sure did miss those simpler times when you didn’t work at night. Yes, at first it may be amusing to watch a drunk customer go haywire as they try to understand the meaning of life, and it’s nice listening to the story of how someone ended up drinking five shots of tequila that evening. You relished listening to other people’s problems, their stories, their lives— perhaps because, as much as it ashamed you to admit it, you didn’t make much out of yours. However, two years of the same old passed, and soon enough, every conversation and dusk began to blur together; everything became a monotonous daze, like an old movie replaying endlessly every week. The obvious route would be to quit your job as a bartender before you lost your mind, but the old lady who owned the bar paid somewhat generously considering the career— both with affection and money— and, despite how cocky it might’ve sounded, you knew well that the customers would be lost without your glorious daiquiris and margaritas. You’d also grown fond of the few people there and the new friends you made once in a while; you didn’t have the exact explanation as to why, but whilst you were in that hazy trance, you were quite the charmer. 

Every night was just like that: nothing more than a few more hours to your life, until a man who you guessed was probably nearing his forties and with a really, really nice nose (what could you say? You had an appreciation for the art of beautiful noses), dropped on the stool directly in front of you with a heavy sigh.

“One whiskey served over ice, please.” He muttered, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. You didn’t think much about it as your hands got to work and moments later handed the man his drink. You later spent your time trying to distract yourself with the preparation of other beverages, yet your eyes were drawn to him momentarily once or twice. Even as you talked with a tourist— a woman from Croatia asking about the best restaurants and stores in the city— the image of the guy itched at the back of your head, and you couldn’t figure out why. He was attractive, you decided, in spite of his rugged looks; he honestly appeared as if a train had hit him. Whether it was a physical or emotional train, you wouldn’t be surprised if it had been both.

The tourist sadly ended your conversation, distracted by the game on the TV, but you took it as an opportunity to comply with your desires and approach the man. You see, you liked to believe you possessed powers— useless ones, to say the least: just by a quick scan, you knew if a person needed a good talk; it could’ve been after their third drink, maybe even when they’re still sober. Suddenly, though, your bartender-senses abandoned you along with your charm and you simply couldn’t find a way to spark up a conversation with the guy. Really? You thought to yourself. Right now, when a cute older dude is sitting right in front of you, probably in need of your comradeship? Yeah, he was most definitely older than you, perhaps by some ten years, but did you really care? 

You were stuck, unable to crawl out of the crater until, eventually, he asked for his third drink. Showtime, you breathed in, the confidence hugging your entire body. “Just saying, but I could already sense this third drink once you walked in through the door,” You tried to joke.

He huffed through his nose, a hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. “Do I look that bad?” He asked, a playful tone in his voice. A lopsided grin found itself onto your face and you slightly leaned over to wipe the surface next to where his hand rested.

“The opposite, actually. You’re quite the handsome guy.” Oh, there it was. He didn’t seem repulsed, which could’ve been a good sign, except that he didn’t look like anything— his expression was unreadable.

He raised his glass up to his lips. “Yeah, well, don’t really feel like it right now,” He said before taking a swig of his drink. You picked up a wet empty glass and dried it with your towel, like the true bartender you were.

“Well, do you feel like talking about it?” His eyes darted up to you and he lifted a brow. “There’s obviously a reason why you’re sitting here right now, no?”

You waited for an answer, but he swallowed his entire drink before he set the dry cup on the bar. “Maybe another time, kid.” Ouch. Kid? Really? You thought this was over once you turned twenty-three. “But I gotta get going now.”

That was the first conversation you two shared, and you bit the inside of your cheek as you watched him leave, disappointed that it also could’ve been the last one. You should’ve learned by now, though: this wasn’t the first time you made a “friend”, hoped that they would drop by again in the future, only to never see their faces again. You took in his appearance one last time then, cherishing the fleeting buzz in your head. But you were lucky when two weeks later he entered through the same door again. Nonetheless, not lucky enough, since he arrived the only day your shift ended early.

“One whiskey served over ice, please.”

You didn’t realize he was there until you heard that scratchy voice, the one you thought you’d never have the pleasure of hearing again. Your head jerked up and you didn’t miss a beat before gladly serving him— there was no way you were leaving without interacting with the older man, regardless of how small and brief the action was. It was a Greek tragedy in your eyes: saying goodbye to the back of the head of the attractive man in his thirties. You jokingly (but not really) warned your coworker to not make a move on the man; and, of course, you asked him to update you the next day if he mentioned you even just once. The next day (or rather, night), the first thing you obviously did was pester your friend to spill all the juicy, if any, details.

“I don’t know, he didn’t really say anything. He so checked you out when you left, though. Like— okay, maybe not check you out, but he definitely stared at you for a few seconds.”

You deflated. Anyone else would’ve cheered, but all you needed to hear was the first part; your friend had the poor tendency of overanalyzing and exaggerating every small detail— you learned that when, after some customers had a lousy argument, you both recounted the event to your boss during your monthly coffee session. What had probably happened was that the man merely breathed in your direction and your coworker’s eyes jumped out of their sockets. You brushed away your discontent, though, reminding yourself of your principles: you never hooked up with customers, especially since your boss was adamant about that after an incident with another bartender, and you didn’t want to endure new job interviews for as long as you could.

But the rush made you want to have fun with this guy.

Another entire month went by; no sign of mystery guy, no whiskey served over ice. No drops of your stomach, until one evening you couldn’t believe your eyes when you saw that beautiful mess of a man, a scratch on his forehead you didn’t think much about since you’d seen much weirder things, sat in front of you. “Would you look at that! We meet once again,” He smirked. You placed your hand on your hip, biting your lip.

“Thought I’d never see you again. Tell me, do you want to try out something different tonight, or your boring, usual—”

“—whiskey served over ice. Yeah, please.”

Whiskey served over ice was quickly becoming your favorite order.

You didn’t exchange any other words— you were too engulfed into the breaking news playing on the flatscreen: a poor quality clip— something that still occurred even if it wasn’t 2005 anymore— of Spider-Man stopping a truck before it crashed into a hurt kid in the middle of the street. You grabbed the remote control and boosted the volume a bit, deciding you could perhaps multitask for a while. “So,” You started while maintaining your attention on the screen, catching his own. “You ever met Spider-Man?”

An odd question which made him snort as he turned his head to watch the screen. “No, not really. Wouldn’t want to, though, he’s kinda overrated.”

Your eyes went round, and you had to unstick your view from the TV to search for any sign of playfulness in the man’s face. He seemed dead serious. “Overrated? Full offense, but I can’t let you say that about Spidey, an actual superhero.”

He rolled his eyes, amused and defensively holding up one hand. “I’m just tired after hearing about him for the last twenty years. Can’t believe he’s not going around with a walking stick yet.”

You returned to your previous position, your forearms resting on the counter as you continued to observe a recap on a football game of the night before. “Yeah, I won’t argue against you on that. I remember watching him swing on TV back when I was seven-years-old. Big part of my childhood, the guy.”

He inclined closer to you, his brows drawn together. “What’s your age?”

“Twenty-nine.”

He let out an ��oof’. You would’ve been insulted if it weren’t for the exaggeration in his tone. “You’re getting old. Soon you’ll be complaining about how much your back hurts and wishing for the sweet release of death.”

You chuckled, eyeing his appearance. “Ah, well, too bad because I already do that. How old are you? You’re acting like you’re sixty when in reality you’re probably just like forty, or something.”

“Eh, close,” He grinned, and then took a deep breath. “I’m thirty-seven.”

“And you’re calling me old?!” You exclaimed, earning a laugh from him. “You’re basically almost on your deathbed. Age doesn’t hold me back, though.” You winked jokingly and he bit his lip, his eyebrows raised.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, you know— more experienced, sometimes wiser, sometimes more of a gentleman…” You mused, drawing patterns on the bar. You didn’t notice him giving you a once-over. Someone called for your attention, and you let out a disappointed sigh, pouting at him. “Gotta go! Duty calls.”

“Have fun,” He raised his drink, bowing his head. As you walked away, you allowed your face to pale with terror and you began to wonder if the air-conditioning suddenly malfunctioned, for you were too heated for your comfort. You took as much time as you could with the rest of the clients, too frightened to face the man after your shameless flirts, dreading the repercussions. But you were finishing the preparation of a mojito, wishing you could down it yourself, when he lifted his empty glass and whistled at you. You nervously glared at him, motioning for him to wait before you served the finished beverage to its rightful owner and you met him once again.

