#she apologizes and backpedals and gives her friends what they ask for even if she can tell its not what they want

[zincbot]

god. ame suvi and eursulon drive me insane. characters of all time

[skeltnwrites]

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / masterlist

part three - you help steve and penelope look for cinderella 11k

a/n - this actually took me ages oh my god. but to those asking about cinderella here you go! CW lost pet (happy ending i promise)

── .✦

The clock hanging in the hall clicks annoyingly loud. Tick, tick, tick, like a bad song stuck in your head. You watch the minute hand cross another line. It hasn’t been adjusted since the time changed last week. Similarly, the calendar below it has yet to be flipped. 

It’s November now, but more importantly, it’s Friday. It’s quickly cementing itself as your favorite day of the week. Friday’s mean lunch in Steve’s office and trading weekend plans and hearing about the kind of mischief Penelope’s been up to at home. 

But it’s a quarter past eight and Steve hasn’t arrived yet. He’s never been late, or even absent since you started volunteering. It’s odd, but everyone has their days you suppose. Still, a dull twinge blooms in your chest. Working without him might as well be a form of punishment. 

Someone had shoved a vacuum in your hands while they try and figure out if he’s coming. It’s boring work, not the kind Steve would give you. And when he has to give you boring work, he at least makes it fun. Turns most things into games or competitions. Like last week, he bet you any candy from the vending machine that he could sort donations faster than you. You bought him a Reeses, of course, but if anyone asks, you let him win on purpose. 

You hear Steve before you see him. He’s not loud, but his voice is distinct against any others. By now, you could pick him from a crowd by voice alone. You find him in the threshold between his supervisor's office and the hall. He lingers halfway out, toying with the door handle like he can’t decide if he should go inside. 

“Ah, look who finally decided to show up,” you overhear. “Was about to send a search party for you, Harrington.” The man cackles at his own joke, tone devoid of any edge. 

Steve laughs strangely. A laugh you aren’t sure you’ve ever heard from him before. He spills a string of apologies for his tardiness, but his boss waves him off and sends him to work. 

When he backpedals out of the doorway, you chide, “Tsk. Tsk. You’re late, Harrington.” 

Steve spooks easily. He hates to admit it but it makes him an easy target for office pranks which you do take full advantage of now that you’re friends. But you aren’t even trying to scare him this time. 

He visibly tenses at your voice, eyes snapping to yours. They’re as intense as you’ve ever seen the lovely shade of brown, yet dulled with the toll of exhaustion. The next thing you notice is his hair. It’s combed back behind his ears and by the looks of it has no product. 

“Hey,” he tries, stopping halfway to clear his throat. 

As if his appearance isn’t alarming enough, the lack of a comeback is triple worrisome. You try– and fail– to contain your concern. “What happened?” 

He deflates in one big sigh. Any attempt at a facade vanished. It’s impossible to lie to you when you look so concerned. 

“I’m the worst dad ever,” he declares, skimming your arm as he sidesteps past you. 

You catch up to his long stride with practiced eloquence. “Uh-oh. What’d you do?” 

“Cinderella’s gone missing.” 

“Missing?” 

He nods.

“But she’s an outside cat, right? She’s probably, I dunno, chasing birds or slumped over a can of tuna at a neighbor's house.” 

Steve bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s been four days. Four. She’s usually around at least once a day, if not, every other. I can’t even remember the last time–”

“Wait, wait. This makes you the worst dad, how exactly?” 

He forces his key into the lock of his office door, jostling the handle in frustration. “Because Penelope’s begged me since forever to let her be an inside cat and I always say no. She wouldn’t have got lost if she was inside.” 

You flick on the light and hum, understanding more than agreeing. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Steve, but I think you’re exaggerating.” 

He plants his bag on the desk and unzips it. “This is serious. She loves that cat more than me, I swear.” 

“Okay, first of all, not true. Second of all, this is serious and it sucks but it doesn’t make you a bad dad. You know that right?” 

“Besides the point,” he passes you a heavy pile of paper. “Will you help me hang these up?”

You don’t answer because you don’t need to. He already knows you’ll say yes. 

Black ink across the top page reads, “MISSING CAT”. There are two patchy images of Cinderella, one of which you’ve never seen and the other underexposed beyond recognition. Steve’s name, phone number, and address are listed at the bottom too. You flick through the stack, finding each version of Cinderella has been coated in a thick layer of brown crayon. 

“Penelope insisted on coloring all of them so people know what color she is.” 

Steve doesn’t have time for the pity party of a look you show him. If you cry, he’ll cry. And he’s cried enough in the last few days. 

You accompany Steve to the bulletin board outside his office. Unspokenly, you accept the very important job of paper-passer while he’s in charge of the stapler. 

“Thanks,” he says flatly, thumb catching on yours as he takes the page you’re holding out. 

“Don’t worry, Steve. She’ll come home. Cats just like their space sometimes.” You aren’t totally sure if that’s true about cats, but it sounds like the right thing to say. 

He mutters something under his breath. Not mean, just doubtful. 

It’s unusual to be the one filling the conversation. Steve’s good at talking, a Chatty Cathy as he often calls Penelope. But you try your best to fill his shoes. 

“How’s Penelope dealing with it?” 

“Awfully.” He chuckles dryly. “She’s on strike for just about everything right now. Refused to go to sleep, refused to eat breakfast, refused to get in the car this morning.” 

You nod and hand him another sheet. 

“I’d bet by lunch I’ll have to go pick her up. She was hysterical at drop-off.” 

“I’m sorry, Steve.” You have a funny urge to tack on something other than his name. Dummy or boss are typical but ill-fitting. And honey or sweetheart would probably cross a line, though, they’re nice to consider. 

He sighs, kneading his eye sockets. “I’m sorry. I’m being… I know you’re trying to help.” 

“You’re allowed to feel frustrated you know.” 

“I know. You’re just– thanks.”

“I’m banning that word from our conversations. You say it too much,” you tease. 

He gives you a look, neither happy nor sad. “Cause you’re always helping me, dummy.” 

You grin, largely at the nickname. 

Every board in the building is covered with posters and every person is notified of Cinderella’s disappearance in half the time it would normally take you and Steve. He’s not in any rush, just in his head. And after that, you dissolve into separate work, never far but still apart. 

By noon Steve’s on his third cup of coffee. But no amount of caffeine or sugar will erase the heavy bags under his eyes. Finding Cinderella might be the only cure. 

So there’s no debate in your mind when you offer, “I can come over and help look tonight?” 

Steve holds a finger up, gaze trained on an address book with his phone clamped between his ear and shoulder. “Hi, Miss Crawford?” He pushes the bridge of his glasses further up his nose. It’s rare that he wears them in front of you. Cute, nonetheless. “Yes, it’s Steve,” he says. 

There’s high-pitched rambling on the other end, not clear enough to discern anything other than an old-timey affection for Steve. You aren’t sure of the nature of Steve’s relationship with the woman, but he appears equally fond, even through the somber hues of his story. 

She offers no valuable insight as to Cinderella’s whereabouts but promises to keep an eye out, making her… strike seven. Steve’s determined to phone every person he knows and then every local in the phone book in the span of his thirty-minute lunch break. You joked about stealing his office neighbor’s phone to help, but Steve insisted you didn’t. 

When he docks the receiver you repeat yourself. 

“Sorry. You really don’t have to.”

“I know, but I can… If you want. It’s up to you.” 

“I– okay,” he sighs. “Only if you really don’t mind. It would be really helpful honestly.” 

“After work then?”

“Uhh, sure. I just have to pick up Penelope when I get off.” 

“Sounds good.” You grin and stir your food idly with a fork. It eventually goes cold in your lap. You’re more preoccupied with what you’ll wear tonight and what to bring Penelope to cheer her up. Candy’s probably your best bet. You know she’s already run out of Skittles from Halloween. 

Steve’s lips twitch happily as he dials another number. 

That’s about the happiest you see him. The rest of the day is a blur, mostly busywork as Steve is consistently ushered away by someone for something not even in his job description. For the first time possibly ever, he leaves on time. And he doesn’t say goodbye. He’s clearly having an awful day so you pretend it doesn’t sting, but the walk to your car is painfully silent. 

At home, you change quickly, pop something frozen in the microwave, and retrace your steps back to the car in record time. The drive to Steve’s is unfortunately not very long. It doesn’t give you much time to mull over every possible scenario like your brain desires. But you’ll survive. 

It still feels unfamiliar, pulling into his driveway. Less so than the first time, but still. You notice things you hadn’t before. The long crack like lightning in the pavement, the tinkle of a wind chime against the breeze, and the stepping stone with a ‘P’ carved in it. Halloween was the last time you were here. A couple of weeks has never felt like such a lifetime. Steve’s been busy parenting and working late and all. You don’t blame him. Sometimes you wonder how he ever made time for you in the first place with his schedule. 

On the front steps, Penelope plucks a weed and adds it to her bouquet. Her cheek is squished against the top of her knee and she’s curled over herself like a pillbug. Brown eyes flick up as you near. One blink, then two. The epitome of indifference. 

“Hi, Penelope.” 

“Hi,” she says. She sounds uncharacteristically small. And she is small, but her voice is anything but. You know her to be bold, unapologetic. But not today. 

You squat, toe to toe with her little Mary Janes, and wave a pack of Skittles. “Look what I brought,” you sing. 

The slightest lift of her frown before she restores the pout for good. “For me?”

“All for you.” 

She takes the candy and tucks it under her arm. 

“Wanna help me look for your dad?” 

It’s not a bribe, though her presence does tend to balm your Steve-induced nerves. So you are a little disappointed when she shakes her head. But disappointment wanes into sympathy and sympathy to determination. Determination to help her find Cinderella as soon as possible. 

You palm her shoulder as you stand. The front door is ajar, the breeze eating any warmth in the foyer. It’s eerily quiet inside. 

“Steve?” 

“One second!” he calls back, muffled from upstairs. 

The entryway is messier than you remember it. Shoes in a jumbled heap behind the door, Steve’s unzipped backpack slumped against the baseboards, and winter gloves and hats knocked haphazardly onto the tile. You bend to pick up a knit beanie as Steve hurdles down the stairs. 

He struggles to squeeze into a raincoat over the thick sweater he wore to work. “Hey,” he smiles softly, gaze sweeping across your clothes. “Thanks for coming.” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“Do you want a heavier coat? Radio said it’s supposed to storm tonight.” 

“Oh,” you peer down at your denim jacket. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

Steve tilts his head, passing you a bundle of crumpled pink cloth. “Give this to Penelope? I’ll grab you one.” He doesn’t allow you to argue before turning around, but he stops halfway up the stairs, leaning over the railing to say, “Tell her to grab her boots too.”

You find the boots in the pile by the door and bring them to Penelope outside. She stares at you helplessly with one shoe halfway on the wrong foot. 

“Need help?”

“Yes please.” 

You take her ankle and prop her foot against yours. It takes a few tries and lots of wiggling but you slide the boot on and lace the purple strings all the way up. The second round is easier but you still wonder whether kids shoes are supposed to be this difficult. 

The door groans behind you and a warm hand cups your shoulder. “Did you eat?” Steve asks. “I can make you something before we go.”  

You rise to face him. The sky’s overcast, muting his tan complexion, making him look even more spent than he had earlier. “I ate. But thank you,” you smile, hoping to encourage one back. 

He doesn’t but he unfolds the coat he’s carrying, shaking the arms free so it’s easier for you to slip on. “See if this fits.”

It’s not your typical size, but the extra weight is nice. Traces of pine and juniper linger, like it’s been taken on a hike recently. And you’re instantly warmer, a comfort that extends beyond the garment alone. 

“Nice,” he nods, taking it upon himself to even out the hood strings for you. His fingernail skips across the zipper teeth and for a second, you think he’ll zip it up too. 

“Daddy, are we going now?” 

Steve spins on his heel, shuffling for his keys at the door. “Yes, baby. What did we talk about?” 

Penelope kicks a load of gravel into the grass. “Ummm, I dunno.” 

“No running off. If I can’t see you, we go home. Capeesh?” 

When he jogs down the steps to her side, she sighs. “Capeesh.” 

“Ready?” He pats her head, “Got your detective hat on?” 

She peers up then, a flush of fresh purpose, and nods. 

“Alright, Detective. Let’s roll.” 

Steve’s yard is embraced by dense woods on every side but the road. He leads you to the tree line where a trail has been carved smooth with frequent use. Bark stretches tall and needle branches weave a canopy of orange above. 

“Katie said I need to think more like a cat.” Penelope cranes her head up, “Do you think Cinderella went in the trees?”

“Maybe,” Steve mumbles, focused on jamming his nail under the metal tab of a can of cat food. 

“So maybe I should climb up to check?”

“Not these ones, babe. Too tall.”

“But what if she’s in one? Like, a really, really tall one.” 

“I think she’d pick a shorter one so she could get down,” you supply. “It would probably hurt her nails going all the way up there too.” 

She hums. You drift into a steady rhythm of whistling and calling Cinderella’s name. Penelope waves a toy ball with a little bell inside while you rattle the jar of treats. 

Penelope orbits off course slowly and when she hops out of sight Steve calls, “What did I say Nell?” 

“No running away!” 

He shakes his head at you, “This kid’ll be the death of me, I swear.”

You grin, turning back to him when you spot Penelope. Steve has a lovely side profile. You try to memorize the shape without tripping over any twigs as you walk. “How was she at school?” 

“Sad, they said. She cried at nap. Refused to sleep at all.” 

You coo. 

“But she ate all her lunch, so that’s good.”

You hum in agreement. 

Penelope crouches to examine the inside of a log. Her pigtails flip as she tips her head upside down. 

“Did you find something?” you ask. 

Penelope pulls something dark out, a dopey smile rounding her cheeks. “A slug.” 

Steve scrunches his nose but quickly slackens it in a poor attempt to conceal his disgust. Thankfully, you don’t have to be a good actor to fool a four-year-old. “Nice, honey.” 

“I think he’s dead.”

“Why don’t you put him back? He’s probably hibernating.” 

“Hiding? Why?”

“No, hi-ber-nat-ing. It’s when the animals go to sleep during the winter.” 

She squints, “For the whole winter?” 

“Yeah, think so.”

“How do they do that?” 

“Umm, I don’t know.” Steve glances at you for help but you only shrug. “They just do.” 

One of the joys of parenthood you’ve discovered through Penelope is the plethora of questions that you have absolutely no idea how to answer. 

Penelope replants the slug in its home, making a point to clarify, “Cinderella wasn’t in there.” 

The trail dips steadily downward, covered with a mess of broken branches, scattered pinecones, and crunchy leaves that crackle beneath your feet. Steve’s leading the way, rambling about something or other and you’d swear you’re listening if he asked. But truthfully, your eyes trace the fit of his jeans shamelessly. He has a nice ass, it’s hard not to notice! 

Your foot snags on something hard– a root, a branch, you aren’t totally sure– and it all happens so fast. You yelp and pitch forward, knees and hands slamming into the dirt with the full force of your weight. 

Steve whirls around and assesses the damage, quickly determines there are no injuries severe enough to warrant a hospital visit, and then he fucking cackles. 

You scoff, burying your own amusement as Penelope mimics him. Some example Dad is setting. At least he offers to help you up, Penelope just watches your embarrassment unfold.  

“Don’t laugh!” You yank his hand, harsh enough that he stumbles forward onto your toe. “Ow– Steve!”

“That’s what you get!” He hauls you up, grip faltering with each peel of laughter. 

You twist around yourself, sweeping your backside. “Do I have leaves on my butt?” 

He looks for as long as he deems appropriate which is not very long at all. “Just dirt and a ton of bugs.” 

“Shut up,” you smack his bicep. 

Penelope points, “That is not nice!”

“Yeah, keep your hands to yourself,” Steve teases. 

You trap a retort behind clenched teeth and look to Penelope. “Sorry.” 

“Uhh. You’re supposed to apologize to me.” 

You skip past him to Penelope’s side. “I’m helping Penelope look right now. Maybe later.” 

Steve knows you won’t see it but he hopes you feel him sticking up his middle finger. 

Penelope trudges along, the corners of her mouth drawn tight in quiet sadness. She fills the silence before you find the words.

“Do you think she’ll come home?” she asks earnestly. 