“Tell me,” You began as you poured the liquid in his cup, trying to change the subject and mask your trembling hands. “I’m tired of thinking of you as the whiskey man. What’s your name?”

He let out a short laugh, thanking you before he took ahold of his drink. “Peter. Peter… B… Parker,” He moved his head along to each word and you sang out an impressed ‘ooh’.

“Peter B. Parker. Catchy. Giving me some boy band vibes.”

“Boy band vibes?”

“Yeah, like, ‘pretty boy in a band who’s a total teenage heartthrob’ type of vibes. You definitely fit the description.” Goddammit, you did it again. Just this once, you wished, just this once shutting your mouth would make everything easier for you.

Peter, his face finally having a name, licked his lips after sipping the alcohol. “So you think I’m pretty?” He inquired, a crooked smile on his face. You were good at holding back the tingling that wanted to suffocate your cheeks, the way you wished you could with your words. You hummed, surveying him quickly.

"Well, I did say you were handsome last time, didn't I?"

"Yeah— yeah, I remember that," He squinted his eyes, pointing his finger at you. "And you're...”

“Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N…” He took his phone out from his back pocket and frowned down at it with concern. “Can you help me? There’s something wrong with my phone— it doesn’t have your number in it.”

Oh, my God.

You glanced down at his cracked screen and then back up at his face. Snorting so loudly it hurt your nose, your hand flew up to cover your mouth. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry, I’m just—” You pinched the bridge of your nose, wheezing. “I can’t believe you just did that. That was so cheesy, oh my God.”

“Are you gonna fix it or not, though?” He smirked, offering you his device. “‘Cause it’s a real problem.”

He got your number. After you returned his cell phone, you noticed his yet again empty glass, wondering how he downed it in just the time you were adding your phone number to his contacts. You grabbed it and poured more ice, seeing as the previous had already melted. “Since you successfully made me want to walk away from you and stroll around the place to try and heal myself after that awfully cheesy pickup line, this next round is on the house.” You declared as you opened the bottle of whiskey. He declined, emphasizing his refusal with the flutter of his hand.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Whatever, I’m gonna do it anyway,” You slid the alcoholic beverage towards him, and his eyes softened along with his entire face, too.

“Thanks.”

Your conversation continued the entire night. You talked non stop— so much that you might have forgotten about the existence of other customers. But it didn’t matter. Despite their annoyed expressions, it was worth it. You heard the story you had so desperately yearned for him to tell; he reminisced about his dead aunt and uncle— the lovely angels who raised him and the ones he looked up to the most. But your heart cried out when Peter sorrowfully stared into his whiskey, and you first heard the name. MJ. His ex-wife. The owner of his love for the longest time, the woman who crushed him a year ago. The one whose heart he broke, too, though, all because he was too terrified, too much of a wimp to take the next step, ‘not enough’, he said. You remained silent, realizing your flirtatious exchanges earlier were solely a way to muffle Mary Jane’s memory in his mind. Nevertheless, your hand reassuringly rubbed his shoulder, the action alone speaking the comfort he needed.

It wasn’t the last time it happened. After that, he began to show up at the bar more frequently, once a week. And whenever he did come, he left until your shift neared its end.

“Like, what type of father would I even be? Look at me!” Peter pointed at his head, stirring the whiskey with a finger of his other hand. “I’m a mess, I can’t even take care of myself— how could I take care of a child?! I just… I don’t have the time,” He sighed, laying his head atop the bar. You frowned as you prepared a second margarita for the mother of one of your classmates from high school, which was what initiated the conversation of parenthood and such in the first place.

You shrugged, aggressively rattling the shaker with your two hands. “I don’t know, maybe you’re underestimating yourself,” He peered up at you, doubt in his expression. “And you do have the time to come here every week, though,” You pointed out, wiggling your arms from how sore they were.

“Yeah, but you’re… this is different, this is…” He slurred, waving his hand. “Whatever. Work always ruins things for me. It has ever since I was a little tot.”

“Damn, what is your work?”

Peter began to gulp down his entire drink after your question and seconds later slammed it on the table with wide eyes, attempting to digest the liquor. He cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes. “It’s… it’s, uh, I-I work at the Daily Bugle.” You opened your mouth with astonishment, stopping in the midst of rubbing a lime on the rim of the glass.

“The Daily Bugle?” You asked incredulously. “That one newspaper with the dude who’s obsessed with Spider-Man? J-something-Jameson?”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s my boss.”

You grimaced, instantly comprehending his daily fatigue and he nodded, agreeing with you. “What do you do? Write?”

“Nah, I’m a photographer.”

“Ooh, so you’re a photographer? That’s hot,” Moments ago he’d been complaining about his marital issues yet there you were, calling Peter hot. You might have slipped the compliment right before you left to give the margarita to your ex-classmate’s mom in fear of his response, therefore missing the faint heat that overwhelmed his cheeks and ears. 

“Is… it’s nothing, really,” He dismissed your words, being all humble and shit. You placed your elbows on the counter, coming closer to him.

“Could I ever see any of your pictures?”

He threw a block of ice into his mouth. “Mm, thure,” He said, his mouth full. Your mouth twitched in amusement, and you decided to sit down considering the night was particularly slow. Your boss lectured all the time that there was never time to sit down and there was always something to do; keeping that in mind, you still ignored the four dirty glasses, instead choosing to spend time paying attention to the man with ice in his mouth. “I’m boring, though— tell me more about yourself. There’s gotta be more to the attractive barista who works at the bar near my apartment.”

You were taken aback, both by the fact that he considered you were good-looking and that he was pushing to hear about you. “Me?” You blinked. He nodded, looking at you expectantly. You lowered your head, picking at the skin around your nails— damn past you for cursing you with the habit and, consequently, terrible nails as well. “This is… weird. I don’t really talk to customers about my life. They even tell us to not do that specifically.” You laughed.

“What? Why?”

“Well, because you don’t want to hear about me: my childhood and the drama in my life, I guess,” You said with an obvious look. He scrunched his brows together.

“But I do.”

You despised the way your heart missed a beat. “Alright, well… I don’t know, what do you want to hear about?”

“Were you born here? In New York?”

You shook your head. “Nah, I moved here after finishing college. I thought I was gonna be a successful artist and stuff.”

Peter gasped with wonder. “Artist?! Cool! What, what type of artist?”

“I paint,” He whispered an adorable ‘whoaa’ and your shoulders shook with laughter. “It’s really not that cool. I do paintings once in a while. Pays well and can help with the bills if someone buys them.”

“I’d buy many if I had the money.” 

“Nah, I would paint you one for free,” You smirked, leaning closer to him.

“Oh, sweet— you can paint me naked. You know, like one of your french girls.” He hummed, a goofy grin breaking out on his face. You quirked a brow, giggling.

“That’d be interesting.”

“I know, I’d be a great muse. Tell me more, though, you got any friends? Family?”

You hesitantly nodded. “Yeah, except they’re all back home. The only people I’ve got here are at the bar, my boss basically adopted the few people who work here.”

“Wish my boss was like that,” He grumbled, grasping more ice. “Well, now you’re stuck with me too, though.”

You gripped your knee, your lips pressed together to retain the beam threatening to appear. “Is that so?” The ice he had shoved into his mouth was too big for him to speak without drooling all over his chin; so with his chipmunk cheeks, he moved his head up and down. “Is this us officially becoming friends?” You waggled your brows teasingly, your lips now stretching widely.

“I thought that happened the second you gave me a free round of drinks.”

Three more months passed by. You realized your nights weren’t a blur anymore. No— now they were Peter B. Parker, his weary brown eyes, and his whiskey served over ice. You couldn’t help the scrunch of your nose and your slight smile whenever someone else ordered whiskey, since, as ridiculous you knew it was, those words were Peter. You held yourself back each night you two shared from leaning over the bar and tasting the cold liquor in his tongue. You wondered if, perhaps, that’s what Peter Parker tasted like. But it didn’t matter how strongly you craved to find out; you couldn't be anything more than a friend to your customers, you constantly reminded yourself. Not that it even was a possibility with Peter, anyway— it was evident he still cared about Mary Jane. It was clear she lingered in the fog of his memory, despite how much he drank or how hard you attempted to take her place with every conversation. You tried to convince yourself that it was alright, and it wasn’t working, but you hoped someday it would.

It was a Saturday night— or more like the early hours of Sunday— when you went to joyfully take Peter’s order after he sat down, only to be met with an awful bruise on the bridge of his nose. You winced, unconsciously reaching out to touch his face, but drawing your hand back before he noticed. “Pete, what the fuck happened to your face?”

“That’s not a nice thing to say about someone.” He simply responded, evidently trying to disguise the swelling with his hand, but sighed after seeing your scowl. “Fine, it’s embarrassing. Like… really, really embarrassing—”

“I’m listening.”

He squirmed, his gaze moving to his right and his voice coming out high pitched as he searched for a way to explain himself. “I tripped.”

Something you’d learned throughout the past months of weekly meetings with Peter Parker was that the man was not subtle. Far from it. And this wasn’t the first time he arrived with a scratch or sort of bruise, which truly clutched at your stomach in the wrong way, but although he’d talk about anything— from what he ate for breakfast that day to confessing a pestering fear in his head, he never ever talked about how or why he got hurt. He always managed to steer away from the subject; the sneaky bastard, you’d think to yourself when minutes later you two were thoroughly discussing the best ways to eat an egg. You never budged, though, for you couldn’t bear to lose his trust or him getting mad at you; which hadn’t occurred yet, and you wished to keep it that way. You questioned your decision, however, as you grabbed the box of bandaids hiding under the counter (the bartenders there could frequently be quite clumsy), and grasped one with your fingers. You opened it, detaching the paper from it.

“It’s really nothing,” He continued insisting, trying to erase the creases between your eyebrows. “I just gave the ground a real nice smooch—” He stopped talking when you leaned over to touch his face, your hand cupping his cheek as you smoothed the plaster over his nose.

“I… what?”

“Sorry, it just looked really gross,” You lied, truthfully concerned about his well-being. “You couldn’t go around walking like that.”

“But I can go around walking with a…” He inspected his reflection on the cupboards, squinting to make out the pattern of the bandaid. “Spongebob bandaid on my face. And how is that supposed to heal a bruise?”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s alright. I… I like Spongebob. One whiskey served over ice, though, please.”

You scoffed, picking up a glass from the cabinet. “I’ve held myself back from asking, but…” You shut your mouth as you continued preparing his drink, doubt winning its battle again. He tilted his head.

“But?”

“But… how come you’re always getting hurt in some way? It’s kind of concerning,” You laughed nervously, not wanting to reveal how much it truly worried you. He shrugged one shoulder.

“I guess I’m just really clumsy.”

“This isn’t clumsy, though,” You argued, your forehead furrowed. “This is… getting beat up type of stuff. Is that it? Do you get into street fights or something?”

“No! No, I, uh…” He hesitated, avoiding your gaze. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

Peter searched for words, his mouth ajar. He closed it and rolled his lips. “I want to tell you, I really do, but now is not the time. I promise I will in the future.”

You prepared to question him more, until a tune filled your ears. You raised your hands up to your head, your palms squeezing your temples as you gasped. Peter raised an eyebrow, entertained. “I fucking love this song,” You explained as ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ by Whitney Houston played on the TV. Peter sat still as he paid attention to the music, confusion glinting in his eyes until he recognized the melody and his body lit up.

“Wait, so do I—”

“Clock strikes upon the hour, and the sun begins to fade…” You shouted, your head jerked back. Peter put his fist against his mouth, embarrassed by your hilariously terrible singing, but at the same time holding himself back from joining you in your performance. “Still enough time to figure out how to chase my blues away!” You sang, pointing your finger at him. He muttered an ‘ohmygod’ under his breath, his face beet red.

“I’ve done enough ‘till now, it’s the light of day that shows me how!” You dramatically laid back on the counter, true singer-like style, holding an imaginary microphone up to your mouth. “And when the night falls, loneliness calls…” You turned your head to face Peter and booped his nose, an action which you would undeniably regret once the euphoria of hearing one of your favorite songs ended.

“Ah, fuck it…” He whispered, beaming at you and grabbing your fist to sing into the invisible mic as well. “Oh! I wanna dance with somebody! I wanna feel the heat with somebody!” He cried out, his eyes passionately closed and his hand pressed flat against his chest. You scream-laughed at him, holding your torso. However, you quickly rolled onto your stomach, your faces now in close proximity.

“Yeah! I wanna dance with somebody! With somebody who loves me!” You both sung into your clenched hand, incredibly out of tune. “Oh! I want to dance with somebody!”

“I wanna feel the heat with somebody...” A customer in the background yelled out. You two exploded with laughter, your head pressed against his cheek and Peter gripping your hand tight.

That night, you sang with somebody you loved.

The end of the year arrived too quickly, and you were disconnecting the plug of the Christmas lights adorning the windows of the bar as you wondered whether you should get Peter a present for the holidays or not. Some new sweatpants, you considered; they were his favorite piece of clothing, you had come to learn, and in the times that he wore a pair, you noticed it was always the same. But you also questioned if it would be bizarre to hand him a gift— you only saw each other at the bar, after all. There weren't any instances where he called you to meet up for lunch, or something similar; and once in a while, you hoped to hear your blaring ringtone and to answer your phone to him. That never happened, though; your relationship would never evolve from the occasional text throughout the week. To make matters worse, you hadn’t even seen him for three weeks, three days, and counting. And, my God, did it sadden you that you knew that. Every time you’d type a greeting along with a question about his whereabouts, you’d stare at the screen of your cell phone for far too long and eventually delete your words— the exact process repeating over and over again. Maybe he’s with his friends or remaining family, you concluded. Hanukkah did end yesterday, stop being so obsessive.

A knock on the door provoked a startled squeak out of you. You jerked your head, confused, because who in the world was knocking on the door at three o’clock in the morning? Your terror was fleeting, however, for behind the foggy glass existed Peter B. Parker’s guilty smile. You exhaled and headed to open the door to shelter him from the violent and raging winter wind outside. He barged in, the tip of his nose the color of raspberries, most likely a repercussion of his poor clothing coverage for the season. “Hey,” He greeted you, rubbing his hands together.

“Wow, I think you got here a little too late,” You teased, folding your arms across your chest. The bags under his eyes were particularly prominent that night, not that it surprised you in any shape or form. He leaned against the wall, resting the back of his head on the timber.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” He apologized and you shook your head. It was useless. You were aware that there was no chance you could be mad at him for finally visiting you; in fact, you were ridiculously elated to be seeing him at such late hours, in spite of your bed crying out for your company. “I guess I lost track of time.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? I haven’t seen you for three weeks and when you do show up, it’s at three A.M.”

“I don’t… know.” You quirked a brow, wondering if he’d had a few too many drinks. “I sort of just walked and my feet got me here.”

“Are you drunk? And did you get in a bar fight or something, because you’ve got a bruise forming under your jaw and it looks too animalistic to be a hickey,” You asked with a gesture of your hand toward his face, relieved the jealousy didn’t bleed through your voice if the latter turned out to be more than a mere speculation. The scarlet on his nose spread to his cheeks. “I hope not, because that would mean you cheated on me by going to another bar.”

He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his stubble. “Nah, I wouldn’t ever do that to you.” You walked up to him and patted his shoulder, congratulating him for his great response but also to move him away from the window to check if it was closed. “I’m just tired.”

“Long day?”

“Awfully long.”

You still didn’t get an answer to why he was out so late, but you didn’t have the energy to continue budging. “Yeah, same.” You whispered, lifting a chair to place it upside down on a table.

“Wanna talk about it?” You looked at him confused. “Your day?”

“I would, but, uh, I kinda have to close this place. Y'know, it’s the holidays, so we’re not open 24/7 because my boss likes spending time with her family,” You explained, hearing his understanding hums. “Everyone already left and I didn’t have anything to do, so I promised her I would do it for her.”

He moved to stand opposite to you and copied your actions of setting the chairs atop the table. “That’s not safe— you being here alone, I mean. I can help!” He offered, as if a random spike of energy flourished in him.

Your brows drew together. “Shouldn’t you go home?”

He paused in the midst of reversing a seat, the furniture cradled in his chest like a baby. “Yeah, but so should you. It won’t hurt to sacrifice one hour of sleep just to help a friend,” He smirked, shrugging.