“I do, Pen. I think she’s probably just hiding.” 

“Like hide and seek?”

“Yeah.” 

She considers your words carefully. “But why?”

“I dunno. Cats are just silly like that.” 

She smiles. “Like dinosaurs?” 

You smile back. “Exactly.” 

The trees taper off, merging with the cracked sidewalk lining a cul de sac. Penelope’s ponytails are swept off her shoulders as a car whizzes by.  

You cuff her smaller fingers in your own just as Steve tells her to hold someone’s hand. 

He stops at her other side, surveying the neighborhood. It’s the type you’d imagine families live in. Basketball hoops, sidewalk chalk, bikes thrown against the lawns. 

“I’m gonna go talk to some neighbors. Will you hang some posters?” Steve asks you. “We should hurry. I think it’s going to rain soon.” 

“Can I go?” 

Steve’s eyes trail from Penelope back up to you curiously. 

“Yeah, I’ve got her.” You squeeze her hand, reassuring yourself more than anyone. 

“Okay. Penelope, be a good listener. Don’t go on the road by yourself. I’ll be just over there.” He points to a house with yellow siding and starts across the road. 

You turn Penelope by the shoulders and unzip her bag, taking the stapler in one hand and the stack of paper in the other. 

“Can you carry these?” you ask, thrusting the posters toward her. 

You straighten out the stapler and pick a sheet off the top before she braces them against her chest. “You know, this reminds me of when we first met.” 

“Because I helped you hang up stuff?”

“Mhmm.” You line the page up against a tree, nailing each corner to be sure it sticks. 

Eventually, you're passed a different poster, a painting. It’s a charming tangle of shapes and a riot of brown and orange. At the top, "MISSING" is written with two backward S’s in a crooked slope.

“Did you paint this?”

“Yes, at school.” 

“Wow. Did you write this too?” 

“Yep. My teacher helped me.” 

“Very good!” You tack it to a telephone pole and pivot to face her, brimming with pride. 

She’s not nearly as happy as you are about it. Her lips thin as she stares at her work and she hesitates before asking,“Do you think we’re bad detectives?” 

Your chest aches so sudden and fierce like you’ve been punched. You crouch, rubbing the soft fleece at her elbow. “No. No, honey. We aren’t bad detectives. Detective work just takes time. We have a lot of ground to cover.” 

Her frown wobbles, lashes shining. “It’s taking so long,” she whines. 

“I know, Pen. Cinderella didn’t leave us many clues, huh?” You swipe a tear before it reaches her mouth. You want to promise her that Cinderella will come home but your gut won’t let you. You don’t know if she really will. “Let’s go check on your Dad. See if the neighbors have seen her. Hmm?” 

She nods and you give her your best loving squeeze. 

Steve’s halfway up the steps of someone’s porch, mid-conversation with a young woman. Her frown deepens as you and Penelope approach, unlike the baby on her hip who smiles at you. 

Steve glances over before continuing. “Well, please call, if you do happen to see her.” 

“Absolutely. I hope you find her.” 

“Thanks,” he waves, descending the stairs to stand beside you.  

“No luck?” you ask, peering up at the clouds. They’re getting moodier by the minute and it’s started to sprinkle. 

His hand settles around Penelope’s skull like a claw, he shakes her frown away but not easily. “Not yet. We’ll keep looking.” 

Penelope walks a few feet ahead of you and Steve. Every few mailboxes you and Steve stick another poster up. Penelope doesn’t stop to wait, but she’s thorough in her searching, checking under cars and in drain pipes. Enough to even out the distance that grows each turn. 

You’re faced away, unclogging the jam in the stapler when Penelope gasps. 

“Nell! Wait!” Steve shouts as you turn. By then she’s already halfway up someone’s lawn.  

Steve jogs after her and you jog after Steve. Penelope’s made it to the sideyard when you catch up, stretching onto tiptoes and squinting through a rotted hole in the fence. 

“Penelope,” Steve sighs.

“I saw her Daddy! She jumped over the fence!”

“Are you sure?” His hand curls over the top of the fence but his eyes can’t reach. 

“Yes, I promise! We have to go over!” 

He scrapes through his hair, judging the wood planks. They’re at least a head taller than Steve, but there’s a thin lip dividing each in half. If he angles his foot right, he could use it to boost himself over. 

He shakes his head. He might've hopped a fence or two as a teenager, but he's grown now. “We have to ask. It’s someone’s yard.” 

Penelope wails, yanking his arm repeatedly. “No! Daddy! What if she’s gone? We have to hurry!” 

“Just go,” you wave, already backing up toward the house. “I’ll go knock. See if they’re home.” 

Steve winces at himself for what he’s about to do. But one glance at Penelope’s worried little face is all the courage he needs. He tests his grip, the sole of a shoe scraping wood for a scary second before catching on the trim. With one leg on either side, he pauses to look at Penelope. “Stay there,” he says, before leaping into the grass. 

He scans the backyard. There’s a swing set, a raised garden bed, a kiddie pool, and lots and lots of toys. It reminds him of his own yard. Steve takes a handful of hesitant steps, gaze flicking across each window for any horrified faces. He’s thankful not to see any. 

Then, a meow—faint, but unmistakable. His heart lurches, his head whipping up to the nearest tree even faster. His eyes comb through branch after branch, then again when he comes up empty. But a second meow and he’s never been more sure. He wedges his heel into a groove, hugging the trunk for balance. His nails dig uncomfortably into the bark as he pulls himself up. 

And there! Right where he swears he looked, a strip of golden-orange fur, blending seamlessly with the leaves… Except, Cinderella isn’t orange, she’s brown. Steve’s shoe slips, sending his chin hard into a thick branch on his way to the ground. The cat hisses equally if not more upset than Steve about the situation. He groans, glaring at the tree as he picks himself up. 

“Did you find her? Was it her?” Penelope yells, still peeping through the hole in the fence. 

Steve waits until he vaults back over to answer. “No, princess. Not her.” 

“Your chin,” you point out, but your words are eaten by Penelope’s shouting. 

“It was her! I know it was! I saw!” 

“It wasn’t, Nell. Promise. That cat was orange.”

“But it was! I saw her!” Penelope crumbles into hysterics, batting her fists against Steve’s thighs like they’re punching bags.  

Steve scoops her up, clamping her arms between their chests. 

“Daddy, we have to go back! I saw her!” Several gasps slice through her sentence and tears pour down her face in even streams. 

Steve shushes her gently, fanning her hood across her head as it starts to rain. You follow him up to the road and then down the street. Penelope’s relentless, squirming and screaming in his ear. It’s the first of her temper tantrums you’ve seen in person, though you’ve heard plenty about them, and you caught the beginning of one once through the phone. Steve’s more composed than you thought possible, waiting patiently until her sobs have dwindled into teary hiccups to set her down. 

“It’s not nice to hit. Even when we’re mad, you know that.”

She glares at him, more serious than you’ve ever seen. 

“Are you ready to go home?” 

Penelope’s face starts to wilt. She nearly cries again. 

“It’s too rainy. We have to go home soon or we’ll get sick.”

“Five more minutes,” she begs. 

“Okay.” He buttons her coat up to her chin. “Are you tired?” 

She shakes her head, though her eyes say otherwise. 

“Do you want me to carry you?” 

Penelope thinks long and hard. It’s a trick question. Of course she wants to be carried but God forbid Steve finds out she’s tired. 

He picks her up anyway. “You can still look from up here.” 

Penelope hooks her chin over his shoulder, cheek tipping to kiss the pad of his jacket. So much worry and too many days of poor sleep etched into each flap of her lashes. She looks utterly exhausted. And she really tries to stay awake– she needs to find Cinderella– but she lost that battle before it even started. The hiss of rain and the warm swing of Steve’s embrace send her straight to dreamland. 

Steve feels her arms slacken and slide down his back. He chances a glimpse at you to ask what he already knows but can’t. Not when you’re already watching Penelope with a type of love he believed was his alone to give. 

Alarm pulses when he registers the weight of your stare has shifted to him. The same velvet endearment skips across every feature on your face. It’s lovely and adorable but it terrifies the hell out of Steve. 

His cheeks burn and he smiles like a madman. He can’t help it. It sticks long after his eyes dart away. 

You drift into a comfortable quiet. The spray of rain is like white noise, making even you drowsy. Maybe Steve could carry you back too. It’s an amusing idea, enough to make you grin to yourself. You’re glad he doesn’t notice. He couldn't torture that information out of you. 

Halfway home, you hit a particularly steep incline in the forest, slick with the beginning sludge of mud. 

“Here,” Steve calls, boosting Penelope higher up his chest before casting his arm at you. 

You accept his hand, grateful for more reasons than one, and trace the wet shoeprints he leaves behind with your own. It’s a slow journey. Steve strains with the added weight on his front, but he doesn’t let go of you until you reach the top of the hill. 

You cross the threshold back into Steve’s yard as a bout of thunder splits the sky above. Penelope shakes awake and peels herself off Steve. She blinks unhappily, cheeks stamped with red lines mirroring his coat folds. 

“It’s okay,” he soothes, fixing her hood after it falls. 

“Cinderella,” she whimpers. 

“We’ll look again tomorrow.” 

She sniffles, voice so frail, hollow with sleep. “No. I–” 

Another wave of thunder startles her to panicked tears. Steve picks up the pace to the front door, shuffling through his pocket for the keys. He’s well-versed in unlocking the door one-handed– between groceries, backpacks, Penelope– he always has something to carry. But he’s thankful when you take the keys and do it for him. 

You scoot inside last, joining the choir of shoe squealing on the tile. 

Steve sets Penelope on the floor and kneels to unlace her boots. She wrestles with her coat zipper until Steve intervenes with much gentler hands. 

“We looked really good while you were asleep,” you promise while shedding your own coat. 

Her miserable expression doesn’t falter. 

Steve smears her tear tracks one cheek at a time. “Stay for a bit? Until the storm passes.”

You bend to collect Penelope’s coat off the floor and hang it next to yours. “Okay,” you say when you realize his words were directed at you. 

“I’m gonna give her a quick bath. Do you need anything? Water? Towel?” 

“Oh, no. I’m good. Thanks.” 

“Okay. We’ll be upstairs. Please, help yourself to whatever. Seriously.” 

When Steve disappears from view, you mosey into the living room, searching for something to keep your hands busy. And it’s not hard to find. There’s a pile of laundry that looks like it’s been trampled through more than a few times. Clothes stretch from one end of the couch to the other. You push them into a pile and get comfortable, folding each item with more care than you would your own. 

Four neat stacks later and Steve spots you from the stairs. “Please don’t do that,” he says. 

You clear your smirk as he nears. “Do what?” 

“You know what,” he snatches a sock from your grasp. It’s one of his, longer and duller than the others. “Sorry, I know it’s a mess.” 

“You know I don’t care, Steve.” 

He gazes down at you in pretend petulance. “Well, I do.” With a dramatic flick of his finger, he sends the sock sailing back into the hamper on the floor.  

“If it makes you feel better, I have a pile of clothes covering half my bed right now.”

 “Mmm. It doesn’t,” he decides. “But I came down because Penelope’s very kindly requested that you come read to her before she goes to bed. If you want to.” 

“Of course I want to.” Your lips bend into a funny little line, happy and curious and doubtful all dressed in one. “She really asked for me?” 

“Yeah,” he says in the same cadence he would duh. He offers his palm, drags you up easily. “Why’s that so hard to believe?” 

“I dunno.” A toothy smile slips onto your face before you can stop it. But your lips close as soon as you stand, pressed closer to him than you expected to be. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles, breaking away. “Come on.” 

He seemed nervous– the way he laughed, how his hands retracted like he was burned– but maybe you’re overthinking it. You forget about the interaction by the time you reach Penelope’s room. 

Several books are fanned around Penelope where she stands, like fallen petals from the stem of a flower. Her shelf has been mostly stripped. What isn’t on the floor has been scooped into a flimsy stack in her arms. 

Steve knocks on the door frame, “Ready?” 

Penelope turns and two books slide off the top of her tower. You can’t see her mouth but you can tell by her eyes that there’s a smile behind that copy of Goodnight Moon. 

“You can pick three, missy,” he says. 

“Five?” 

“Four.” 

“Four and a half?”

“Three.”

“No,” she giggles, definitely delirious. “Four.”

“Okay.” He kneels at her feet, reshelving unchosen books two or three at a time. 

It’s not an easy decision, but Penelope decides on her four and promptly thrusts them into your hands. You follow her to bed where she packs herself against the wall, politely leaving the rest of the twin mattress for you. 

“Wait!” she shouts when you open the first book, “The lights!” 

“I’m working on it,” Steve grumbles, standing to flip the light switch by the door. The room is swallowed in black apart from the nightlight glowing to life across the room. 

Penelope stretches across you to snatch something off her nightstand. A flashlight, you realize, as she clicks the switch. She trains the light on the page and beams at you with equal vibrance. 

The first story is the shortest and the second not much longer, but the third takes time. Time you get to notice the heat of her breath as she yawns into your arm and time to appreciate the weight of her head limp against your shoulder. 

You don’t have to look up to know Steve is still tidying. Every second counts when you’re a single parent. But you steal a glance in between each page anyway. Find him chucking clothes in the hamper and dumping an armload of stuffed animals onto the foot of the bed. They’ll be kicked to the floor by morning and yet he straightens them up anyhow. 

He concludes his rounds by the final pages of the fourth book, taking a seat on the floor just in time to hear you whisper, “The end.” 

Penelope bats her dark eyes up at you. She knows you’ll say yes before she even asks. “One more?” 

“No,” Steve interjects. “No more tonight, babe.”

“Pleaseee!” 

“No, you already hustled me into four. We usually only read two.” 

“Pretty please!” she adds, puppy dog eyes bouncing from Steve to you. 

Oh the cruelty. To defy Steve or disappoint Penelope. Both are terrible choices but only one of the pair currently has a heartbreaking little pout. 

“I’ll read one more really really short book if you promise to go to sleep after?” 

Her head bobs eagerly as she kicks the blankets off, springing to her feet.

Steve’s head flops against the sheets, hair like satin ribbons shining from root to end. You consider if it’s as soft as you assume and if you’ll ever have the chance to find out. 

“Supposed to be on my side,” he whispers through a gooey grin. 

“Am I?” 

He tuts, craning up to find Penelope. “Don’t take all of those back out. I just cleaned them up.”

She exchanges the two in her hand for a thick chapter book. 

“No ma’am,” Steve says as she turns. “Short one, ‘member?”

Penelope huffs and lugs herself back to the bookcase. She plucks a thinner paperback and uses Steve’s calf as a stool to launch herself back in bed. He doesn’t complain but he pinches her side in revenge. 

The book mirrors the length of tonight’s first, yet it takes double the time for your own selfish reasons. You linger on each word, emphasize each sound, and savor every second. Penelope is nestled against your hip as you read the final sentence, sleepy and oblivious that you’ve turned the last page. 

Steve pulls himself up to perch on the edge of the bed, mindful not to sit on anyone’s legs. He runs the back of his hand across her face, giving her nose an extra tap. Enough times and it’ll put her to sleep. 

“Can you say thanks, Nell? And goodnight.” 

She squirms away from his touch, pushing into your thigh. “I don’t wanna go to sleep.”

“Pen, remember our deal.” You squeeze her shoulder gently. “You promised, hmm?”

You swallow the urge to smile when she juts her lip out and frowns. The drama never ends with this one but you love it. 

“Goodnight,” you whisper. Your hand glides over the shape of her arm beneath the blanket. “I had fun reading to you.” 

She avoids your gaze, picking a loose string from her blanket. If she sees you grinning, she’ll end up grinning too. She can’t have that, she’s protesting. “Night.” 

Steve shakes his head dismissively at you, grinning fondly himself. “I’ll be down in a second,” he explains. 

You stand, slotting the book back in its home on the shelf and steal one last glimpse of them on your way out. A trail of nightlights guides you to the stairs like beacons. You end up in the kitchen, hands braced on the sink, eyes drifting around the backyard through the window.

There’s a patio with chairs and string lights. In the grass, a trampoline, a sandbox, and a toddler-sized picnic bench, all draped in purple moonlight and sparkling with rain. It’s easy to imagine life here. Birthday parties and cookouts and lazy Sunday afternoons. 