You allowed him to give you a hand in arranging the place, not that you had much of a choice, anyway; he would’ve done it nonetheless despite your refusals. Thirty minutes later, you were standing outside, your body aching tremendously. Peter noticed your soreness and, before you could even react, he was lowering the roll-up gate. “I could’ve helped with that,” You mumbled as he wiped his hands on his sweatpants. “Don’t want you breaking your back, grandpa.”

He laughed, shoving his hands inside his jacket’s pockets. “I’m a cute grandpa, though, right?” He asked with a flirty smile. You rolled your eyes.

“Hm, yeah, a total gilf.”

“Gilf?”

“Yeah, you know, like a ‘dilf’ but instead of a dad it’s a grandpa.” You both giggled as you began to walk to who knows where, visible breaths leaving your mouths like small dragons puffing out smoke. 

You stopped in your tracks, gripping the straps of your backpack tightly. “Oh snap, I forgot!” He turned around with a questioning brow. “My car broke down, so I have to take the subway back home.” You explained, nudging your head back at the green stairs heading down to the metro station. He tilted his head, frowning.

“Y/N, it’s four in the morning. I don’t think going to the subway this late is such a smart idea.”

You rocked on your heels. “Yeah, but… how else am I gonna get home? You want me to sleep in the bar?”

His gaze shifted as he pondered, grunting. “Do you, uh… do you want to go to my place?”

Your stomach clenched, your heart starting a run when you heard his suggestion. He doesn’t mean it that way, you idiot,  you scolded yourself. Yet you wished he did. “...Your place?”

“Yeah, it’s just a few blocks away from here, like a ten-minute walk.” There was a prolonged silence as you entered deep in thought, making him panic and stutter. “T-that’s if you want to, though. Don’t want you to feel pressured—”

“No, Pete, I…” You stopped him, grinning. “I mean, you sure?”

“Yeah,” He clapped his hands and held them together up to his chest. “Why not?”

“I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“Cool! Uh, cool.. just… c’mon,” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder and you began your trek to his apartment, your shoes thudding lightly against the concrete of the sidewalk, wet due to the rain two hours ago.

“Thanks…” You started, wiggling your fingers, numb from the bitter cold, but to wake yourself up as well. “I actually am sort of terrified of taking the train, so I’m glad you offered. I’ll sleep on the couch, don’t worry—”

“What? No! No, I’ll take the couch, you’re the guest.”

“No, no, no, I insist—”

“Y/N.” You looked up at him, a teasing smile on his face. “You keep the bed. Plus, the change of place will be nice.” You groaned, your eyes closed.

“You’re such a great dude: offering me to sleep at your place so I don’t get mugged and shit, and here I am, stealing your probably comfy bed.” You then moaned, your eyes going blank. “Bed. God, just thinking about sleeping really turns me on right now.”

He huffed softly, bumping into your side. “What… what’s happened, though? We haven’t seen each other for a hot minute.”

You looked heavenward, your mouth ajar as you tried to recall your previous three weeks. “Mm, well, I honestly can’t even remember if I had breakfast or not— oh!” You exclaimed rather sleepily. “Well, this pretty boy working at a Taco Bell I went to asked me out on a date.”

“Oh?” He scrunched his brows together and you hummed. “And what did you say?”

“No.”

“No?! Why not?”

“I just…” Your eyes darted up to his curious ones, your face softening after inspecting him for a while, but not long enough to embarrass yourself. “I don’t know. Wasn’t feeling him, y’know?” He nodded comprehensively. “What ‘bout you?”

His entire mood shifted. His shoulders slumped, and he nibbled on his bottom lip, his jaw tightened. “I… I saw MJ today.” Your heart broke.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Wh-what, like, you two met somewhere?”

“No, more like ‘saw her coming out of the coffee shop while crossing the street and then a pedestrian yelled at me because I was standing in the way’.” He grumbled. You didn’t know what got in you, but you grabbed his hand and squeezed it. He glanced down at your linked hands and then up at you. That’s when you instantly let go, your pinkies still connected for a bit until completely detaching. You were too busy ogling the ground to see his fingers searching for yours.

“You’ll be alright one day,” You cleared your throat, a bashful smile on your face. “You’ll figure this out.”

He prevented you from continuing with your walk with a hand on your shoulder. You hesitantly turned your body to face him, gulping. Oh, no— you worried, your heart picking up its pace again— did the hand holding make him uncomfortable? Is he now gonna question me? Why am I such a damn idiot? But then you saw his dilated pupils, and your mouth went dry. “I…” He began.

“You… okay?” You questioned when his stare lingered on you. He blinked, his arm dropping by his side as he coughed.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, that was weird. I’m just—”

“—tired.” You finished for him and he scoffed, giving you a half-smile.

“Wow, you know me so well,” He joked, and scratched the back of his neck, pointing at the building you two stood in front of. “Uh, this is where I live.”

“Oh!” You spun around, studying the apartment complex. It appeared simple: not too big or small, modest-looking. “That was faster than I expected.”

“Yeah…” He muttered as he climbed up the stairs, holding the door open for you when he reached the top.

The man’s apartment was tiny, somewhat too messy, you decided; there was an empty pizza box on his bed, and he awkwardly dumped it in the trash can when you two walked in, apologizing for the mess. You sat on his bed and he stood at your feet, stroking his neck. "Do you want some clothes? I can give you a shirt or some—” You stopped him when he turned to go to his dresser, gently pulling his arm. “What?” You continued to wordlessly tug on his sleeve until he sat next to you, sighing deeply. Slowly, you leaned backwards until your back bounced on his mattress. Peter’s confused by your actions, but you simply patted the area behind him. He got the message and lied down on the rumpled sheets. 

You looked at each other, a few inches apart, yet for some odd reason, you felt closer to him. Perhaps you could blame the different location, or the way in which your silent gazes stayed on each other. Somehow, you were both alright with it. No discomfort took ahold of either of you as you remained like that for a while, no words or sounds other than the city outside, both later with your eyes closed. To your embarrassment, you were on the brink of dozing off, but you couldn’t help it; you drowned in tranquility, and the exhaustion of your body cooperated— it was surprising you hadn’t fallen asleep yet. You could hear Peter’s steady breathing, and his voice brought you back to consciousness when he spoke. “Y/N?” It was soft, softer than your pillows back at home. Softer than your lonesome bed. You acknowledged him with a mumble, opening one eyelid. His eyes were almost shut, but you could still see the glimmer in his dark eyes. His whiskey eyes. “You’re really nice.”

Your eyes sealed closed again. “You’re really nice too, Pete.”

“No, but…” His sentence died out and he did not continue for a long period. You believed he had fallen into a slumber until he talked again. “You’re really nice. Like that hot chocolate I had in the morning while I was freezing type of nice.”

“I… I don’t know if it’s because I’m about to pass out, but I don’t get it.” When you blinked your eyes as wide as you could, he was closer than before. Closer than ever. You took the chance to discover, note every part of his face more closely, every freckle, every lash, his growing stubble. Everything.

“What I mean is that… you really bring warmth to my life, Y/N. Not to sound too cheesy like I usually do, or anything. But everything’s a mess and you’re there, and I’m glad about that.”

“You’re just tired.”

“Yes, but a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.”

“You’re not drunk.”

“There’s really no difference.”

You could now feel his breath on your face. It was as if with every flicker of your eyelids, he had managed to inch nearer to your body. “Pete…”

“Y/N…” Your lips were roughly touching. You felt his arm slip around your waist, his fingers ghosting over your prickling back.

“We can’t do this.” You said, regardless of your hand cradling his neck. Your foreheads were now touching.

“Why not?”

“Because…” You tried to claim that he was your customer, but you truly did not care about it anymore, and you never did. “What about Mary Jane?”

He hesitated for a moment. “What about Mary Jane?”

“You still want her back.” You breathed out, your body quivering as his eyelashes tickled your cheeks.

“I can forget about her just tonight.”

You kissed. Your lips remained interlocked for a few moments, the both of you too tired to move them. It was like sixth-graders kissing for the first time— a lingering peck on the lips. But an energy sparked within you, and you moved your lips. Soon, you were on top of his body, your shirt almost completely off except for one of your arms still inside one sleeve, your fingers desperately tangled in his greying hair, his crooked nose bumping with yours. He didn’t taste like whiskey or ice, but he did taste like a year of laughing with each other in the bar, and him not noticing as you slowly fell for him.

[logancreatesworlds]

Black Folks Don’t Do That Shit

Author’s Note:  Hello everyone!  So I got this idea after seeing a Tumblr post with Lupita Nyong’o and it kinda just spiraled from there.  Hope you all like it!

Warnings: Some harsh language and that’s it...for now.  😈😈😈

Disclaimer:  None of the images used are mine.

Prologue

You shook nervously as your eyes shot open.  Harsh breaths hit your lungs as you tried your best to sit up, your heart drumming as if it were part of a marching band.  Something stopped you.  You looked down at your wrists to see that they were bound to a bed.

You pulled and pulled with all your might, but it was useless. 

Then, the door opened and she walked in.

Your eyes narrowed, “You.”

She smiled, “Yes kitten, me.”

“You drugged me.”

“Yes.  To make you more…compliant.”

She sat down and smiled pleasantly.

Her red lips curled upwards like a Cheshire Cat.

It was almost like things were normal, like she was normal…

But she wasn’t.

She ran her clawed hand up your naked thigh, her bright red eyes alight with undead interest.

You should kick her, fight her – do something, but you didn’t.

Black folks don’t do that shit.

“So sad to see you leaving,” Pepper Potts commented as she watched you pack your last suitcase, her red lips sticking out in a thin line of her pale face.

“Yeah,” you agreed, “But I have to be moving on.  Can’t stay in the same place for too long, right?”

“Well,” Pepper said, “If your path leads you back to New York, you always have a job here.”

“Thank you,” you replied, giving her one last hug.

Today was your last day over at Stark Tower as the Stark family’s personal chef.  Sure, Friday could have done it, but Tony insisted on paying you 15$ an hour to work during the week after tasting your banana pudding.

However, cooking the same healthy ass Californian recipes were just getting too old.  You were forgetting why you enjoyed cooking in the first place.

You quietly sat on the next Amtrak train back to your home – New Orleans, Louisiana.

Time to get reconnected.

_

“Mama!”

“(Y/N)!  Oh my babygirl, you’re home!”

You squeezed her tightly as her familiar scent filled your nose.

Pears, lilac, fresh linen...

“I missed you,” you said, kissing her cheek.

“And I missed you too,” she replied, “Come on in.  I got your favorite cookin’.”

“Crawfish n’ rice?”

“Yup.  And we also have pecan pie.”

“Of which I will be getting the first slice,” a familiar voice said.

While that voice didn’t disturb your mother, it still scared you even now.

“(Y/N),” your mama said, “You remember Sunny, don’t you?”

How could you forget him?

“Of course,” you replied, plastering a falsified smile on your face.

“Good to see you (Y/N).”

“You too.”

A brief, awkward silence washed over the room, but your mother - ever the perfectionist mediatior, quickly ushered you upstairs to help you unpack.

This was going to be a long visit.

_

You sighed softly as you breathed in through your nose.

The New Orleans air was thick with the scent of car oil, sweat, trumpets and dough frying into beignets.

It smelled like home.

But there was something else in the air.

Children’s laughter, bubbling chocolate, pumpkin rinds...

Halloween, or it would be in thirteen days.

It was fitting, given all the smell of spook in the wind and jack-o’-lanterns on porches.

It was your favorite time of year.

Feeling invigorated, you walked into a farmer’s market and up to a local vendor who was carrying a rather large flower stand with him.

“Excuse me, kind sir?”

“Why hello lady,” he said in that familiar southern accent, “What can I do you for?”

“I’m looking for some translucent orchids,” you said, “Do you have any available?”

“Translucent orchids?  Hmmm roses...daffodils...lilac.  Nope.  No orchid.  Sorry sweetie.”

“Thanks anyway.”

You continued to walk, quietly ghosting through the loud and boisterous crowd.

Despite feeling invisible, you could feel someone watching you - like you weren’t alone.

You wish, you though petulantly to yourself.

You looked upon the fruits and vegetables, fitting in between families of black fathers, ebony mothers and swart children.

They all seemed so happy...

Sighing, you got to the other end of the market and looked back.

For a second, it seemed like the world slowed down.

Then...

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You turned around and saw a woman.

Now she stuck out.

Her dark skin stood out against the umbrella she was holding and her black outfit was only matched by her tinted glasses.

She looked like the night itself.

Nevertheless, you spoke to her.

“Just not in the Halloween spirit,” you replied.

“Such a shame,” she commented, “New Orleans is a place of magic.  And you seem like you are in tuned with its charm.”

“Me?”  You scoffed and laughed.  “I’m not much “in tuned” with anything to tell ya’ the truth...”

“Well,” she replied, “Perhaps I can change that.”

She extended her hand to you, and in her dark manicured fingers lied a small card.

You read the mysterious writing.

‘The Udaku Family’

“The Udaku Family huh?  Since when do families have their own cards?”

“The couple I work for is a bit...unorthodox.  And they need a new cook.”

You furrowed your brow, “How did you know I was a cook?”

She smiled, “You were looking at the fruits and vegetables the most, and you seemed disgusted with the ones that looked too ripe.  Only someone who is planning to cook is concerned with such affairs.”

“Well aren’t you observant?”

“I’m trained to see what’s in front of me.”

“So...your boss is looking for a cook.  When do you want me to come?”

“Tonight,” she answered, “A black Cadillac shall pick you up.”

“But you don’t even know where I live?”

“Don’t worry.  We’ll find you.”

You briefly looked down at the card, “Look lady, I-”

She was gone.

_

You quietly looked out the window, anxiously waiting for that black car to roll up.

Was this a good idea?  Of course not.

“They were probably sex traffickers looking for an innocent young girl,” your mother had said.

Still, you were going.

Yes, this is how literally every white girl got kidnapped in all the horror movies you watched, but something pulled you towards that woman at the market today.

There was that intuition in the back of your mind...

‘Don’t go to this weird ass house.  Black folks don’t do that shit.’

And yet?  You didn’t listen to it.

Soon, a car rolled up in front of the main walkway.

A Cadillac Sixty Special maybe?

Its black coat shined as the moonlight casted a gentle shadow upon it.

You swiftly got up and exited the house, kissing your mother goodbye on the way.

The woman from earlier was in the driver’s seat.

“You made it,” she said with the same silky tone from earlier.

“Uh...yeah,” you said, clutching your pure strap, “Yeah, I’m ready.”

She smiled and nudged her head towards the back, signaling you to get in.

You swiftly obeyed and soon you were riding into the night.

_

“So...how long y’all been working for these Udakus?”  You asked as the car drove with buttery ease.

The woman in the front passanger seat answered, “For a long time.”

“Okay...”

You briefly looked out the window and asked another question.

“Do you guys always fetch chefs from their houses or...?”

The woman laughed quietly, “You are quite curious, little one.”

You raised an eyebrow.

Little one...?

“That’s an interesting accent you got there?  Where y’all from?”

The first woman gave you answer, “A place far away from here.”

You were quiet after that.

_

Your mouth dropped at the black and white house that came into view.

Even though the moon and headlights were your only source of light, you could still spot its modern quality.

“Damn,” you mumbled.

The women laughed, “We get that a lot.”

They pulled in and the three of you got out.

That feeling of attraction from earlier now increased tenfold as you got closer to the door.

The door unlocked and slowly creaked open.

Holy.  Fucking.  Shit.

“Wow,” you commented, “Nice place.”

“We do the best we can,” the first woman said.

“I love the decor.”

“Then you shall make a fine fixture here,” the other answered.

“Now remember,” the first woman turned back to you, “Our employers are a bit strange but they are kind.  Don’t let them scare you.  Take a seat and relax.  They shall be out soon.”

You looked around, “Thanks gu-”

They were gone.

You huffed and sat on the plush roundabout.

What is it with these people and disappearing?

_

You waited for what felt like hours.

Looking at your clock, you saw the time.

9:45 pm.

Huffing, you laid back and prepared to text your mom that she was right.

This was a dumb idea.

“Nice work (Y/N),” you grumbled to yourself, “You’re in a house owned by some rich ass white folks who you don’t know.  And they are clearly too rich and occupied for you.  Who do they think they are - Will and Grace?”

“Not exactly.”

You gasped and sprung up, whipping around quickly.

The woman standing there was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen.

She was dark-skinned, with an hourglass figure that would make any model weep.

Her bright red dress showed perfectly under the light of the chandelier.

Her hair was shaven with dark curls atop her head and her eyes...

They were red.