The swish of sock against tile knocks you from the fantasy. You locate Steve’s reflection in the glass.

“You better not be doing my dishes.” 

Your lips flex instinctually at his voice. “I thought about it.” 

He leans back against the counter, hip a hand’s width from yours. Strips of hair sag across his forehead like a botched set of bangs. Your height difference and the angle only accentuate how silly he looks. 

“What?” Steve smiles. 

You huff through your own. “Nothin’.” 

“Why are you laughing then?” 

“I’m not. Just…” you reach for his face but the courage fades halfway. You wave obtusely instead. “This hair,” you finish. 

He flattens the piece down, then another, combing more and more over his face like a real pair of bangs until the ends graze the ball of his nose. “What? You don’t like it?”

“Oh, it’s awful, Steve. Put it back.” 

“I dunno. Thinking of changing it up anyway.”

You shake your head, peeling your eyes away from him. “Stupid.” 

Stupidly gorgeous, you decide. He’s a mess, no doubt; rumpled and sweaty, and still, stupidly, impossibly gorgeous. 

He rakes his hair back where it belongs, “You’re too good to me, you know.”

“You’re so dramatic.” Your gaze remains on the window but you watch Steve in your peripherals. “I’m the perfect amount of good to you.” 

“Well, agree to disagree. But, thank you for coming over to help look. Really I–”

You face him fully then. “Steve, you don’t have to thank me.” 

“No, I do. Really, you’re… you’re great and it’s been nice, you know, having help. Even just having company. It hasn't been easy making friends the last few years.”

Your brain stalls at his choice of words. You spout the first thing that comes to mind. “That’s what friends are for, right?” The words sting like acid on your tongue but you smile anyway. You’re pretty sure your heart just split itself in half on the way to the friend zone. 

He hums, pushing off the counter toward the fridge. “Let me return the favor, please. I’ll make you whatever you want. Spaghetti, PB ‘n J, uhh, pre-packaged salad?”

“I’m good, Steve. I ate earlier. And you don’t need to return the favor.” 

He sets a jar of jelly on the counter. “Your loss. Penelope says I make the best PB ‘n J’s.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” 

You settle at the kitchen table and watch him work unapologetically. His focus is entirely on a one-sided debate about the perfect peanut butter-to-jelly ratio, leaving him oblivious to your ogling.

He plops down in the chair across from yours when he’s finished. “Sure you don’t want some? You can have half of mine.” 

“Steve.” 

“Okay,” he sings and takes a bite. 

You watch the slow drip of water from the eaves. The rain has subsided enough that you could go, but neither of you suggest it. Your mind is elsewhere. Stuck on friends. 

“Hello? Anybody home?” Steve chuckles when you blink back to reality. “Did you hear me? I was–”

The trill of the phone interrupts. 

“I’m holding my thought. Don’t go anywhere.” Steve abandons his sandwich and crosses the room, pulling the phone from the counter. “Hello?... Uh-huh… Yes, yes.”

The sudden shift in his tone catches your attention. He sounds borderline ecstatic. 

“Okay. I’ll be right over. Thank you!” 

“Who was it?” you ask.

He snaps the receiver back into place. “A neighbor saw her just now.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes! Well, they’re pretty sure it’s her. It sounded like her, how they described. Are you able to stay here while I go check? I don’t wanna wake Penelope up.” 

You don’t even think about it when you insist, “Of course. Go!” 

“I’ll be right back. Thank you!” He squeezes your shoulder and jogs out of the kitchen. The sound of jangling keys fades with the closing of the front door and before you’ve processed it, you’re alone in Steve’s house. 

It’s a strange thing, being in Steve’s house without Steve. You’re not technically alone, Penelope is still tucked in bed upstairs, of course. But the silence is thick, suffocating even. So you’re admittedly glad when you hear tiny footsteps from upstairs. 

On the bottom step, Penelope freezes and her hand tightens around the railing, not expecting you to be there. “Where’s Daddy?” she mewls at you, bottom lip quivering against her words. 

“It’s okay. He went out to look some more, that’s all.” 

“I want Daddy,” she whines, breath hitching in between words. 

“He’ll be right back, sweetheart. I promise.” 

A sob wracks her chest, tears escaping as she scrunches her eyes. Sniffles cut through a mush of sounds, woven between them, she pleads, “When?”

“Oh, honey. Come here.” You hoist her up against your chest instinctually. It feels like the right thing to do, and it must be– her arms wind underneath yours like puzzle pieces. “Real soon,” you reassure. 

You hope so anyway. Half for Penelope’s sake and half for yours. You’re afraid to overstep, to parent her in a way Steve wouldn’t approve of. You feel the echoes of his constant self-doubt in your own mind. But you’ll try your best until he returns. 

Penelope’s not heavy, but it is the first time you’ve carried another human down a set of stairs. It’s a slow descent with lots of maneuvering and readjusting limbs so you can see the steps ahead but she doesn’t seem to mind. By the time you make it to the sectional, your arms burn. Still, you’d do it ten times over just so she doesn’t have to walk herself.  

She sweeps her runny nose across your sleeve and her knee digs uncomfortably into your ribcage but you can’t find it in yourself to mind. She feels safe enough with you to do so. It’s a compliment more than anything. And the weight of her head against you is a type of soothing you don’t think you’ll ever get used to. 

Your fingertips trace the shape of her shoulder blades through her nightgown. “Did you have a bad dream?” you whisper. 

She draws similar lazy patterns on your arm, pausing to hum yes. 

You hum back. “‘M sorry, Pen. Wanna talk about it? Might help.”

She shakes her head, the slightest movement against your collar. 

“Okay, I got you. Don’t have to worry,” you whisper and pat her head. “I won’t let any more bad dreams get in here.” 

Steve’s gone long enough to fuel your nerves and keep your mind buzzing, though your eyes beg for the sweet release of sleep. Penelope’s not helping, like a warm, weighted blanket on your chest. She’s barely awake herself when he arrives, but you’re surprised she’s awake at all. You aren’t sure what time it is but it’s definitely late. 

Two clicks from the front door’s lock and a Steve-shaped shadow slides inside. He’s being particularly quiet, like when tries to sneak up on you at the rec center. Like a ninja, he always says. 

Penelope’s head shoots up to peer over the couch. “Daddy?”

Steve stops in his tracks, but his head snaps in your direction. When his eyes confirm his ears he starts toward the couch, waiting until he can sit to coo, “Hey, baby. Hey.” A hand scoops a piece of hair behind her ear. “What are you doing up sleepyhead?” 

Penelope splinters off of your chest but remains situated on your thighs. She offers several half-lidded blinks to Steve. “You didn’t find her?” 

He melts like her eyes are made of sunbeams, reaching up to thumb sleep from under her lashes. “No, baby. Someone thought they did but it wasn’t her. I went to make sure.” 

“Oh,” she says, not sad, just tired. Penelope slowly leans over to him like a bridge, wrapping her arms around his neck as he tows her into his lap. 

He looks at you then. A long look. An expression you're having a hard time untangling. His eyes flutter back down when Penelope yawns. “Have to go to bed, okay?” he whispers into her crown, planting a kiss while he’s there. 

“I wanna sleep in your room.”

“That’s fine but I’m not laying down yet. You still have to go to sleep.” 

She nods against his chin. 

“I’ll carry you up. Can you say goodnight?” 

Penelope turns so you can see one side of her face, the other glued to Steve’s sweater. 

“Goodnight,” you wave and smile softly. 

She only shudders out a sigh but manners aren’t on Steve’s mind, especially when he knows you wouldn’t care about that. His knees crack as he stands, hiking her up higher before he heads upstairs. 

You yank a blanket from the arm of the couch, missing the warmth Penelope lent you. It’s a risky move when you’re already fighting to keep your eyes open. 

But Steve’s back before you have time to fall asleep. He’s trampling down the steps with a confidence that Penelope’s out for good this time. And he flops onto the couch with the same heaviness, sighing like you’ve never heard. Pure frustration. It’s understandable. But odd off his lips. 

“You okay?” you ask, the same syrupy sweetness you’d used with Penelope.  

He turns to face you and he looks awfully sad. The rainwater clinging to the ends of his hair doesn’t help. But he nods anyway because he’s Steve. “It was a stupid raccoon.” 

“You’re kidding? They thought it was a cat?” 

“I should’ve known,” he scrubs his face. “Practically senile that lady.” 

“You’ll find her, Steve.” 

He takes a deep breath and swallows. “I don’t know anymore. I’m really starting to think worst-case scenarios.” 

You press your lips into a firm line. It’s a possibility you don’t want to consider. “Why don’t I go look a little longer? I’m off–”

“No, please,” he leans over to cradle the shell of your knee. “You’ve helped all night. I mean this in the nicest way possible, you look exhausted.”

“Way to treat a guest, Harrington,” you smirk, peeling his pointer finger off your leg to hook it under your own. 

He squeezes your finger like a trigger, shifting focus between your hands and face. “Go home, rest, please.” 

“You sure?”

“Hundred percent. Rain’s let up so the drive shouldn’t be too bad.” 

“Promise you’ll get some rest too?” 

He smiles despite the pang in his chest and the ache behind his eyes. You're the first to show him this kind of care in years. “I will. I promise.” He releases your finger, binding your pinky with his instead. 

There’s something unreal about the way you smile back at him. Like you’ve entranced him with a spell. Steve believes in a lot of things– superpowers, demogorgans, parallel dimensions– but this is the first time he’s ever believed in pinky promise magic. 

He shakes his head, “Come on.” 

You take his hand, groaning in sync as he helps you up. 

In the foyer, Steve unhooks the coat he’d lent you earlier. “Here.” And before you can contend, he adds, “Keep it. It’s an extra. I don’t need it.” 

You let him guide your arms into the sleeves. And the same deliriousness possesses you to spring in for a hug after. “It’ll be okay, Steve,” you murmur, lips skimming the embroidered design across his chest. 

He deflates for half a second before reciprocating. “I know,” he says. “Thank you.” 

You wait until he softens to pull away and open the door. 

The wind whips and howls blowing a wave of mist onto the other end of the porch. Steve scans the yard, then the road, both slick with rain. He asks himself if it’s a good enough reason to ask you to stay. But he decides it isn’t, not yet, at least. 

“Call me when you get home?” 

A wild smile splits your lips. “Okay,” you blink stupidly, too tired to care. 

“Careful!” he shouts as you run to your car. Steve leans against the doorframe, loitering until your headlights flash his house and your car rolls out of the driveway. 

It’s only sprinkling but streetlights are scarce near Steve’s place so you turn your high beams on, highlighting lawns on either side of the road. You drive slowly, inspecting one yard, then the one opposite, hopeful that Cinderella’s still out there. 

There’s a stop sign at the end of Steve’s street. A landmark you know to make a left at. But you decide to go right. I wanted to take the scenic route, you’ll say if Steve asks. You drive that road and the one beside it and another beside that. 

And it’s only a few turns away when you spot something sort of cat-shaped laid at the end of a driveway. 

“Please do not be a raccoon,” you mumble, squinting as you inch the car closer. The longer you look the more it makes sense– two ears, a wavy tail, it’s definitely a cat. “No way.” 

You put the car in park across from the house and study it. It bats its tail against the concrete, staring lazily back at your car. There’s just no way, not after all that looking. You find her after what, ten minutes of driving? It just can’t be her. 

You push your door open gingerly, slipping onto the asphalt one foot at a time. The cat perks up, ears twitching with each crunch under your shoes. You slink over slowly, crouching into an uncomfortable crab walk when she stands. Brown coat, no collar, just as she’s been described to you. But it’s hard to say. You’ve only seen one picture of her and it was out of focus. There’s no way to really know it’s her. 

Honking a few streets away slices the silence and your focus in one go. You flinch back a step which spooks the cat. She scampers up the driveway, weaving underneath a car to the other end of the yard. 

You stick as low to the ground as you can while skipping after her. You’d guess you look ridiculous, but at least Steve isn’t here to see. The car blocks the view and you lose her by the time you reach the other side. But there’s a swirl of shrubbery, good for hiding probably. You blindly grapple for branches, blinking rapidly, slowly adjusting to the growing darkness the farther you move from your car’s headlights.

And then the porch light flickers on, spotlighting you digging through a random person’s bushes.  

“Shit.” You freeze, hand choking a wreath of leaves, embarrassment flaring hot and red through your entire body. A minute passes, then two. Everything’s still. No cat, no angry homeowners, no police cars. You decide it’s safe. Must’ve been an automatic light. You hope, anyway. 

Upon further inspection, the bushes are empty, and from what you can see the porch is too. There are a few trees but it’s difficult to make out any cats through the dark web of branches. A sudden gust of wind shakes a handful of leaves loose. Your eyes track them across the yard as they tumble back toward the driveway. And there’s the damn cat, sitting on the roof of the car like it was there the whole time. 

“You better not set that alarm off, dude,” you grumble. 

She narrows her eyes and growls as you draw closer. Cinderella is irritable– this makes sense. Or it’s a totally random feral cat who is about to claw your eyes out. 

You’re within touching distance when you realize you have no plan. She very likely could claw your eyes out or give you rabies or something else awful. But you're in it now. You’re gonna get Penelope her cat back. So you shrug Steve’s coat off cautiously, eyes never leaving the cats. It’s raining again, you realize as it starts pelting your neck, trickling like ice down your shirt. But that’s the least of your worries right now. 

“Nice kitty,” you whisper, unfolding the jacket. 

She hisses as you lean in but before she can pounce or swipe you throw the jacket over her and scoop her off her feet. She goes stiff and growls low and throaty. 

You speed walk to your car, toeing the cracked door open and maneuvering carefully into your seat. The jacket peels open as you shut the door. She sees an opportunity and takes it, nosing her way through the hole and under your elbow. There’s a shine of teeth as she bats your face, dragging a sharp set of claws against your cheek. 

“No, no– shit! I swear if you don’t,” you argue, cramming her arms back in the fabric one at a time, tucking and tightening until she’s secure. 

She huffs through her nose, glaring menacingly at you from her swaddle. 

“Cinderella– if you’re even Cinderella– which you better be! You’re being a real jerk right now.”

She growls in response. Steve wasn’t lying about her attitude. 

You shift the car into gear one-handed and forgo a seatbelt. It’s a short ride and you’ve maxed out your risk-taking meter for the night. While it really is a short drive, it goes dreadfully slow. You’re cold and wet and you feel like you are driving with a bomb strapped to your chest. 

Getting out of the car is just as easy, as in not easy at all, as getting in. But you make it to Steve’s porch, surging the cat further up your chest so there are no last-minute getaways. You tap gently on the door with your toe, hoping not to disturb Penelope. 

The instant the door opens, you squeeze by Steve and release the cat onto the floor. She scampers ahead a few feet before stopping to turn around. “Tell me this is the right cat and I didn’t just kidnap some other kid’s pet.” 

He shoves the door closed. “Oh my God! Where the hell did you find her?” 

You exhale with one big slump of your shoulders, all the worry bleeding away. “Like, five minutes down the road. Just hanging out in someone’s driveway.” 

Steve gawks, crouching and coaxing her closer with an open palm. 

She considers his invitation before striding into his touch. 

He strokes her from head to tail and back. “I can’t believe you. I was about to make funeral arrangements.” 

Cinderella chirps happily. 

Steve twists to look up at you. For a second you think he might cry. Or kiss you. 

He promptly stands and cups your jaw and your stomach tumbles because he might actually kiss you. But he aims your cheek against the light instead and whispers, “You’re bleeding.” 

“Oh,” you tap around your cheek blindly, “It’s just a scratch.” 

“Here. Come here.”

You follow him to the bathroom where he pulls a towel from the closet and drapes it around your shoulders like a shawl. 

“You’re wet,” he says like you don’t already know. 

You tug the fraying ends taut across your chest and watch him dig through the medicine cabinet. “If only someone let me borrow their coat.” 

“If only,” he snickers, dumping the contents of the first aid kit in the sink. “I’m sorry Cinderella beat you up. She really has no manners.” He strips the plastic cover off a Barbie-themed bandaid and lines it up with your scratch, pressing, and smoothing it over your skin gingerly. 

“How hideous do I look? Scale of one to ten.” 