“You must be the chef my girls brought me,” she said, her tongue beckoning you with an African accent you couldn’t place, “I am pleased.  They chose well.”

“Oh uh...thank you.  Forgve my rambling please.  I’m usually not that rude-”

You gasped when the woman quickly pulled your extended hand to her with lightning reflexes.

“It is already forgotten,” she said, her honeyed voice filling your ears.

She held your hand an inch away from your nose and took a big sniff.

Her eyes brightened, “You have a lovely scent.”

“Um...thanks, it’s my mom’s perfume.  I wanted to make a good impression.”

She nodded and let your hand go, “Come.  It is time for your interview to start.”

“Yes ma’am.  I have my resume-”

“That won’t be necessary.  All I need is your name.”

“(Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/M/N) (Y/L/N).  And you are?”

“I am called Nakia.  My two girls who brought you here are Okoye and Ayo.”

“Those are pretty names.”

“If you manage to impress me, then you might learn where they come from.”

Nakia walked you into a large kitchen.

The cabinets were pure oak, the fridge was stainless steel and the island was marble.

She sat down, “Cook for me.”

“What do you want me to make?”

She smiled at you, “Anything you want.”

You quietly sat your purse down and got to work.

You fished out all the dished and ingredients and whipped up one of your favorite recipes.

Nakia watched you interested intent.

You boiled the rice and fried the shrimp.

You sautéed the peppers and onions to perfection before taking them and the shrimp and setting them on top of the Basmatti.

You then set the bowl in front of Nakia along with a glass of wine and handed her a fork.

“Bon appétit,” you said, standing back, “Enjoy.”

Nakia nodded and ate.

Her face was expressionless for most of the meal and when she was done, she smiled at you.

“You’re hired.”

Your eyes bugged out of your head.

“Really?!”

“Mhmm.”

“Oh ma’am thank you so much.  But...won’t hyour husband be upset that you hired me without his approval.”

“My husband is a hermet.  But despite that we are equals.  And trust me...”

Her smile widened.

“He will like you.”

____________

And that is all for now my lovelies!  Hope you stay tuned for the next part.  Please feel free to tell me if I should just delete this.  I’ve been throwing this idea around for a while now...

@macfizzle  @wakanda-inspired  @bribrisback  @kumkaniudaku  @black-is-beautiful18  @weasleyginerva @kissesbooboo @supersizemeplz @chaneajoyyy @dreamingoftchalla  @lavitabella87  @pastelpanda19  @chocolatemonkeyrainbows @blackreaders-assemble @blackmissfrizzle  @laketaj24 @eerythingisshaka @blackgirloneshots  @sisterwifeudaku  @destinio1  @pocmarvelworks  @black-mcu-imagines  @black-is-beautiful18  @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanimelove  @wakandalivesforever  @iwrite4poc  @siriuslycollins  @wakandas-vibranium  @100kindsofblake  @muse-of-mbaku  @naturally-bri  @helperofthenight  @dumbchick  @sweettea-and-honeybutter  @drsunshine97  @pastelastronomy24  @plussizeappreciationfics  @royallyprincesslilly  @afro-royalty  @tenaciousarcadeexpert  @shinyanchorface  @scarlettlullaby16 @hennessystevens-udaku @stark-red19 @marvelheaux @valynsia

[meridianrose]

This is a multiday post, under the cut are my entries for Day 1 - 8

Day 1 Why you're participating in Snowflake

Day 2 Favourite memory about fandom (Legend of the Seeker, People's Palace, landcomms)

Day 3 Rec fanworks you did not create (5 x au fics in 5 fandoms)

Day 4 Create a fannish wishlist (more comments for everyone, be nicer, create more, I can haz art pls)

Day 5 Rec a fannish or creative resource (scripts, screencaps and promo pics, image hosting)

Day 6 Leave feedback (I'm always doing the thing)

Day 7 Create a love meme (please leave comments/gifs)

Day 8 Share a piece of canon (Starz shows and how I fell truly in love during S2 moments, Da vinci's Demons, Black Sails)

  Day 1 In your own space, talk about why you're participating in Snowflake and, if you’ve participated in the past, how the challenge has affected you. What drew you to it? What did you take away from it? I'm assisting with mod duties this year and this is what I wrote for my introduction there: I've been in fandom a long time. I've seen some good changes and some not so good. Lately in some places there's been a lot of negativity in fandom and overall it seems there's been a steady decline in interaction. For me fandom is about the joy of connecting with other fans, discussing, creating, consuming - and also commenting on fanworks of all kinds. I'm hoping Snowflake Challenge will give us all a positive boost and encourage us to focus on the good and to rediscover the community side of fandom. And because I'm assisting with mod duties I'm seeing a lot more of the content being produced and its amazing and heartwarming to see people sharing their personal stories and how fandom has helped them, talking about their passions, sharing their favourite fandoms and resources and fanworks. It's wonderful to see so many journal entries and activity! Day 2 In your own space, share a favorite memory about fandom: the first time you got into fandom, the last time a fanwork touched your heart, crazy times with fellow fans (whether on-line or off-line), a lovely comment you’ve received or have left for someone. Legend of the Seeker. This is one of my longer and more active fandoms. The peoplespalace was where I felt very welcomed and encouraged and I wrote a lot of fanworks and participated in a lot of the activities there. I miss the Darken/Cara/Rahl family side of the fandom a lot. There was also legendland a landcomm which ran for many years – we even had a reunion battle last year which was nice! I wrote so much fic, made icons and other graphics, even fanvids. I tried to do every challenge where possible. I was on Team Cara for the longest time. Cara, Darken, Zedd were always my favourites ;) Before legendland there was whedonland and again I felt part of something there. It pretty much saved my life a couple of times. These days there's gameofcards and it's fun and I encourage everyone to check it out, but the more specific fandom landcomms seemed to make for more tight-knit teams and I miss them. Day 3 In your own space, post recs for at least three fanworks that you did not create. There are so many things I could rec! But I'll pick 5 AU fics from 5 different fandoms to spread the love a little Side by Side – Cormoran Strike http://archiveofourown.org/works/12036537 Fantasy au that ends in Strike/Robin, highly recommended. Murder – Dark Matter http://archiveofourown.org/works/12000579 College au based around an actual tradition of a game called "murder". As Glory Turns to Dust – Hamilton http://archiveofourown.org/works/11359656 Modern au with magic. Hamilton is cursed to be forgotten, leaving him alone in the world except, briefly, for Jefferson. Warning this is a fantastic fic but a sad ending. There is however a linked sequel by another author to put things right :) Skin Full of Lies – Black Sails http://archiveofourown.org/works/7570540 Soulmate au Silverflint "Every lie your soulmate tells you appears on your skin. Between outward lies, manipulations and stories told the crew John Silver's ink quite quickly takes over most of James' body." a gift fic for me, The Princess' Bodyguard – The Shannara Chronicles http://archiveofourown.org/works/13113129 pre-canon au in which Eretria is Amberle's bodyguard. One-shot but with potential for more, strong hints of Eretria/Amberle Day 4 In your own space, create a fannish wishlist. No limits on size or type of fanwork; just tell us what you’d like to see. Can we please do as most people asked on their fannish wishlist for day 4 and leave more comments? Can we journal more and create more? Can we rediscover the joy of fandom and stop with the "anti" behaviour? Please. More specifically for me, art for fics is always welcome. (I have a transformative work statement at LJ/DW and AO3 and have had translations of my work and podfic which are lovely!) In particular for my sfbb fic Bad Case of Loving You. I've got beautiful artwork for most of my sfbb fics, the DvD fics in particular. For sfbb I provide pinterest boards to help with resources and generally try to help artists out, as I did here. This is a Black Sails modern au medical drama with Silver/Flint/Miranda and Silver&Max and it was a labour of love and I'm still amazed I managed to write the thing. However it seemed to be cursed. My first beta dropped out. My first artist dropped out. My second artist swore they were ready to go then didn't post, then after the fest posted a basic stock photo+text "cover". *sigh* I made my own art in the end, banner and mini picspam for the tumblr promo post but I'm an amateur artist. Day 5 Recommend a fannish or creative resource. Springfield!Springfield! has movie and tv episode scripts. kiss them goodbye has a huge amount of screencap galleries. farfarawaysite has a smaller amount of pictures but tends to have high quality promotional pictures. Cloudinary is the site I'm using for image hosting since the photobucket debacle. Day 6 Leave feedback for a fanwork. Or multiple fanworks. It can be as simple as I liked this to a detailed list of all the things you loved about the fanwork. The key is to leave some sort of feedback. If you've already left feedback in the course of a previous challenge, it totally counts. But you're free to leave more feedback. My new year's resolution last year was to leave a comment on every fanfic, hosted on AO3, over 100 words, that I finished reading. (I needed some parameters; this doesn't mean I didn't leave comments at LJ/DW or on drabbles because I did, on occasion). I did the thing. I read a little less than usual. I noped out of more fics. But the fics I read and finished got a comment. I'm going to try and keep doing that. I've already left comments on some fics this year. My additional resolution for this year is to write down more of my ideas. Having plot ideas or dialogues while showering or in bed is one thing, but if I don't write/type at least the basics up, I forget them partially or entirely when I try to write the thing weeks or months later. Day 7: In your own space, create a love meme for yourself. Let people tell you how amazing and awesome and loveable you really are Come and tell me how amazing I am ;) Seriously though, I'm working on being more positive and telling myself I'm worthwhile, I deserve more, I am achieving more. But it always helps when other people are backing that up. Drop me a gif in the comments if that's easier, gifs are like greeting cards for saying the things we don't know how to otherwise express. Day 8 In your own space, share a favourite piece of original canon (a TV episode, a song, a favourite interview, a book, a scene from a movie, etc) and explain why you love it so much. My love of Starz shows seems to kick off in second seasons. For Da Vinci's Demons in S2e04 – starts around here: https://youtu.be/cQi4xjrBmgI?t=11m27s This is the moment I fell in love with younger!hotter!Riario, aka Blake Ritson in a wig, because hair kink. But also the moment I finally liked Lucrezia too, seeing her devotion to her sister. If you want me to like a character, have them adore and protect their little sister, if you want me to hate them, have them throw little sis under the bus. Riario tries to spare both girls, succeeds in saving only one, and his grief is evident as he speaks with a heartbroken Lucrezia. This scene changed how I felt about both Riario and Lucrezia and thus about the show and my fannish involvement. Similarly this humorous moment changed my feelings about Silver and SilverFlint in the opening episode of S2 Black Sails : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wIt9u7CkBf0 when Silver completely misunderstands the plan and volunteers for a risky mission. This tumblr post shows what happens next: http://alightabovethearbys.tumblr.com/post/168194826519 It's even better later when they get on board, leading to Flint's exasperated "Well what the fuck did you think was going to happen?" You can see some gifs from all those Silverflint moments in S2 here: http://jolinarofmalkshur.tumblr.com/post/168381696381/john-silver-appreciation-week-day-6-favorite