He shakes his head, smiling at you like an idiot. You make him smile like it’s your only job. And it sends his heart flying every time. He feels out of control around you. He hates feeling that way but somehow you make it easy. 

“You could never be hideous.” Steve chuckles, still in disbelief. “You're amazing.”

Any cold lingering on your face evaporates. “Don’t go soft on me, Harrington,” you tease. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline buzz of chasing Cinderella or the high of successfully catching her, but you feel like you could do anything. Like you could say anything to him. Your eyes trickle down to his lips. He’s close enough to kiss. Every nerve in your body dares you to do it. You don’t think he’d reject you. Maybe he’d even meet you halfway. 

A high-pitched scream severs the moment. 

Steve jerks away, alarmed and then quickly amused. “Penelope,” he grins. 

And right on cue, Penelope whizzes by the open door, squeals ricocheting down the hall. She chases Cinderella, who does not look happy to be chased, but Steve allows it. 

“Daddy! Cinderella’s back! Look!” She clips her shoulder on the stair post before disappearing into the kitchen 

He turns to you, beaming. He hopes you understand how amazing you are. He’d happily tell you again and again. 

Penelope races out, heaving through a smile with the jar of treats. She sprays the entire contents of it across the floor. Steve can’t even be mad. In fact, it’s the happiest he’s been all week. 

She lies down on her back, eyes skipping between you and Steve. “How did she get here?” 

“I saw her on my way home. She was just a few streets away.” 

“Wow. She’s really good at hide and seek,” Penelope decides. 

Cinderella prances over, using Penelope’s belly as a personal vault. Penelope splays her hand out, patting and petting to her heart's content as Cinderella munches on the treats. 

Steve squats, cupping a handful of them back into the jar. 

“No, Daddy! It’s her prize.”

“Her prize will make her sick if she eats it all.”

“Okay. I guess.” She giggles as Cinderella pushes a treat with her paw. 

Steve squeezes her knee where it wiggles, raising his eyebrows, “What do you say?”

Penelope turns to you with a wicked grin. She practically screams, “Thank you!”

“You're very welcome.”

Penelope pushes herself up and cocks her head. “Will you stay and play with us?” 

It’s entirely innocent and equally adorable. You appreciate Steve for being the bad guy. 

“Nuh-uh. You’re supposed to be in bed,” he reminds her. 

She whines and shoots him a mean look. But it doesn’t last. Cinderella is back. That’s all she really cares about right now. 

“You can play with Cinderella in the morning.” His eyes flicker between the two like they’re made of gold. “Maybe she’ll even sleep in your room.” 

Penelope’s eyes and mouth widen into three little O’s. “Really!” 

“Yes. She can stay inside from now on. But! You have to train her, be a good cat mom to her.” 

“I will, I will,” she nods so relentlessly her head might pop off. “I promise I’ll be the bestest cat mom ever in the whole entire world!” 

Steve chuckles, gaze dancing over to you. He looks at you like you’re made of gold too. That’s an intense realization. 

“I should head home,” you say. 

Steve nods, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. 

“Bye, Penelope! Bye, Cinderella!” 

Penelope shackles Cinderella’s arm and forces her into a rigid wave. “Bye-bye!” 

Steve follows you out to the front porch, snapping the door shut when Cinderella trots after him. 

“Good luck keeping her inside.”

“Yeah,” he shakes his head, hand dropping from the door handle. “I’m sure she’ll escape by morning.” 

Your gaze sweeps across the lawn. It’s only drizzling now, almost unnoticeably through the overcast veil of moonlight. 

“Oh, here,” you tug one end of the towel until it slides off your neck. 

Steve accepts it tentatively, “Maybe you should keep it. Case she gets out again.” 

“Yeah, guess I’d need something to catch her with, huh?”

His teeth seem to glow in the moonlight when he smiles. He slings the towel back over your head and smooths it across your shoulders. “I know I’ve said this like a million times today,” he trails off, rubbing the fabric up and down your arms. “But I’m gonna say it again.” He looks up, dreadfully serious. Your eyes lock like magnets, like he’s specially polarized yours to stay tethered to his. “First of all, thank you for everything, seriously.”

“It’s no problem, Steve, really.” 

“I know, I just,” his attention drifts away, tension seeping in through the silence. “I think you’re like the coolest person ever.” 

You shake your head and shift your weight from one foot to the other, desperately trying to shake out the scary feeling in your gut.

A warm hand clasps yours. “I mean it. You’re so amazing and are just a super genuine person and– and I care a lot about you.” 

Your pulse hammers so hard you wonder if he can hear it. The icy bite of rain clinging to your clothes turns hot. Hot enough to boil every drop of it off your skin. 

“I dunno, it’s just really hard to make friends as a single parent. You’ve been so kind. And I really appreciate that.” 

Your heart aches. Your eyes sting. That awful feeling triples. Friends, how could you forget? 

He drops your hand, knotting his own fingers together instead. Watching you, waiting for a response. 

You smile, brittle but convincing enough that he smiles back. “Well, that’s really sweet. I’m happy to help. And, for the record, I think you’re super cool too.” You punch his shoulder playfully. Because that’s what friends do. 

“Phew, that’s a relief. Was starting to think you were getting sick of us.”

You smile genuinely then. You don’t think it’s possible to ever get sick of them. “Ehh, I’m still warming up to Cinderella but Penelope’s my favorite, no offense.” 

“No, she’s pretty cool.” He nods, pausing to think. “You can come over tomorrow– if you aren’t busy. If you want to. We’ll probably go buy some cat stuff. I dunno, it’s cool if you can’t.”

“I’d love to, Steve.” 

He laughs in soft little layers. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

“See you then.”

“See ya.”

You spin on your heel, scurrying down the porch steps faster than you probably should. Forget the rain, Steve’s what you're running from. His laugh and his dopey smile and his overly kind words. You’re too young to die of a heart attack, but surely your heart won’t last much more of this. 

When you tug the handle of your car door, he yells, “Don’t forget to call me!” 

You bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling and flash him a thumbs-up before getting in. He’s such an idiot. Probably waking his neighbors up yelling like that. It’s probably unhealthy, the amount of emotions you’ve just experienced in the span of a few minutes. 

But already all you can think about is tomorrow. It seems like lightyears away, but you’d wait lightyears for Steve– even for just friends Steve– silly as it sounds.

[fountainpenguin]

"I keep pushin' forward, but he keeps pullin' me backwards... (Don't pick up the phone; don't let him in; don't be his friend...)" (x)

Top 10 Hanahaki Life Hacks (#8 Will Shock You)

Sour Petals AU Guide

❤️ Read on AO3

🧡 M - Ongoing multichapter

💙 Blog Tag - #Sour Petals AU

💚 More MCYT AUs

And she should apologize, but the words that gush out are more like, “You cheated on me,” which isn’t an apology at all. Unless it is (between the lines). Martyn winces, still shaking coffee from his arm. “I was coming back… I just took the wrong subway car. I swear… I was coming back.” No. No, not this again. Cat and yarn; hold the mouse. Cleo’s nails dig into the lines in her palms, scraping out cinnamon flecks. “Martyn, Scott heard it from Pearl’s mouth. Just… Tell me you were drunk or something. At least try to make up a story I’ll believe. Do you even care? Am I just…? Does it even matter to you, what I think?” And with a hasty backpedal, “If she took advantage, you can tell me. You can tell me. She’s Scott’s ex anyway; I’ve got her blocked everywhere I could think of. We never talk.” “It was late and I boarded the wrong subway,” Martyn says again, but he is lying. It’s always an excuse; never an apology.

Martyn coughs up flowers for years after the divorce, making bank as a florist, dye salesman, painter... anything he can put his on-and-off Hanahaki disease to use for.

Cleo just wants to move on.

Double Life SMP & Limited Life SMP-themed Hanahaki AU, set in a modern Hermitcraft universe

(First 1,000 words under the cut)

New Rules

- �� -

Martyn Littlewood started dyeing at age 31.

Every day, 6:15 AM, Cleo stands by the stairs that lead down to the subway, waiting by the window while Martyn rips flowers from his skin. The stems snap off, but the roots remain. They’ve got him so fiercely, tongue-tied and ripped apart, that every time he laughs, he sounds more undead than alive. How many surgeries can a florist afford to get those things removed? Or does he do it all himself? He looks awful sometimes (especially in the summer) when thorny vines wrap his arms and legs. Sometimes his arms hang like limp meat at his sides. The tubes, canes, and chairs he uses look increasingly expensive.

32-year-old Martyn Littlewood runs the flower shop in Aqua Town. Cleo’s stepped through that door to stand among lush, strong-scented plants more times than she’d care to admit. They’re… cordial. At least, Martyn doesn’t seem to hate her. She’s never hated him.

“Well, you’ve made me a rich man. I don’t spend a lick on material. It just comes to me.” He crushes blue petals with a squeeze of his hand. Cleo grips her bag in one hand, gazing back over the rims of her sunglasses. Martyn has stitch marks up and down his face. All over his hands. There’s one right across his forehead. He wears a neck brace now. Or if it’s not a brace, it’s some sort of bandage. All her own marks are zombie-themed tattoos. They fit her zombie aesthetic. The aesthetic came first. He smiles, painfully from behind the counter, and threads baby’s breadth in a bouquet as a filler flower. It’s coming back in style, he says, after a decade of it being overdone. Honestly, Cleo doesn’t get why he even tries selling the flowers; he should stick to dye. Everything is dying here. Except his energy, when he says, “What brought you in here, m’dude? Hot date tonight?”

There’s silk and chocolate in his voice. It catches her through the gut, like she tripped and speared herself on a stalagmite. Uh. Cleo lifts one finger to the window. “You took down your neopronouns sign. I just wanted to ask what’s up; if you’re okay.”

The sign was mangrove wood and cut in the shape of a peony. Martyn flicks his eyes to the place it used to hang, then goes back to work. “Aw, that… Well, flower pronouns aren’t super practical when I’m in the shop. I’m looking for others. Something more versatile. Nothing has that same rush, but I’m not giving up.”

That makes sense. Does that make sense? He doesn’t look at her. “You’re still wearing your wedding ring,” she says without thinking. Martyn stops. His eyes stay pinned on the nearest wilting rose.

“Yeah. Are you not cool with that?”

It’s not a challenge, but she knows he’d shove back if she pushed. It’s easier, running fingers through her hair. “Honestly, it’s fine. Mine’s still on the bathroom counter. I see it every day. Sometimes I still wear it. Mostly when I’m out with Scott or Cub.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Martyn nods. His hands move again, fluffing the tiny flowers from below. “People talk.”

“They do.”

He clears his throat in his fist. Cleo moves away, examining the fridges in the back so he can cough up petals without an ex hovering around him. His coughs are thick and damp. He stands and leaves the room.

- 🌹 -

Martyn’s work often took him away from Hermit Hills. He and his best friend ran a summer camp called Dogwarts out in the flats, in that little piece of rumpled land that sat too near the desert for the local farmers to take an interest. She met Martyn because of that camp, actually, when they were 24 and 25 and he reached out with a little Hey, I love your work and we’re mutual friends with Scott and Pearl email to ask if she’d do a presentation on insects and other forest wildlife for the kids. He said his usual presenter was out tagging eagles that week, and honestly… Where do you even go from that? He and Ren offered good money, too. She could probably type up her research remotely for a few days. A few weeks. Even if she didn’t make as much progress as she’d like, the network opportunity might be worth its weight in diamond blocks.

“You should,” Scott encouraged when she called him up to check if this Martyn guy really was his friend. “Pearl and I are counselors. We can all hang out together! And you can tell the kids about that time you bottle-fed the bear cubs.”

… Yeah, all right. She worked more often with bats, but talking about the bear cubs always turns eyes her way. Wildlife rehabilitation isn’t really a standalone career, and that’s a good thing to prepare kids for at an animal-lovers camp. She could still smell the baby formula blended with blueberries, the cubs with creamy droplets smeared across their muzzles and cheeks.

She took the offer. Three weeks later, there she was… Camp Dogwarts and its insects, poison ivy, and whatever else lay waiting for her. Cleo basked a few last seconds in the bliss of the air conditioning, then switched off the car and stepped into summer sun. Martyn and Ren both shook her hand, beaming. He/him or flower/rose. He/they/it or neopronouns that fit a canine theme. They said it back to back, fluidly and effortless.

Cleo paused. Then, “She/her professionally. I’ve… considered experimenting, but my social life’s been tied to work for so long, I don’t know where to start.” With Scott, obviously, but pronouns sounded like such a big commitment. Ren clasped their hands; if they’d had a tail, it would have wagged. And he probably would have loved that.

“Oh, dude! We have so much to talk about! Can I call you ‘dude?’”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

Martyn gave the tour while Ren and the counselors kept an eye on the kids. The hilltop pergola made a perfect lookout point. Martyn shielded his eyes, then pointed across the field to a second hilltop building in the distance. “Bean Hill. Rrrrright over there, that’s the edge of camp.”

His eyes? Flower’s eyes? She understood the pronouns in theory, though trying to wrap her mind around them left her suddenly aware of everything she didn’t know. She felt like she’d been stripped, her clothes dunked in the lake. “Cozy place,” she replied. “You and Ren built all this?”

“Yes, ma’am! Placed every block with our own four hands.” And they talked about that, soaking in the sunlight, until Cleo asked the itchy question that wouldn’t leave her thoughts alone.

“Real quick… You don’t have to get into it, but how did you find neopronouns that were right for you? Or… how did you decide to take that leap? I imagine people talk. Ask a lot of questions. So, you must be pretty committed to them if you share them openly.”

Martyn gazed out across the hill, sighing through his(?) nose. “I use them at camp. Not so much at home. I don’t dare discuss it with my parents.” Then, leaning rose’s shoulder (was that right?) on the pergola support, flower said, “You know that discourse that goes around every once in awhile about gift giving being a ‘selfish’ love language? Or have you ever heard someone talk about how they’d never be able to stand dating someone who sort of expected gifts throughout the year?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s like that. I’ve always thought gift giving wasn’t so much about what was given as it was about the thought that you exist in someone’s mind even when you’re not there in front of them. Like, they care enough about you, they wanted you to know they saw something and thought of you. When someone puts the thought into my pronouns… it means they thought about me. And the world is better.” Flower bent down and pulled a dandelion from the grass. “Ren says it would probably be called it/its more often if it really did have a werewolf form, and sometimes that feels good and sometimes it’s lonely. I dunno… Everyone’s just out here getting by, I guess. It’s worth having something to smile about every day. Neopronoun use is like that for me. Free smiles in the tip jar.”

“I’m not sure tips are free.”

❤️ Read on AO3

[mbti-notes]

Anon wrote: Hi mbti-notes! 22yo INFJ here. I've been feeling some crushing shame/guilt over a friendship that I fumbled. About two months ago I started talking to this girl and asked her out on a couple of dates and we really hit it off and talked steady for about a month, and I felt we had a genuine connection and I started to develop a crush. This girl just got out of a four year relationship three months before we started talking.

One night in a fit of jealousy I ended up basically telling her (word for word): "I'm gonna be honest, because its been on my mind. I dont think I want to continue talking if youre not looking to date. Youre really cool and i like you a lot, but it's gonna end up one sided because I'd rather have you as more than a friend. So if you're not interested in that, id rather just leave it there."

She was understandably very upset, saying, "I don't expect anything from you, and now its weird because I feel like you just want something from me." And I had to backpedal and try to explain myself but honestly, she was probably right. I have a lot of insecurities being 22 y/o and never having had a romantic relationship with anyone, and really just having a lackluster social life in general after just getting out of college. Because of all my negative feelings, I was pretty blind in that moment. Since this conversation our dynamic hasn't been the same after 3 weeks or so.

In the past I usually withheld my feelings until my crush on a person became unbearable, so I felt I was doing the right thing by being direct. But I basically gave her an ultimatum and backed her into a corner, and honestly? I don't even know how I expected that conversation to go in the first place.

I feel terrible about it still, and realize my intentions were likely in the wrong place. It's been a painful lesson for me, but it also hurts deeply knowing that I messed up a potentially great friendship over a fleeting moment of anxiety. Could I get your thoughts on this?

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

Reflect and determine the truth of what it is you really want going forward. For example:

Do you want to maintain the friendship because you're confident that you can get over your negative feelings? If so, do your best to make amends and see how it goes.