[29121996]

Tell Me All The Things (That Make You Feel At Ease)

Summary: In which Yoonji misses home and Hyoseon offers comfort

Pairing: Hoseok x Yoongi

Genre: Angst and fluff possibly ?

Word Count: 1.4k 

A/N: This is my first time uploading to tumblr oop.

The condensation from her shower had settled over the mirror and left her reflection blurry and distorted. She shook her head and watched as the droplets of water landed on the mirror before dropping down like tears, leaving trails in their wake. They did very little to improve the image quality of her face.

Yoonji quickly wrapped a towel around her head, keep her hair off her neck to dry. Small goosebumps erupted over her skin as she stepped out from the bathroom into the cool air of her bedroom. Best part of tour was being able to walk around naked and not get in trouble (of course if her manager started banging on her door, she'd be in strife but for now, she didn't care). Yoonji’s still wet feet left indents in the grey, creaking carpet as she padded over to her suitcase.

Crouching down, she rummaged through her clothes to find her fuzzy pyjamas, the ones her girlfriend gave her before she left for Tour.

Her fingertips grazed the soft material and like a hungry animal, she snatched them up and held them to her chest, breathing in. The smell of Hyoseon was long gone thanks to many nights of them being parted but Yoonji liked to pretend she could smell her girlfriend.

Standing up, Yoonji quickly changed and heaved a sigh as the warmth of the fuzzy shirt settled against her skin. Despite Hyoseon’s absence, Yoonji could delude herself into thinking that maybe her girlfriend was present if she was wearing her clothes. It's better than nothing.

Yoonji sat down on the edge of the bed, taking deep breaths. She could feel her anxiety rising in her chest, constricting her breathing and suddenly she couldn't breathe. She tried to force air into her lungs, gasping. Her blunt nails dug into her thighs, the pain offering little to no comfort or grounding for her panic attack. Even though it was the middle of winter and her hotel room was basically a penthouse, her skin felt too hot to touch and everything was too small.

Breathe, Yoonji. Just breathe. She wasn't sure how long she sat there, gasping like a fish out of water but slowly, her heart rate climbed back down and her anxiety ebbed away. Leaning forward, she rested her head in her hands and waited for her dizziness to pass. As tears threatened to spill, her leg began bouncing uncontrollably and her heart hurt.

The truth was, she missed home. She missed Hyoseon and home cooked meals and cuddling up to Holly. Music was something she loved and adored but right now, touring was too much for her and she missed the comfort of being home.

Before she could even blink or comprehend what she was doing, her hands had her phone and she was dialling her girlfriend’s number while crying and hiccuping uncontrollably.

‘Hey, baby.’ The smile in Hyoseon's voice made Yoonji's hysteria worse. Combined with the nickname she hadn't heard in such a long time, the tears fell from her eyes and down her cheeks at an alarming rate. Her vision became blurry and she sniffles. Opening her mouth, she tried to force words, sentences, anything out but nothing came.

‘Yoonji, baby, what's wrong? Are you okay? Breathe for me, okay? Everything will be fine. Just breathe for me.’ Hyoseon started whispering soothing sentences and if Yoonji closed her eyes, she could almost pretend Hyoseon was right beside her, holding her.

A few moments passed and Yoonji could feel herself calming down. Her sobbing turned into loud, body wracking hiccups while her tears dried on her cheeks. Snot was threatening to drip from her nose and her hands shook in her lap.

Yoonji opened her mouth a few times before a whiny, stuttered sentence was finally produced. ‘I miss you so much.’

‘I miss you too, baby. You have no idea how much I miss you,’ Hyoseon mumbled and Yoonji wiped her cheeks and nose, lip trembling. Don't cry again. You need to stop crying.

‘I don't want to be on tour anymore.’ She whined. In the morning, she knew she'd regret saying that. Performing for crowds was the only thing she wanted in life but right now, she wasn't thinking straight. The amount of heartache and homesickness clouding her brain meant all she could think of was comfort and getting home to familiarity.

‘You don't mean that.’ Her girlfriend mumbled softly.

‘I do!’ Yoonji hiccuped and Hyoseon chuckled, and the older girl’s heart was about to jump out of her chest. I miss hearing that so much.

‘No you don't. You're homesick,’ Yoonji could feel more tears threatening to spill. ‘Calm down for me, okay? Then talk to me.’

Hyoseon spoke softly and the older girl took deep breaths, trying to regulate her breathing and raging heart rate. When she felt like she could speak without breaking down again, she began talking.

‘I'm…’ Yoonji chewed on her lip. ‘I'm afraid of this. I don't want to do this alone, not anymore. I don't like this, feeling like home is so far away and out of reach. It’s hard knowing you’re so far away from me.’ She admitted quietly. Hyoseon didn't say anything for a few moments and beats of silence passed through them.

Finally, she spoke up. ‘That's normal, baby. But think about it for me, okay? Think about where you are right now. You're on the other side of the world, baby! Performing for crowds of thousands, cheering you on. You get to see the people who have and are supporting you just as much as I do. You've worked so fucking hard to get where you are and I'm so proud of you,’ Yoonji started crying again and Hyoseon let out a nervous, dry laugh.

‘Please don't cry, baby.'

‘I want to go home. I miss home.’

‘What do you miss at home?’

‘I miss Holly. I miss Taeyeon and her stupid boyfriend. I miss home cooked meals from Hyejin. I miss you,’ Yoonji hiccuped again. ‘I miss you so much, baby. I miss having your arms around me while I listen to your heartbeat. I miss your touch and the comfort you offer me when I'm sad. I miss watching you dance and the way you're so focused and the way you move. I miss everything you give me. I even miss your stupid weed socks for fucksake.’ Hyoseon giggled.