Do you want to end the friendship or put it on pause because it's too painful for you to continue at this time? If so, let her know and then put some distance between you for the sake of healing.

Do you want everyone, especially her, to feel better about the situation? If so, craft a proper apology that acknowledges your wrong intentions, how you handled the situation poorly, how you didn't give enough consideration to her feelings/experience, etc. Explain how you'll do better in the future and make the necessary promises to put her at ease. This would be an important part of owning up to your mistakes and learning from them.

Visualize the outcome you want and the best way to achieve it, then take action. Remember it's better to get some form of closure sooner rather than later. Leaving relationship problems too long allows them to fester, which means they get harder to resolve over time.

[a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual]

ROTTMNT Headcanons: my class got canceled so y’all get this

The only thing that pisses Donnie off more than stupid people is smart people pretending to be dumb

He’s gotten into actual screaming matches with Leo over this (Leo was only arguing for shits and giggles)

And yeah sure he knows it’s a manipulation tactic and it’s necessary during some missions 

But if he has to hear Leo ask another stupid question he already knows the answer to he’s going to lose his mind

I said in this post that Leo cries like once a week which has led me to other crying headcanons 

Mikey is the loudest crier in the family 

He wails, he hiccups, he screams, he does that gross thing that little kids do where they suck the snot back in

He’s never quite when he’s crying and it’s honestly heartbreaking 

On the opposite side of the spectrum, Donnie is a very quiet and peaceful crier 

He barely makes any noise, his breathing barely changes, and he doesn’t even look like he’s acknowledging the tears 

Leo is the ugliest crier

He’s got snot running down his face, he makes that little hiccup noise that kids make, and his eyes and face always end up puffy 

And when I say puffy I don’t mean barely noticeable I’m talking it looks like he just lost a fight (am I projecting… may-haps) 

This is another reason why he hides from his siblings when he’s crying 

Raph always sobs always

He can’t just let a few tears go and then be done with it oh no

The second the floodgates open there is no going back

April always denies that she’s crying 

And she tries to fight off the tears 

If she feels like she’s about to cry she’ll leave the room to compose herself and then come back

And when she does start crying she still tries to fight it

She cleans the tears, she does that little hiccup thing that kids do when they try to talk while crying, she tries to fan her face in an attempt to calm down

Crying is never peaceful for April and it never will be

So for some reason I’ve seen the whole “he asked for no pickles” meme a lot and it’s made me think: which kid would send their food back if there was an issue 

April: never in a million years

she has worked in too many restaurants to ever think about sending food back

She could order a steak they would give her a salad and she would eat the damn salad 

Raph: absolutely not

He’s too nice to send food back

And he’s heard one too many horror stories from April about what it’s like to be a waitress 

Leo: maybe 

If it’s close to what he ordered then he won’t send it back

But if he ordered a steak and they gave him a salad he would politely correct them

And when the waiter would apologize he’s immediately calm them down and be like “no it’s probably my bad I definitely mumbled when I ordered (no he didn’t) don’t even worry about it”

Donnie: yes 

He wouldn’t want to make a big scene if anything he’d ask one of his siblings to tell the waiter (probably Leo) 

But he wouldn’t eat the food if they got to order wrong 

Even if the mistake was something as simple as pickles 

Mikey: Absolutely 

You could use the wrong salad dressing and this man would send it back immediately 

He wouldn’t cause a scene about it…

But if the waiter was being condescending… then that’s a different story 

My friend was talking about her relationship and suddenly I was hit with relationship headcanons 

April: would only enter serious relationships 

She’s never experienced a fling and never wants to

“What’s the point of starting something if it isn’t gonna last” is a point she constantly brings up

Raph: I can’t imagine him in any kind of relationship 

But I do think he’s absolutely obsessed with the idea of romantic love

He reads/watches love stories he’s just never felt any sort of romantic attraction 

Leo: he’s never been in a serious relationship ever

He dates a lot he’s been a part of more flings than years he’s been alive 

But he looks at April's relationships and knows he can never have that

Because he never allows himself to be vulnerable 

The second a relationship gets too serious he backpedals so fucking fast (am I projecting maybe)

Donnie: I can’t imagine him dating either 

I don’t know what his sexuality would be but all I know is the idea of a relationship disgusts him 

He has his family and his friends and that’s good enough for him

Mikey: he wants to date but can’t  

His siblings are so crazy overprotective and they scare off any potential love interest 

Leo keeps saying “if I had to wait until I was 16 to date then you have to wait until you’re 80” (yes this is something my big brother told me)

[emeralddoeadeer]

Okay, so I’m doing my re read with the Spotify playlist on in the background and OMG it makes such an impact!!!!! Thank you for sharing that playlist! Also, I’m not sure if you’ve answered a similar ask but can you give us some insight on what James’ headspace was like during the Emmeline being a bitch to Lily and Petunia being a.. well herself, and him figuring out he needs to break up with Emme?

So pleased you enjoy the playlist, there were a few songs added that I hadn't even noticed I'd missed until I did a reread this week 😅

Anon, sincere apologies for the lateness of this reply, I wasn't ready to get back in James' head but I've written some thoughts below the cut.

This got so long.

James' relationship with Emmeline is out of sync from the beginning.

Had he been aware that Ryan and Lily were fighting he may never have gone to Emmeline's that night, miscommunication and hidden truths begin.

He spends more time at the regatta watching Lily than his girlfriend, so guilty about that it makes him overcompensate and mess up when she asks about the situation.

He spends weeks convincing himself any comments she makes are unintentional, blaming himself for her insecurity.

It isn't until Austria when he gets the paper boat, shares his concerns with Monty and speaks with Marlene that he allows himself to really question what he wants to become of it.

Thoughts of Lily flood his brain.

His need to recalibrate after his return, after the shampoo incident... this is James taking his first real step back from Emmeline and had Lily met him on that fated Friday the 13th he likely would have ended things sooner.

But, Lily and he don't meet and after the scene at her flat, he feels terrible and tries to backpedal and make it up to Emmeline, spurred on by the tone of his and Lily's 'crash and burn' chat.

James doesn't like to fail and tries to make it up to her. But, after they have their meal out to talk they end up at odds, she claims to have known along, and her quip about him on his knees doesn't sit right with him.

I imagine them lacking any real intimacy going forward.

When Lily comes around more, the pool table, running, the margaritas, the gig, he feels the intensity tenfold, the comparison louder, she is the one he is in sync with.

But, he doesn't think Lily is an option, she won't sing with him, and she pulls away at times.

Emmeline's words that night bring his own frustrations forward, not like anything would ever happen - because Lily doesn't want him.

James has a big chat with Emmeline after that, he raises a few concerns, and tries to cool things off... She suggests a games night to get to know his friends and prove she's trying - her words about Lily having a hot date have an uncomfortable bite and James doesn't care that she leaves because it's all becoming much clearer.

It's no longer fun and easy and simple.

Petunia's words permeate his brain, picking at an old wound, making him fall deeper into contemplation, about what it means to want Lily, and what he risks if he tries to pursue it.

He spends the whole week seeking Emmeline out to end it.

Then Lily gives him her little speech after the song and it lights him up, makes him hopeful and brave.

The rest as they say is history.

This got long and rambly, sorry. Hope it answered your question 💕

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 5: Possessiveness

Draco had a lot of toxic traits, or so he'd been told. He'd dated enough men in the past five years to know that not much of his personality was what people were looking for in an ideal partner.

Two months ago, he had started dating Harry Potter. Yes. The Harry Potter. And he was quite determined to put all of the information about the unappealing parts of himself that he'd garnered from previous partners to good use. Harry was the best thing that had ever happened to him and he wasn't going to mess it up, thank you very much.

This was how he found himself, on his twenty-fourth birthday, telling his boyfriend that it was fine for him to miss his dinner party.

"Babe, I'm really sorry," Harry murmured, running his hand through his hair. "I know tonight is important-"

"Stop," Draco said, turning from the mirror he was using to watch himself finish his skin care routine, and leaning in to press a kiss to Harry's nose. "I can only be so gracious about it," he added.

Harry huffed a laugh.

"Just go," Draco said. "I know it's important."

"I could quit," Harry offered for the third time and something about that thought made the corner of Draco's lips turn up. "Sometimes I think this whole working for the Ministry thing isn't working out anyway."

"Go," Draco said, swatting him lightly with his towel. "It's okay."

"It's not," Harry replied.

It wasn't. His boyfriend missing his birthday dinner really sucked and Draco honestly felt quite bitter about it but Harry would never need to know that. "Go," he said again. "Then you can come back."

He felt quite proud that at this moment, he was keeping several of his toxic traits to himself. He'd kept the neediness at bay, kept the whinging at bay, kept the bitchiness at bay, and kept the possessiveness at bay.

Harry leaned in and gave him a kiss, wrapping his arms around Draco's waist, "What have I possibly done to deserve you?" he asked, and he said it so sincerely that Draco couldn't help but believe that he meant it even though there was no logical reason for him to. "I'll try to get back soon."

"What more could I ask for?" Draco asked, even as every part of him want to demand, and argue, and beg that Harry stay with him.

(More below the cut)

"A good deal, I'd imagine," Harry said wryly. "I know my work is a lot-"

"Yes," Draco agreed, "But you were very upfront about it when we started dating. It's not as though I didn't know something like this could happen."

Harry pressed a kiss to his forehead, "You're an angel. I will see you as soon as I possibly can slip away from this stupid function."

He gave him a little smile, "Best be on your way savior," he murmured.

With one last kiss Harry stepped into the fireplace and flooed to the ministry.

Draco counted to five before he let the displeasure he was feeling show on his face. He slumped back over to the mirror to look at himself. He was only able to wallow in self pity for a few minutes before there was a knock at the door.

He smoothed his features, you never could be sure who would come knocking at Harry's bedroom door in grimmauld place, it seemed like there was no end to the number of friends who simply made themselves at home here. "Come in," he called, keeping his voice chipper.

"Everyone decent?" Pansy said as she opened the door, carrying two flutes of champagne with her.

"It's just me," Draco replied, trying not to sound forlorn.

"Oh good," Pansy replied, nudging the door closed behind her and plopping down on the sofa. "And here I thought I was going to have to fight Potter to give me a few minutes alone with you. Where is he? Fetching you some cake?"

"Hardly."

"New shoes?"

He sighed, "He had to go to work."

"What?" she all but shrieked. "You tell me where he is right now and I will go and tell him-"

"I told him to go," he interrupted.

"But-"

"No," he said with a shake of the head. "No buts, Pans. I really like him and I'm not going to mess it up. Just," he sighed, "leave it, alright?"

Pansy gave him a pitying look, but thankfully let it drop.

---------

It was nearly midnight by the time the floo flared and Harry stepped back through. Part of Draco had wished that he'd just gone to bed before the other man got home so he didn't have to pretend that everything was fine.

"Hey," Harry said, making his way over to where Draco was on the couch. He sounded exhausted.

"Hi," Draco replied.

Harry leaned down and pressed a kiss to Draco's temple before sitting down next to him, "How was the party?"

"Fine," Draco replied. "Good."

Frowning, Harry groaned. "You're upset," he said. "I knew it. I'm so sorry, Draco-"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's fine. It's really-"

"It's not." Harry turned so he was facing Draco but Draco couldn't bring himself to look back. "I'm sorry, babe. This is all my fault, I should have told them no about that bloody fundraiser."

"Yes," Draco said sarcastically. "That would have gone over well, 'Sorry, I can't come to do a fundraiser for children orphaned during the war. It's my death eater boyfriend's birthday and he's a whiny, possessive bitch."

"I would never say that about you. I would never even think that about you!" Harry protested.

"I'm just saying, Harry, that you are their savior. And I am just your boyfriend."

He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging on the ends, "I don't want to be," he finally burst.

Draco paused, unsure what to say to that. Eventually, he settled on a careful, "Sorry?" Hoping against all odds that Harry wasn't about to break up with him.

"I don't want to be anybody's savior," Harry whispered. "I don't want to be the bloke who saved the world. I don't want to be a war hero. Most of the time I think I don't even want to be an auror; it's just what was expected."

"What do you want to be?" he asked carefully.

"Your's," Harry said, shrugging helplessly.

And the little monster that lived inside of Draco that told him to take, and claim, and hold, and all but smother his partners, raised its ugly little head.

"Sorry," Harry apologized, rubbing his hands over his face and not looking at Draco. "I know it's only been two months and it's a ridiculous thing to say but the only time I feel like me is when I'm with you."

Draco just stared at him, unable to speak, hardly able to even process what he was saying.

"I feel like I'm just Harry when I'm with you and I wish that instead of people thinking 'oh, that's Harry Potter, savior of the world,' that they'd think, 'oh, that's Harry Potter, he was clever enough to trick Draco Malfoy into wanting to be with him.'"

"What?" he whispered.

"Sorry," Harry apologized again, trying to backpedal. "I know, I'm making a mess of everything like always. I've jumped in too fast, and I'm too emotional, and I'm not what anyone thinks I should-"

"Harry," Draco said, finally looking at him, really looking at him. He looked as shattered as Draco felt. "Harry," he whispered again. "You are perfect."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Harry said, "I'm not-"

"I hear you," Draco said, hoping that he could convey his meaning and sincerity. "I mean that you are perfect, in all of your faults and flaws. In your sarcasm and the petty things you say about your coworkers, in your ranting and raving about our justice system, in the moments that you choose something you deem selfish like sleeping for an extra hour when you think you should be out doing more, in jumping in too fast and being too emotional, in all that you are, you are perfect."

"Draco," Harry breathed as though he couldn't believe what Draco was saying to him.

"You're not the one tricking me, Harry," he whispered, the confession making his heart ache. "I'm the one tricking you. I'm selfish and whiny. I'm petty and vindictive, and I want you all to myself all of the time. I-"

"Draco, I like those things about you," Harry said. "That little pout you get when I'm about to leave, the way you hold me just a little bit tighter when I tell you that I'm going to have to go soon. The petty little plans you have to inconvenience people at my job when they've annoyed me. And the way you're always putting your arm around me or holding my hand when we're in public, like you're so proud to be with me, like you're ready to fight off a slew of attackers at any moment."

"Admirers, more likely," Draco grumbled.

"I like that," Harry said. "I like your possessiveness."

"Really?"

He nodded and reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind Draco's ear. "Draco, can I be honest?" he asked.

"Always."

"I think I'm in love with you," he said. "And I know it's fast; you don't have to say it back or anything. I know that I-"

"I love you, too." Draco replied before another word could spill from the other man's mouth. "I love you, Harry."

Harry blinked at him, "Really?" he whispered.

Draco nodded and leaned in to give him a soft, short kiss. When he pulled back Harry stared at him with something akin to wonder on his face.

"Please never miss one of my birthdays again," Draco murmured.

Harry pulled him over until Draco was cradled in his arms, "Never," he promised. "Please stop hiding yourself from me," he asked in return.

"Same goes for you."

"Okay," Harry breathed.

And Draco thought this was the first step for both of them in becoming who they were meant to be.

Day 4: Jealousy | Day 6: Proposal

[tenkasato]

It’s a Start

Scenario:  As a humble store owner in Marley, you get the surprise of your life when the nightmare from Paradis, the one acclaimed as their strongest soldier, drops by to buy tea leaves. Needless to say, you were equally surprised he was strangely mesmerizing. Post-rumbling.

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x reader

There he was.

The strongest known menace from the formerly thought home of devils, Paradis Island. The indestructible soldier who cut through the wonder boy Zeke like he was cutting butter. The unforgiving soul who personally took down numbers of Marleyan men and women. Now an acclaimed hero of this war.

You expected differently. 

Of course, you've heard of his condition. He was not exactly crippled, but not exactly in his top shape either. The man looked quite docile in his wheelchair. Quietly, he examined each tea canister from your shop with a scrutinizing eye. 

From where you were standing by the counter, you could make out the barely perceptible downward curve of his lips. He returned the tea leaves before he moved to the next shelf. 

From the friends you had from the military, you've heard countless horror stories about this man. Versions after the other, a few more grisly than the other. You supposed you should be terrified that a former enemy had come into your store, even if he was unarmed and injured. 

Commonsense told you to keep your distance, but curiosity is one enticing lady who relentlessly whispered sweet nothings into your ear. 

When he seemed to be having a hard time reaching for the Ceylon tea, you decided to silence these voices and make your approach.

Levi Ackerman immediately bristled when he sensed you coming. You eyed him for a second before grabbing the said canister and handing it over. 

"This one's harvested from Ludwig Orchard," you told him. "If you like strong tea, then this is a good choice."

Levi considered you, one eye clouded over while the other layered with intensity unlike you've ever seen before. Scars decorated his face. One long one stretched from his forehead down to his chin. Even so, he was beautifully flawed. These were such odd words to describe him, but at the moment, you couldn’t think of any other fitting description.

You tried not to be rude by staring, so you shifted your gaze to the canister in his hand. 

"I do like strong tea."

You were mildly surprised he had a smooth voice. It was nowhere near gentle, but neither was it gruff like you imagined. In fact, it was nice to listen to. 

"But I've bought too many of those types already," he continued, weighing the can in his hand. "I’m trying to look for a milder one and appealing to the taste of most people.”

“I see.”

Giving you a small nod, he handed the Ceylon back to you. 

“Are you opening a tea shop around?” you asked.

Levi took another canister from the lower shelf and brought it in front of his face. “You can say that.”

You let him scan the descriptions written behind each choice, wondering whether you should just leave him be. But it wasn’t often that a man like him dropped by in a measly store like yours. 

“Why are you still here?” you dropped the bomb.

His hand froze midway in the air. He cast you one wary glance before proceeding on returning the tea. “Care to elaborate?”

“Levi Ackerman, the notorious Eldian captain. Once our sworn enemy. I don’t understand why someone like you would want to stay in Marley after all that’s happened.”

He was left in silent contemplation. You could tell he was weighing the words in his mind. Was it safe to speak to a seemingly harmless store owner like you? Or were you a spy? You knew the volatile situation his people were still in. The aftermath of Eren Jaeger’s rumbling was still fresh in the minds of many.

You sighed, “I’m sorry. That was very intrusive of me.”

“I can't go home,” he said, surprising you with an honest reply. “The unrest in Eldia remains unresolved. In my state, I’d probably be more of a liability than an asset.”

You nodded, crossing your arms and leaning towards the shelf. “I understand. Must be rough staying in enemies’ territories, huh?”

“You could say that,” he shrugged, “Although technically, we aren’t enemies anymore.”

“Do you really mean that?” you said before you could stop yourself.

He raised a brow at you. “What makes you think I don’t.”

“Well… it’s obvious, right? There’s no way we could be friends after just one night.”

“I never said we were.”

“You killed many of my people,” you spat, suddenly feeling the lividity that enraptured your heart just a few years ago. “Bombed Liberio. Slit the throat of my friends. Took many innocent lives of your own.”

A glare crossed his face. You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t at all terrifying. Levi placed both hands on the handle of his wheelchair and supported himself up. Eyes widening, you backpedal a few steps when he started limping towards you.

Handicapped or not, you knew he could still effortlessly snap your spine into two.

He stopped a few inches from you, staring you down with a mixture of coldness and despair. You didn’t think anyone could ever stare with such strong emotions. Your blood froze and your heart roared at his proximity, but despite that, you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from this enigma.

“Mister Ackerman---”

“Levi,” he corrected you.

“Levi,” you swallowed. “I apologize. I did not intend to antagonize you.”

“What you’re telling me is valid,” he said. “I’m not about to beg for forgiveness because I believe I can never atone for all the things I’ve done, but I’m asking for understanding. Your people tried to annihilate us, and we had no other choice but to fight back for our own survival. Regardless, I apologize. For all the lives I’ve taken.”

You took in his bowed head, closed fists and tightly shut eyes. The sincerity in his voice was hard to miss, but so was the still blazing rage he had for the spilled blood. You doubted the scars in his face and body were the only scars he had. 

Such a strong man. Such fragility he also held. 

You took in some air and exhaled, “Please raise your head.”

When he did, your eyes connected. With pursed lips, you took a canister of Oolong tea and shoved it in his palm. He looked at it and shot you a questioning glance. 

“A peace offering,” you blurted out bashfully, “It’s on the house. I bet people would love drinking this one. It’s a classic favorite around here after all.”

“Are you sure? For all I know, you could be sabotaging my business,” he muttered.

“Business is business!” you gasped, accidentally slapping his arm purely out of reflexes. “I don’t take things personally, besides…”

You flashed him an accepting, genuine smile, “I understand what you’re saying, Levi. I can’t forgive you or your people. The same for you towards us. But this is a start.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He didn’t open his mouth to reply. However, the mere softening of his eyes washed you with warmth. Levi tucked the canister under his arm and ambled back to his wheelchair. He was about to turn when you both heard footsteps approaching.

“Levi-san! I’ve been looking all over for you! Gabi said one moment you were beside her, the next moment you vanished.” The young man frowned deeply at Levi, one hand on his hip. “Please tell us next time if you wanted to go somewhere.”

Levi clicked his tongue, “I did, but she was so busy choosing rings at the stall.”

“Rings?” the kid gasped, blushing. He started wheeling Levi to the direction of the exit when he placed a hand on the kid’s arm and turned to you.

He held your gaze, delicately, surprisingly so, “What’s your name?”

Your heart skipped a beat. When you’ve recovered, you laughed, dazed with everything that’s just happened. 

“Go out of the store and check the sign. You’ll see my name.”

“Alright.”

“Levi,” you said, “Come again.”

[ohheyitsokay]

safe

part 9 of the ‘hey batter batter’ series

pairing: Francisco (Frankie, Catfish) Morales x reader

wordcount: 2.3k

warnings: none, lots of kissing 

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

In this chapter, you discover how truly committed you are to a man you’ve only been on one real date with.

notes: just a head’s up, next week will be the last chapter of this series! I’ll give a proper thank-you then, but I also have a couple (at least three) one-shots in the universe because I... want to. hope that’s okay!

<<

When you were younger and you attended the baseball games under the summer heat with James, you spent more time watching the people in the crowd than the players. Vague knowledge of the rules and even your grandfather’s enthusiasm weren’t nearly enough to keep you interested during the long stretches of advertisements. Now, the moments when Santi was getting strike after strike were exhilarating instead of boring and you grinned with pride, like it was personal each time the ball found it’s home in Frankie’s glove.

This season had been a whirlwind as you began to appreciate the game because of the players, and you didn’t think you had any more room for excitement.

That was, until Francisco’s mother decided she wanted to attend with you and James.

The sweet catcher hadn’t even had time to apologize and offer an alternative before your grandfather stepped in, and the rest was history. You didn’t mind, of course you didn’t, how could you? It was strange, spending time with her so early in the relationship but it made you happy that she was so excited about you. The two of them hung on your elbows, and you laughed at how awkward it made walking through the narrow gap to your seats.

From somewhere in her bag, she produced an entire tupperware of homemade pan dulce, sugar filling the grooves on the bottom, and you settled in. You were fairly sure that wasn’t allowed but you were helpless against her sweet, determined face so it only made sense security would be too.

It wasn’t work, talking to her, she felt like an auntie or a friend’s friend – someone you half already knew, and who certainly knew you. She filled the silence with stories and questions and only heard the first half of your answer before excitedly pointing at her son and his friends on the field. It felt like you were at a kids baseball game, how she clicked her tongue and freely gave them advice as if they could hear her.

At some point, Will stole second base and her and James began a conversation around you. She called them niños and matched your grandfather in her personalized affection for them. You wondered if you should feel guilty for your lingering eyes on the son of the woman next to you, but she half encouraged it, telling you he got his legs from his padre.

When the opposing team was up a point, she muttered pobrecitos and grabbed your hand and prayed for Benny’s next hit.

You caught pieces of Frankie, in her. Or more accurately, you realized what parts of her he had grown into, and learned about his younger self from her eyes and her tone and her smile. Your poor grandfather was probably exhausted but you drank it in.

“Francisco was saving all his money from his work for the neighbors – his team was taking him to watch a game at this very stadium!” Without even looking she handed you a pastry, shaking sugar onto your lap until you took it. “But then his escuela collected donations for the orphanage. I told him, you know? I told him if he gave all his money I couldn’t help him, he wouldn’t get anything from the stadium.”

Her eyes were warm in yours and she squeezed your arm, trying to communicate her pride. “Mi frijol gave it all! And he did not even complain, not even once!” You smiled at her, trying to answer however you could that you understood. Maybe not completely but you saw how much he cared about other people, how hard he tried.

Around the eighth inning, she quieted, smiling gratefully when you produced an extra water bottle. Her hand was soft and maternal as it rubbed your shoulder, a foreign but pleasant feeling.

“His hermana tests him all the time,” she murmured, and you nodded cautiously. When she resolutely added, “You give him strength, hija,” you almost cried right there in the stands.

You settled for covering her hand with yours and squeezing back.

When they won, no one cheered louder, no one was prouder, but you and James gave it your best shot.

-

“So,” Frankie looked at you, his big brown eyes full of questions. Alone, you couldn’t resist him, much more when the rest of them matched his gaze.

You were all at Tom’s rental, unexpectedly. He didn’t tell anyone, but he had burst into Molly’s office, only to find it empty. It had bothered him, and when he was bothered, he took extra effort to pretend that he was not. The new opportunity to spend post-game evenings with decks of cards and childish snacks had already become the highlight to his friends, so he figured he could do that. Just a little bigger, a little better. And it’s not like any of you had enough information to say no.

The elders had long since gone home, and now they all wanted to know what secrets his mother had spilled about them.

You laughed at their faces, feeling a little devious with the power. Before giving anything up, you stuck your tongue out at Santi and meandered to the kitchen, feeling them watch you as your filled your champagne flute with apple juice.

“She didn’t say anything,” you said with exaggerated elegance, lounging against an unnecessary column.

The act broke when you had to dodge a pillow.

“Okay, okay,” you held up your free hand in surrender. You looked at your catcher with a wink before grinning almost maliciously at Santiago. “She told me she had to bring Santi socks twice last season, and one time she saw Benny eat a hot dog off the ground.”

They erupted in teasing and you waited for it to quiet a moment before you added, “And she shared that Tom,” you drew out his name for extra emphasis, “Goes to the same hairdresser as her, and she once threatened to dye Will’s pants pink for calling her ma’am one too many times.” The men were howling with laughter like they hadn’t since college, shoving each other and half tackling one another, shouting their defenses and stories alike.

When Frankie extracted himself he found you curled on the armrest of the couch, watching with amusement. His hair was messed up and his eyes crinkled in the corners. “What did she say about me?” he asked under the noise and he settled next to you, trying to be confidant as he wrapped his arm around you shoulders.

He liked that he could feel your shrug.

“That you’re practically perfect in every way,” you relaxed into him and it felt so natural he could hardly imagine it wasn’t always like this.

-

Francisco was spending his day off with his family, doing some projects around the home, but so it surprised you when your phone rang.

It surprised you even more that it was Benny, inviting you to lunch. Just to talk, I’m not being weird, he said, backpedaling when you teased him about being a little late to ask you on a date. Is that okay? He seemed just a little bit nervous, which made you laugh. Of course, you were more than happy to.

The longer you knew him, the more you understood why they all treated him like a little brother.

He was already at the restaurant – Thai food, his choice – as friendly and kind as the first time you had met him. Unlike then, you weren't even a little bit nervous sitting across from him, despite the glares of the women at an adjacent talking the two of you were still new friends, so it wasn’t quite effortless, by the made up for it with his genuine enthusiasm.

If he had something on his mind, he didn’t get to it right away, the first half of your lunch hour spent talking about you. For how loud his personality seemed sometimes, he was well spike and well mannered, and curious about almost everything. You checked the time, before finally asking if everything was okay with him, and the shortstop ran his fingers through his hair, looking past away.

His foot tapped on the rug, and you used your chopsticks to push your remaining food into a small mound in the middle of your plate.

“I’m paying, by the way,” you looked up, back into his eyes, your own eyebrows drawing together to shake your head.

“I owe you,” he defended himself before you could voice your dissent, and when he added, “for looking out for me,” you softened.

“Relationships aren’t transactional, Benjamin.” It was a gentle scold, true, but relenting.

Broad shoulders shrugged.

“Think of it as a thank you,” he said, and you let him talk. For all that his brother and the guys worried over him, he wasn’t as young and naïve as they thought of him. His eyes and ears were sharp and it’s not like he hadn’t heard the stories, seen what they were protecting him from.

“You help us look after each other,” it was almost like he rehearsed it, and his blue eyes confirmed he had been meaning to say this to you for awhile.

“And you look after me.” That nervousness from before came back, and you wondered if he still hadn’t quite gotten to the part he was meaning to say. Ben launched into a story in between flagging down the waiter and you let him pay, but even when the receipt came, he didn’t stand.

The story stuttered to a halt and you rested your chin in your palm.

“Will and Frankie have been talking about Tom – saying he’s been off.” It was abrupt, and you waited. He was restless, his habit of changing the topic becoming even more prominent. Both of you knew what he meant.

It was messy, hard, existing with them.

“Would you… will you stay?”

There was a burst of warmth in your chest, a wave of affection as if he confessed outright how much you mattered to them.

You stood, smiling and offering your hand, as if he needed help standing.

“Yeah, Ben, what are friends for?”

He looked so relieved that you hugged him. Although, you suspected he would’ve hugged you regardless, if you had given him a moment.

-

After work you had a voicemail and a text from your… from Francisco, and you drove over to his place. Walking up the stairs in the cooling evening air felt strange, like it was humming with potential.

He greeted you with slow kisses, his rough hands wandering your skin and clothes like he was still grasping that you were real. If you could’ve thought, you might’ve wondered why he called you over or looked around his apartment but it didn’t matter because all you could think of what him. The gentle scrape of the hairs on his face over your cheek, your neck, the needy pull of his fingers as he curled his fists into your outer layer.

His mouth, moving in ways you’d thought you’d never quite felt before, leaving you breathless.

It didn’t escalate, neither of you pushing for more, but when he finally moved away, he was pulling you onto the couch and under his arm.

“Hi,” he said, looking flushed and happy, despite the flash of anxiety in his eyes.

“Hi,” you figured you mirrored him, and you let out a rough cough of laughter.

Francisco joined, and your head found a rest on his shoulder, cheek squishing from the closeness. The tips of his fingers wandered over your skin, and it felt like a habit years in the making, to catch up with him about his day, his family. A stretch of silence followed, and your realized he was tired.

“I should probably make you dinner or something,” he whispered, almost to himself, dark eyebrows drawing together. Suddenly you felt shy, aching because you should’ve brought something, should cook or… he was the one who had a long day, but this was his home.

You had memorized the feeling of his hairs on your waist, and yet you didn’t know if he would be okay with you cooking in his home. Actually, you didn’t even know anything about his home.

Looking around, you compromised.

“I’m good, Frankie, I had a big lunch,” taking in the simple furniture and quickly cleaned surfaces, you didn’t notice his head tilt, shoulders rising slightly with tension until you looked back at him. The sweet man had realized he hadn’t heard about that part of your day yet but he didn’t want to pry.

“Benny got me thai food,” you offered, which only increased his distress. Your hand slipped into his as you explained.

“I think he’s just scared I’m not going to stick around,” you sighed, hoping he felt like that was as unlike as you did.

Against your head, you felt him nod, but he didn’t say anything for a moment.

“He’s right, though,” his voice seemed higher, as shy as you’d been a moment ago. “Things with us, with me are… a lot.”

As he always did, he was asking you more than you said, and you wanted to honor it so you though, really thought about what you were getting yourself into.

“Frankie, you told me you wanted me to be a part of your life,” you kissed the corner of his mouth, which pulled as he smiled hopefully. “I want that too, if you’ll be part of mine.”

A little rougher than they’d been before his hands tugged you into him, a solid kiss. No questions were buried in the touch, and it made you feel like you were floating.

Long moments later, you laughed a little, too warm to feel shy.

“Does this make me your novia?”

You weren't sure if the color on his cheeks was warming because of embarrassment that you caught the word in his mother’s talk, or because he hadn’t actually asked yet.

“Yeah,” a final kiss, on your forehead sealed the deal.

And when you moved away, it was to explore his kitchen for something to cook for the both of you.