‘My stupid weed socks miss you too.’ Yoonji cracked a smile.

‘Please take me home.’ Yoonji whispered. Despite talking to Hyoseon and hearing her voice, Yoonji felt so alone and it clawed at her heart, leaving gaping, open wounds.

‘I wish I could, baby. I wish I could help cheer you up. So badly.’ Hyoseon’s voice wobbled and Yoonji could hear the emotion threatening to spill. Her grip on the phone tightened.

‘I wish you were here. I want you to tell me I'm gonna be okay in person, Hyoseon.’ The younger girl let out a sigh.

‘Me too. I would if I could, baby. I want to see you perform all these songs you've poured your soul into. I'm sure you look so fucking dazzling under those stage lights,’ Hyoseon choked back a sob. ‘You're so beautiful and talented and I wish I could witness it.’

‘Please come to my next show.’ Yoonji begged. Her words and tone sounded so desperate to her own ears but she didn't care. She just wanted Hyoseon.

‘I can't. I would if I could. How about you get someone to stream the concert for me, baby? And I'll watch from the balcony and pretend I'm there with you?’

‘Okay. I'll see if I can.’ Yoonji brightened at the idea.

‘I'll wave my lightstick and sing along and annoy my neighbours. I'll cheer you on from home, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘How about you get to sleep, alright? I know it's late there and you need to rest.’ Hyoseon whispered gently.

‘I will in a minute. Can you stay on the phone with me? You don't even have to say anything, just stay on the call. It'll make me feel better.’ Yoonji asked softly.

Hyoseon hummed.

‘Okay. Anything else?’

‘Not really. I love you though.’ Pressing the phone to her ear, Yoonji climbed into bed and crawled under the covers. She leaned over and plugged her phone in before putting it on loud speaker.

‘I love you too. Are you comfy and in bed?’ Hyoseon asked and Yoonji hummed, feeling her eyes flutter shut as drowsiness took over her system.

‘It's not the same but it'll do.’ She mumbled.

‘You know the thing I do, where I stroke your wrist and stuff? Do that and pretend it's me.’ The younger girl offered up and Yoonji shook her head.

‘Too tired and lazy.’ She yawned. Hyoseon let out a snort.

‘Goodnight, baby. I love you so much.’ Yoonji just hummed in response.

(Hyoseon waited until she knew Yoonji was fully asleep before disconnecting).

[bts-infired-meh-blog]

Just a Fragment of Your Life

Chapter 1/ Intro

Pairing: Namjoon X Reader

Featuring: (BTS Members in the future)

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Future Smut

Word Count: 1,128

!!!!!!Warnings!!!!!!: Please be aware that there is some crude/ foul language and angsty depressiony stuffs, adult situations, nudity and awkward moments

Summary: Is it possible for Namjoon to be normal? Could he ever have a normal relationship? Of course not. However, the alternative solution is quite risky for both of you and would never be accepted by his closest friends and family let alone the public at large. 

                 This is the story of what happens, when two people can no longer hide their feelings for each other.

Authors Note: This is my first attempt at a FanFiction on tumblr. I apologize in advance if there are any mistakes or grammar problems. I invite you to respond or just let me know if you want the next chapter. I really hope that you enjoy it.

                                  “I should’ve made some time for you.”

Namjoon reminded himself that he had to end this. Here he was in the studio with all his notes and equipment, and all he could think about was the girl that he had stashed away in a officetel. It’d been almost a week since he’d seen you. At first, he simply wondered what you were doing, then he imagined you in bed when he saw the time. Eventually, that imagination demonstrated its stubbornness as it dogged him, and he couldn’t escape.

It was ridiculous. He was an idol and that meant that he had to be careful. He couldn’t lose focus when he was supposed to be working. He couldn’t risk everything that he built by sneaking past managers and lying to his brothers. He was endangering his image, the group’s image. He knew that the chances of getting caught were increasing every day. He couldn’t have a girlfriend or even a normal date. He certainly couldn’t have whatever-you-were-to-him, hidden away somewhere to use at his pleasure. Besides, it wasn’t fair to you.

He pondered this all the way to that officetel, up the stairs and as he fumbled for his key with a heavy heart. He started for the bedroom, but heard the shower. He couldn’t stop his grin or the thought that he couldn’t let go of this good thing.

Of course, you could never know what was happening in his troubled thoughts. You had your own mangled mind to sort out.

When he opened the door, you pulled back the shower curtain in surprise. Then, you saw him. He was leaning his lanky frame on the door’s own. Panting. Had he run up the steps? Just what he saw on your face you couldn’t know, but you felt your cheeks burning under his piercing gaze. When his eyes finally met yours however, you knew that you couldn’t hide your sadness.

He had taken his time, silently analyzing each micro expression, finding only things like warm love and soft acceptance. In his eyes, you were truly a piece of art to be admired.

After that eternity of silent communication, life came back suddenly. The water roared in your ears afresh and then, his ragged breathing. Each little sound seemed to happen abruptly, and louder than any bomb.

“I’m almost finished. I’ll be out…“ You stopped, sounding to yourself too loud, too shrill. His grin widened inexplicably and you watched as he reached for the hem of his hoodie. He had been wearing glasses and you watched with unexplainable interest as his long, delicate fingers fumbled to roughly fold them and slam them on the counter. He wasn’t very graceful about stripping, almost tripping as he stepped on one sock and then the other. You let a bemused sigh escape, skimming over his bare chest, following his veiny arm to his waistband. However, he stilled. Slowly, you realized that he was waiting to lock eyes with you.

“Is this alright? Can I join you?” It was slightly upsetting that he still needed to ask permission like that. How could he be so smart and not know? Without really deciding to, you turned back into the shower, pulling the curtain closed.

You didn’t know why, but little things like that hurt you. Surely, he was simply being careful and considerate. But that wasn’t what you wanted. You were haunted by your first night with him. You could easily recall how intuitive every interaction had been, how instinctively you had moved together and how guttural every reaction had been.

Sober, it was the same. You thought as the water soothed your flaming face. He could read all your thoughts. He knew just what to do to please you. But that was only up to a certain point. At some indefinite moment, he pulled the brake, stopped the train, and started handling you carefully- with kid gloves. No matter how intimate it had previously been, it was never enough to dull the agony of this spontaneous distance. It happened so sharply, it was like a limb being cleaved from your body. Didn’t he feel it? Did he even notice?

He had to. He had to know when he was the one that controlled the fucking guillotine. Namjoon really was a sensitive guy. You loved that quality in him. You hated missing him when he was right in front of you like that.

Meanwhile, he’d had to interpret your actions as best as he could and concluded that if you really minded his presence then you would’ve said something.

It wasn’t long before he slipped into the shower stall behind you.

“Baby girl, I’ve missed this. I should’ve made some time for you.” His huge hands came to rest above your hips and you jumped a little as his hot fingers made contact with your tender skin. He didn’t pull you in very close the way that you expected. However, when you did move to face him, he held you firmly in place.

“It’s fine, Namjoon. I know that you’ve been busy. You’re very hardworking. How has work been?”

“Perfect.” He whispered, somehow sounding far away.

“And your brothers?”

His fingertips began to dance across your wet skin.

“Troublesome as always.”

“-and annoying, and weird. You all love each other so much…like a real family.” He must have found a secret clue in your speech, because that was the moment he spun you around and pulled you into his inviting chest. Instantly, you felt a thousand unnamable emotions. You had to remind yourself that you were more a mistress than a lover, but you didn’t quell those feelings. Instead, you hugged him back.

“Are you feeling homesick?”  He asked, giving you a slight squeeze.

“I’ve just been lonely.” You honestly confessed.

Frantically, he began to brush away wet strands of hair from your face. There wasn’t any hint of those deep dimples as he gently angled your chin, aligning your mouth with his. You were certain that he was about to kiss you, based on the hungry look in his eyes, but when the time came, he simply stared, resting his forehead against yours.

It was in this second brief silence, that he began to massage your neck and shoulders. You let the wave of complete understanding coerce you into action. With a little bit of trepidation, you let your fingers explore his satin skin anew. His back tensed under your touch and you suddenly realized that he was trembling.

“Y/N,” He began, “I should’ve...” His eyes sparkled. That’s when he kissed you, backing you into a corner. With all the water and his body finally so close, it was getting steamy. He was sucking and kissing at your sensitive neck…..

……………………………………..when he slipped.

Headbutting you.