<<

translations:

pan dulce: pastries

niños: boys

padre: father

pobrecitos: poor babies

escuela: school

mi frijol: my bean

hermana: sister

>>

hija: daughter

novia: girlfriend

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize @princess76179 @mrsbentallmadge

hey batter batter taglist:

@icanbeyourjedi @studyofawearymind @hnt-escape @athalien @the-witty-pen-name @daffodin @sarahjkl82-blog @pintsizemama @anaaaispunk @pjkimrn @dobbyjen @stuckontheceiling

edit: take 3 having tumblr save the taglist on this thing

[theladyofdeath]

The Perfect Gift {Rowaelin}

Based on a prompt sent in by anonymous.

This has been a hard Christmas for everyone, @snelbz​ and I included, so I apologize for my lack of posts. In years past, Christmas fics have been my favorite to write and post, but this year...I lacked any Christmas spirit, whatsoever. However, as that has been the case for many of us, hopefully these last few holiday fics will give you a little boost of holiday spirit. (;

Written with Shelb, of course.

Rowan got the same gift for Christmas every year: working overtime from the week before Christmas until after the New Year. 

It left him exhausted, hardly able to keep his eyes open as he pulled onto his street. He longed for his apartment, even if he wasn’t sure if he was going to the fridge for a beer or heading straight to bed.

It had been one of those days.

It didn’t help that he had to drive slower, being extra cautious, because of the heavy snowfall. 

He parked in the lot, thankful that there was a spot near the staircase and as he brought the car to a stop, he dragged a hand down his face.

Thankfully, he’d be off tomorrow and would celebrate the holiday with his friends. Before turning right back around to be at work the day after Christmas.

With a yawn, Rowan pulled himself from the car and trudged up the stairs towards his apartment. As he approached, however, he realized he could hear festive music playing from within and he looked up to find a large, and very glittery, wreath hanging on his front door.

He reached for the knob and found it unlocked, which it certainly hadn’t been when he’d left for work this morning.

He slowly pushed it open, and froze.

Aelin Galathynius was up on a stepstool, reaching up high to place a star on the top of a Christmas tree.

It wasn’t his Christmas tree.

Rowan didn’t have a Christmas tree. 

Rowan had zero Christmas decorations, had nothing that resembled the holiday whatsoever. 

Aelin, as she shook her Christmas-pajama-ed ass to the obnoxiously loud Christmas music streaming through his bluetooth speaker, apparently disapproved of that fact.

Rowan cleared his throat, and loudly shut the front door behind him.

She yelped and nearly dropped the sparkling tree topper, but righted herself and turned around to look at him. “Oh. Hey.”

Rowan had to fight off another yawn threatening to take over, but he felt a small delight in unexpectedly seeing his best friend. “What are you doing, Ace?”

“You’re off early,” she said, ignoring his way question and hopping off the stool. She carefully placed the star on the coffee table, which looked like a tiny snowman village. “You don’t usually get off work until, like, ten on Christmas Eve.”

“Lorcan sent me home, said I’d been working too many hours,” he said, leaning against the back of his door.

“Great,” she said, grinning. “Here, go put these on.” She held out a pair of pajama pants, that were identical to the pair she wore.

He blinked at the red and green Christmas trees displayed across the gray, fleece fabric. “Are we really doing this?”

Her mischievous grin deepened. “Oh, most definitely.”

He shook his head, slowly. “You know, I planned on coming home, taking it easy, going to bed early…” He trailed off, taking the pajama bottoms from Aelin, once she shoved them into his chest.

“On Christmas Eve?” Aelin asked, one golden brow raised. She grabbed her phone off the side table and turned the volume down, just a little bit, as some classic, cheesy song played in the background. “You can take it easy, but we’re going to be festive, damn it.”

He sighed, knowing there was no way he was going to win the current argument, and made his way back towards his bedroom. Decorations lined all of the walls and there was some sort of lit up knickknack or garland sitting on every surface of the apartment. He paused and turned back to look at her. “How long have you been here?”

Glancing down at her watch, she said, “I got off work at two-thirty today, like a normal person, so…” She shrugged.

“So two-thirty, then?” He asked, starting his walk back to his room again.

Aelin laughed. “Pretty much.”

Rowan just shook his head as he stumbled into his bedroom. The moment he closed his bedroom door, he stared lovingly at his bed.

His perfect bed.

So comfy, so warm.

With another wide yawn, he kicked off his boots, then his jeans, and slipped on the pajama pants.

He hated to admit just how soft and cozy they really were.

And it didn’t make him want to not climb into bed any less. 

By the time he made it back into the living room, Aelin had forgotten about putting the star on top of the tree and was pulling a tray of gingerbread man cookies out of the oven.

“You need a life,” Rowan announced. “This is…”

“Amazing?” Aelin supplied.

Rowan chuckled. “A bit much.”

She smiled, setting the tray down on the stovetop. “We only get one Christmas a year. Why not make it count?”

He rolled his eyes and turned, finding a festive movie menu on his television, with a pile of blankets on his couch, two mugs of hot chocolate and decorated cookies on the coffee table. He looked back into his room and wondered how he hadn’t noticed his comforter missing from his bed.

“Oh no,” he said, letting his head fall into his hand.

“Oh, yes,” Aelin said, smirking as she moved past him and flopped onto the couch.

“Christmas movies are cheesy,” Rowan muttered.

“Not all of them,” Aelin protested, crossing her arms.

“Yes, all of them, every single one,” he argued.

“You're such a Scrooge,” she teased, picking up her mug of hot chocolate. When she pulled the mug away, she had a thick, whipped cream mustache. 

Rowan couldn’t help his laugh as Aelin’s eyes narrowed. She quickly sucked in her top lip and licked it off, a gesture that made Rowan’s laughter quickly fade.

Rowan and Aelin had been best friends their entire lives. They'd been there for each other through every high and low of their lives, whether that was Aelin graduating top of her class from the University of Terrasen or Rowan’s father leaving just shy of his fourteenth birthday.

Rowan had been in love with her for years.

She had no idea.

“Stop looking at me, asshole,” Aelin muttered, taking another sip from her mug.

Rowan cleared his throat and shook off the moment with a sneaky grin. “If only I had my camera. That would’ve made good future blackmail.”

Aelin rolled. “No need to save blackmail, you already scare every guy I meet away with your looming height and endless broodiness.”

Rowan chuckled. If only she knew. “Alright, Ace. What horrid movie are you forcing me to sit through?”

“A childhood classic,” she said, and pressed play, letting the sound of The Grinch fill the room.

Rowan narrowed his eyes and sat next to her on the couch. “You better be happy Jim Carrey is my favorite actor.”

“Is he?” She asked, with mock surprise. “I had no idea.”

Rowan grabbed a cookie from the plate and bit Santa’s head off. It seemed the best response to Aelin’s sarcasm.

The movie started — Rowan detested movies that spoke in rhyme — and the two settled in to watch. After only a couple of minutes, Rowan was yawning.

“You better not fall asleep,” Aelin said, raising an eyebrow as she looked over at him.

“So bossy,” he said, leaning forward to grab his hot chocolate. He put the mug to his lips and drank. Pausing the movie, he looked over at her. “Is there alcohol in this?”

“You’re asking me if there’s alcohol in it?” Aelin asked, shooting him a grin.

“Of course there is,” he muttered, taking a sip. He could taste a slight hint of rumchata through the cocoa and extensive whipped cream.

Aelin was good at a lot of things.

At the top of the list was a solid mug of hot cocoa.

The titles played, and The Grinch began.

Rowan used to love that movie, back before his father left and Christmas still felt like Christmas.

Aelin had had a hard childhood, too, and Rowan envied her for still loving Christmas. After all those years, she still adored the holiday. Still adored the magic of the day.

Rowan had a much more difficult time getting into the holiday spirit.

That could have been why he chugged the hot chocolate and Aelin was up getting seconds for them both before the titular character was even on screen. That pattern held until an hour later, when Aelin was grabbing a bottle of whiskey out of the freezer, the Rumchata long gone and Rowan was hollering from the living room, voice beginning to slur, “Like, if he doesn’t like Christmas, why doesn’t he just move? I’m sure there’s a community of people somewhere who hate Christmas just as much as he does.” Aelin sniggered as she set down the bottle, but he went on. “And for that fact, the Who’s just need to let the damn man live his life. He’s not hurting anyone up on his mountain.”

“He kind of is,” Aelin argued, closing the fridge and heading back to the living room. “I mean, he scares everyone and makes people miserable on purpose.”

“Yeah, because everyone’s so damn judgmental,” Rowan said, his head falling back against the couch cushions. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you love the Grinch so much,” Aelin grinned, falling onto the couch next to him. “Save for being green, you’re practically the same person.” 

“Not true,” Rowan scoffed. “I would never wear the outfit of a German yodeler.” 

Aelin rolled her eyes. “First of all, it’s called a lederhosen. Secondly, you’re so full of shit.” 

Rowan was unable to control his grin. 

“I could see you in lederhosen, by the way,” Aelin continued, sipping from her mug. Rowan followed her lead, the warm sensation of whiskey trailing down his throat.

“I don’t think it’s my style,” he snorted, propping one of his feet onto the coffee table.

“You’d rather wear the table cloth?” Aelin asked, giggling quietly.

“I think that’s more of your style,” he chuckled, tossing back the rest of his mug.

Aelin cocked her head and looked over at him. “Topless, huh? You think that’s my look?”

Rowan began to backpedal. “No, I mean- I just meant it was a skirt.”

Aelin began to howl, Rowan’s cheeks bright red.

“You’re something else, Whitethorn, you know that?” Aelin asked, downing the liquor in her mug.

“In a good way?” Rowan asked.

Aelin looked at him through his side eye and remained silent as she tossed an arm around Rowan’s shoulder. “You’re an interesting man, you know that?”

The alcohol he’d consumed, coupled with the scent of her around him was nearly too much and he was unable to stop his hand from resting on her thigh. “Interesting, huh? Is that a good interesting or a bad interesting?”

Aelin’s own cheeks darkened, but her fingers began to draw small circles into his shoulder. “Good interesting. You’re never boring.”

She lifted her arm off his shoulder, but was glad when his hand didn’t leave her thigh.

“I’ll take interesting,” he went on, even if all he could think about was his hand. His hand that rested on her thigh. Her thigh, which was warm and unmoving. “As long as it’s a compliment.”

Aelin cocked her head to the side, and golden strands fell into her face. “And what do you think of me? Am I interesting?”

“You’re…” His words trailed off as he turned his head to the side and looked into her eyes. Those turquoise and gold eyes that made his knees weak and his heart ache and made him feel like his chest was going to burst. “...dangerous.”

Aelin took a sip of her whiskey, licking the last sip off her lips. “How am I dangerous?”

“First of all, you have no filter,” Rowan said, unable to hide his smile. “You say whatever is on your mind without the consequences.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Aelin asked, brow raised, still fully aware of Rowan’s hand on her thigh. 

“I say it has both its good and bad qualities,” Rowan followed.

Aelin laughed, quietly, then said, “And what else makes me so dangerous?”

“Exactly what you’re doing right now,” he said, taking a deep breath, regretting it immediately when he realized how close to Aelin he was. The smell of her spice and vanilla perfume him and if he would have been standing, he would have fallen to his knees. “You have to have the last word. It’s impossible to win an argument with you.”

“Some people would call that tenacity,” she said, bringing her legs up and tucking them beneath her.

Rowan’s fingers squeezed gently. “Most people would call that stubborn.”

Aelin tossed her head back and laughed and Rowan was powerless to stop himself from leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.

As soon as his lips left her skin and he’d realized what he’d done, his eyes went wide.

Aelin only hesitated for a moment before lifting a beautifully sculpted brow. “What was that for?”

“There has to be a reason?” He meant for it to come out as a snarky remark, to match her tone, but it came out nothing more than a whisper.

Aelin slowly shook her head. “No, there doesn’t have to be a reason.”

Rowan took a moment to try and figure out what that statement meant. Was it an invitation? Something cordial to let him know that kissing her cheek was okay? Did it mean that she wanted something more?

The two fell back into silence and as the movie played, Rowan continued to ponder Aelin’s reaction to his kiss. He was just about to clear his throat and apologize when lithe fingers and manicured nails finger-combed through his hair.

He nearly purred.

Rowan leaned into her touch and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling Aelin move closer as well. He didn’t want to do anything to stop her, didn't want to say anything that would result in her stopping the way she was lightly scratching at his scalp, but he also wasn’t completely positive he wasn’t dreaming.

A thousand emotions rushed him, lust nearing the top of the list. He tried not to let it show, but was certain he was failing as his eyes fluttered shut one more time.

“Feel good?” She breathed.

He made a contented noise, somewhere between a moan and a sigh, and settled deeper into the cushions. With a breathy chuckle, she ran her fingers through the front and brushed the stray strands out of his face. He cracked one of his eyes open and looked at her through a heavy lid.

With his pine green gaze on her, Aelin’s cheeks heated. “What?”

He gently shook his head, but continued looking at her, taking her in. “What's on your mind?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” he said, with a grin. 

“Nothing important,” she corrected, her fingers still working their magic.

Rowan watched her for a second before repeating, “Liar.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” She asked, turning the tables on him.

He was quiet for a minute more before he admitted, “I was thinking about how different my night is going than I planned.”

She asked, “Yeah?”

He nodded. “See, I was planning on coming home, downing a beer or two, and passing out.” The smirk he tried to hide broke through. “Instead I find you, dancing around my house, baking cookies and just being all around cheery.”

“Are you complaining?” Aelin asked, cocking her head to the side.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I’m the luckiest guy in Orynth.”

She rolled her eyes, even though her cheeks turned a bright shade of pink. “You're full of shit.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “I mean it.”

Aelin couldn’t hide the smile that grew on her face and when she turned to Rowan, she found a similar smile on his own. The hand in his hair drifted down, a thumb brushing over his cheekbone

“Can I kiss you?” Rowan asked, not letting himself think of the irreparable damage he could be doing on their friendship.

With a smirk, Aelin said, “I thought you already did.”

Rowan hesitated before letting out a breathy laugh. “Well, then can I kiss you agai-.”

Before he could finish, Aelin had leaned toward him, and put her lips on his.

That hand on her though tightened and her other hand framed the side of his face, and Rowan Whitethorn forgot how to breathe as he kissed Aelin.

When they finally pulled apart, both beaming at each other, Rowan wrapped an arm around her and they settled onto the couch.

“I hope you have a pretty good present for me tomorrow,” Aelin said with a grin.

Rowan laughed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He didn’t bother to tell her that no present would ever compare to this night, she was present enough.

[beautifulterriblequeen]

Road Trip

a tdp ficlet

cw/tags: Runaan and Rayla soft time, amputee Runaan, family feels, real assassin talk, role reversal

"Rayla..." Runaan held her gaze for as long as he could stand it, hoping that he'd have the courage to say it to her face, but he couldn't. His eyes sought refuge in the ambling swirls on the nearby door, pale blue on pink. "...I kill people."

His eyes tightened at the inevitable parade of images that flared brightly in his memory. So many last moments. Many of his targets were caught unawares, as he intended. But not all. Some died in rage, some in terror. But they still died.

Rayla's brows bent at his barefaced admission, so unlike the gentle euphemisms he'd trained her with all her life. "Runaan..." she began, in the hesitant tone one used for injured animals who had tucked themselves up in a den out of fear.

His eyes dropped to his fist, clenched tightly atop the blanket tucked over his legs. His missing arm tried to clench its fist, too. Runaan wasn't sure how to feel about its absence yet, but he'd already begun feeling guilty for not knowing how to feel.

Rayla's tone was exactly what he needed. And he felt guilty for that, too.

"My hands have seen so much..." he began, but his voice faltered when he could only show her one hand, open palm up. His eyes kept searching for the other one. It had been there just a couple of days ago. How could he make his point to her without it? His eyes sought hers again, in apology for his imperfect lesson. "I'm... sorry..."

"No, don't you start apologizing to me," Rayla said firmly. She took his remaining hand in hers and held his gaze.

"I tried to protect you," he blurted softly, mentally backpedaling from her attempted parenting. He was the adult, not her. Surely he could still hold onto that connection. "Perhaps I should've been more honest, more... truthful..."

Rayla sighed firmly through her nose. "Runaan, don't--"

"It's dark work, Rayla," he said, squeezing her hand hard. He tried to reach for her with his missing hand, too, to steady her, to make her hear him. Instead, his stumpy arm couldn't even stretch as far as her shoulder. Its shortened length caught his eyes again, and he stared, still confounded at this irreversible change to his person. His voice came out bitterer than he intended as he repeated, "It's dark work."

Rayla settled a hand gently atop his left shoulder, keeping her eyes on his. "Make it up to me, then."

His brows bent softly in confusion.

"Don't give me empty words, Runaan. That was never your way. If you truly feel you've hidden too much truth from me, then show it to me. Not the dark truth of the past." Her eyes flickered to his missing arm. "That's over now. Show me your new truth. I still want to trust you. I still want to learn from you. You were my earliest teacher, and, for better or worse, I learn best from you. So..."

Runaan found himself leaning forward. His heart managed a faint thrum of interest. "So...?" he prompted.

"So," Rayla said, offering him a sassy smile and an eyebrow lift she'd copied from him years ago, "show me what you got."

Runaan's mouth opened softly as he stared at her. His feelings pulled at him like twin moons. Relief at being free from his weighty, sacred duty warred with guilt for feeling that way. What kind of Moonshadow assassin was glad to step aside from his duty? But then, what kind of Moonshadow assassin only had one arm and lived to tell the tale? There was no one like him, whose footsteps he might follow in, whose tenets he might make his own. For the first time in his life, Runaan was pathless.

He met Rayla's intent violet eyes and worked up the courage to say, "Rayla... I don't know what I got."

But Rayla only grinned cheekily and gently nudged his good shoulder with a soft fist. "Then have I got a deal for you, Runaan. Maybe it's time that I taught you a thing or two! And I know just the place to start. Tell me, how do you feel about three-limbed wolves who get love and support from a sassy girl who won't take no for an answer?"

Runaan blinked. "I... Am I the wolf?" he asked.

Rayla laughed, and her soft confidence filled the room. "Funny you should make that connection! She lives just down the mountain from here. Her name is Ava, and her human's named Ellis. And I think you'll find that my good friends know a lot about dealing with unexpected changes. What do you say? Road trip?"

Runaan hesitated at the thought of listening to a human for advice, no matter how Rayla-esque she might be. But Rayla called her and the wolf friends... and she had actually proven that she knew a good human when she saw one...

"Or," Rayla continued, eyes twinkling, "if you're not ready for traveling yet, I can just send her a message to come back to the Moonhenge."

"I think I'm--what do you mean, 'back'?" Runaan blurted. "You brought a human to the Moonhenge? Rayla!"

But she only laughed. "Runaan, don't be silly. I'd never do such a thing! No, Ellis is the one who led us most of the way up the mountain."

"My point still--"

"And then Lujanne brought us all the rest of the way on Phoe-Phoe!" Rayla finished teasingly.

A hunted look crossed Runaan's features, and he closed his eyes and sighed. "Moon save me from illusionists," he muttered. "Very well... if you insist, then I will accompany you down the mountain as soon as I'm cleared for travel."

Rayla squeezed his hand encouragingly. "Thank you, Runaan. You won't regret it."

Runaan's expression turned tiredly sarcastic. "I assure you, I am already doing exactly that."

Undeterred, Rayla crowed, "Road trip!"

Runaan could only cling to her hand and smile in mute wonder at the amazing elf Rayla had become. He had taught her many things, but somehow she'd learned even more along the way. Things that, perhaps, he might enjoy learning from her for a change. Finally, he shook his head and smiled, surrendering once again to his fate.

He squeezed her hand again. "Road trip."

[vintagedolan]

hiraeth part four - magnanimity

Koa almost didn’t make it to her senior prom. 

Not the day of though. No, Kahua was waiting patiently by the door ready for her to come around the corner from her small bedroom in her dress, right on time.

That dress - that was the reason she almost didn’t go.

It wasn’t anything that special, really. It was a light green that complimented her rich skin tone, hugged her in all the right places and made her feel confident from the moment she tried it on in the store with her friends. 

The price tag had her putting it right back onto the rack, trying to convince herself it wasn’t as pretty as it really was. So she spent the rest of her shopping trip in the clearance section, trying to look at the various colored fabric through her rose colored glasses that she used to get through most of her days. 

When she got home, her father was waiting for her with the widest smile on his face. In his hands, was the tip jar from the boat. Nahele had decorated it when he was younger, and the paint was faded on the outside, the shaka barely even visible. But Koa wasn’t looking at the glass. She was looking through it, at all the small crumpled bills that filled it up to the brim.

“I’ve been saving them. I wanted you to be able to get a nice dress for your dance.”

She’d never seen the look of pride in his eyes shine so bright. 

She took the jar with tears in her eyes, and that was the day she swore she’d never accept a gift so big again. 

But Grayson Dolan didn’t know about that. In fact, he didn’t really know anything about her, other than the fact that she was late. 

Quietly on his phone, without a mention to anyone else, he checked the bus routes. 10 minutes behind schedule.

Sure enough, at 11:10 Koa was at the gate, waiting for him to let her in. Her hair was frizzy again, and she seemed even more nervous and frazzled than the last time she was there. She had a notebook tucked in her arm, with three different colored pens shoved in the spirals.

He opened the door for her, and she stepped into the air conditioning with a deep breath of relief.

“Sorry I’m late. Before you start telling me how much you hate me, can I use your bathroom?”

Grayson knew why she needed it; he knew why she took her bag with her too. He almost said something but he bit his tongue, rolled his eyes a bit at her dig and pointed her to the guest bathroom in the hall.

He wasn’t supposed to know. In all honesty, the fact that he did know was creepy, even though he hadn’t meant to notice the box in her hands at the bus stop. So instead, he leaned up against the island and waited for her to come back, running over what he wanted to say in his head.

She came back out quickly - she’d pulled her hair up into a bun, with a few stray curls falling down around her temples. He couldn’t tell if it was black or dark brown in the lighting of the kitchen, but it complemented her tan skin well as she settled into one of the chairs. 

“Alright, lay it on me, what’s up.” Koa opened up her notebook and picked out a black pen, clicking it open before she looked up. 

Grayson had forgotten his question.

“Do you want - uh, are you thirsty? We’ve got uh -” He walked over to the fridge to stall, opening it up to realize that they definitely needed to go to the grocery. “Uh, we have water. That’s it though.”

Koa raised an eyebrow, but bit her tongue. “Yeah, water would be good. Thanks.”

He poured her a glass, sliding it across the counter.

“We’ve got straws too, if you want. Reusable though. Save the turtles.”  

“Spoken like a true marine conservationist.” In that moment, Koa thought of home, and her father, probably out prepping his boat for a morning tour. 

The silence was thick, and she sighed as she put the straw down into her glass.

“Grayson.”

“Hmm?”

“You wanted to have a meeting. So... you gonna tell me why I’m here?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, and then he relaxed his shoulders.

“I was a bit of a dick to you the other day. And I wanted to apologize for that. That’s not who I am, and you didn’t deserve that. So, sorry.”

The knot in Koa’s gut loosened just a fraction.

“Accepted. I get that it’s a big ask, having someone write a book about you.”

“Yeah, I’m still not thrilled on the idea. But I should have at least given you the chance to pitch your idea for it before I shut you down. I’ve had that done to me, and it’s shitty. So I guess I’m wanted you to come over so I could hear your pitch.” 

Koa froze. 

She hadn’t really thought that far.

“I... well I didn’t really make a pitch. It’s not really supposed to be a me thing. It’s an us thing. I’m just here to put what you want into a book... into book form. If that makes sense.” 

“Yeah no, I get that. Guess we’ll have to see if Ethan’s got any ideas cause I haven’t really thought that far.”

Silence fell again, and their eyes met. She looked just as nervous as she had sitting at the bus stop, and it made Grayson frown.

“It sounds like you care about the environment, you know, with all this.” Koa picked her straw up and let it clink back down.

“That’s an understatement,” Grayson chuckled, scratching at the back of his neck. But he soon realized his joke didn’t land, his eyes going a bit wide. Had she not seen any of their podcast videos on veganism? Conservation? What about all the posts on their instagrams?

“You really don’t know anything about me do you?”

It came out stronger than he meant it to, and he wished he could take it back. 

“Well you haven’t really given me the chance to get to know you. But that’s something else we could write about. Boundaries.” 

Sledge rounded the corner with his tail wagging and a squeaky toy in his mouth, bringing it up to Koa and dropping it by her feet. She smiled down at him and picked it up, wiggling it around and faking him out a few times before she tossed it down the hallway.

“I guess this wasn’t the most productive of meetings. If you wanna write a book about twins, you kinda need both parts huh.” She laughed to herself, patting her legs until Sledge came back to her. She ruffled his fur, watching his ears flop around in the most adorable way. 

It made Grayson smile - it was the first time he’d heard her laugh. It was deeper than he expected; a peaceful sound. 

“Yeah, I should have thought about that. I appreciate you coming though, I know it’s not easy for you to get out here. I was actually gonna ask you about that.” 

She stopped petting the dog for a moment, brushing her hair behind her ear so she could see him.

“What do you mean? Ask me about what?”

“I was gonna talk to Ethan about it first, but I’m sure he wouldn’t care. If you wanna borrow a car while you’re working with us, that’s fine. I mean, you’d have to pay for gas and stuff but it would make it easier for you to get from your place to here.” 

She sat up slowly. 

In the back of her mind, she heard her brother. He was one of the only people who ever really got to see her so angry. If he were there, if he could see her face, she knew how he’d describe her. Pele. The Hawaiian goddess of lava, fire. 

You knew better than to anger her. 

Koa felt it bubbling up inside of her, a mixture of hot anger and burning embarrassment that tinged her brown skin pink all the way to her ears.

“I don’t need charity from anyone, especially not you.” 

Grayson balked, and then he was backpedaling.

“Koa, I didn’t mean it like that. That’s not what I meant, I just wanted to help. I... I saw you at CVS the other night, at the bus stop.”

“Oh so you’re stalking me now? Great. Awesome. Not creepy at all.”

“No, it was just - I was at Monty’s, I just wanted to make sure you got on the bus okay. They aren’t always the safest, and-”

“I handled myself just fine before you, I sure as fuck don’t need a man looking out for me. I can take care of myself.”

“Koa, please-”

She was already packing her things, shoving her pen behind her ear and snatching up her notebook as she headed for the door.

Ethan appeared around the corner of the house, his smile radiating towards her through the front door.

When she swung it open, he was beaming.

“Hey you! I didn’t know you were gonna be here today, what’s up?”

“I was just leaving.” 

His smile disappeared quickly, and his eyes flickered to Grayson automatically.

“Oh? Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. Next time you schedule a meeting, give me a 15 minute arrival window. My ride isn’t the most reliable.” 

“Uh... what?”

She felt her tears prickling behind her eyes against her will, nose burning hot deep in her nostrils as she fought them.

“Just ask your brother. He can tell you all about it.”

[tinyboxxtink]

"Clueless" *Part 2*

I feel bad because I actually have more of this written but if it doesn't end on a cliffhanger, what's the fun in that?

(y'all I can't help but add Tai gifs I'm sorry it's so appropriate 🤣)

Tag List:

@lolliepopsicle

@chasingeverybreakingwave

@wanniiieeee

@milkshqke

@aprildecker-blog

@word-scribbless

@objection-argumentative

@gibbs274

@stars-in-the-skies-world

Part 1

Part 3

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

Rafael walked out onto the massive deck of the house. It housed a giant cabana lined with benches and pillows, complete with a tiki bar. Surprisingly it had not been overtaken by the party...yet.

You followed him into the cabana, where he promptly went behind the bar and fixed himself a scotch.

“What are you drinking?” He asked you.

You didn’t really drink a lot, but you didn’t want to look like a pansy. You racked your brain trying to remember any kind of drink you remembered seeing in movies.

“I’ll have a jack and coke,” You smiled nervously. He nodded and obliged, handing you the drink. You looked at it for a moment; it looked like a normal soda, how bad could that be? You took a big swig.

You were wrong-- it is VERY bad.

You almost choked as the burn of the whiskey fell down your throat, you looked around for napkins or something, praying to God this wasn’t how you were going to die-- trying and failing at impressing the most gorgeous man you’d seen in your life.

“Oh god, honey are you ok?” Rafael grabbed a water bottle and handed it to you. You grabbed it from him and chugged it quickly. Finally after a minute, you could breathe again and fully embrace the humiliation of what had just transpired. You didn’t want to look at him, you must have looked like an idiot choking on a cocktail like a prude. Ariel had taken you to enough parties in college, why hadn’t you practiced this before?

“Yeah I’m fine…” You muttered, staring into the deck floor.

“...Maybe light on the jack?” You could hear the smile in his voice. You looked up to see him holding another coke, with the Jack Daniels bottle in his hand. He ever so lightly splashed some whiskey into the glass and handed it to you. You sipped it this time, barely tasting the alcohol.

“...Thanks,” You smiled nervously, feeling your cheeks burn hotter by the second. Either you were the lightest lightweight on earth, or he made you nervous. You were pretty sure it was both.

“Not much of a drinker, are you?” He kept smiling at you as you shook your head NO.

“...Curiouser and curiouser,” He chuckled as he came back around the bar with his drink and nodded towards the pillowed benches. You followed and sat beside him on one, curling up your knees beside you like a mermaid tail.

“...What is?” You gave him a questionable look, waiting for an insult.

“You and Ariel’s relationship,” He gestured towards the house. “You don’t drink, you don’t party, you’re clearly WAY more intelligent,”

“...I know, she’s so awesome and I’m just--” You started to degrade yourself with a sad smile while pushing strands of hair behind your ear nervously.

“No no no,” He stopped you mid sentence, taking your hand. “Actually I was implying the opposite,”

Now you looked at him in even more confusion.

“I was going to say you’re way too good for her,” He finished with that amazing smile still on his lips.

You felt yourself go light headed; you seriously could not be this sensitive to alcohol, could you? You’d drank before, wine and champagne and what not. Even some jello shots at a few parties, where you couldn’t taste the alcohol at all. THAT was a bad night. But it couldn’t be the alcohol making you feel this way-- it had to be him.

“OH, um--” You snapped your hand back instinctively, any form of social intimacy freaked you out. But you instantly regretted it, missing the feeling of his warm skin on yours. So you fought your neurotic brain and moved it back forward slightly, where your fingers were still touching.

“No, um-- Ariel’s right,” You continued. “She saved me,”

“I highly doubt Ariel’s saved anyone in her life,”

“Hey! That’s my best friend you’re talking about!”

“....Sorry,” He apologized. “I just don’t see what you see, apparently,”

“She has a huge heart, really,” He gave you a skeptical look. “Really!” You insisted.

“Look-- When I got accepted to Harvard, I didn’t know that my scholarship only accounted for the tuition, NOTHING else. So I didn’t-- I hadn’t saved anything for loding,” You sipped your coke as you continued. “So, I begged the housing department for ANY kind of room they could give me, I even offered to sleep in the janitor’s closet!”

A laugh from Rafael caused you to stop talking and look down at the floor, instantly embarrassed again at your sad sack of a life. Instantly Rafael went for your hand again but paused, noting your uneasiness from before.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh at you,” He apologized. No one had ever cared enough to keep apologizing for YOUR lack of self esteem issues, flinching anytime anyone even coughed on you in an aggressive manner.

“No no, it’s fine, I just--” You now placed your hand over his, a feat in your social anxiety ridden brain. “It’s me, it’s not you,” You tried not to stare at your hands touching, but inside you were so proud of yourself and so happy to have his hand touching yours again, it was actually comforting.

“Anyway, um so--” You bit your lip nervously. “So I was just about to-- I don’t even know what, find a homeless shelter or a bridge, I guess,”

Rafael smiled in amusement and chuckled slightly, checking to make sure you weren’t thrown off by it again. You smiled and laughed at the thought of you dragging everything you owned to a bridge on campus to set up camp.

“But Ariel saw me, and took pity on me I guess?” You shrugged. You really weren’t sure of the thought process that went through Ariel’s head that night, you were just so grateful she had been there.

“She asked me if I had a place to stay and I said no, so she told me that she had a suite all to herself and that she really didn’t do well by herself and that she had just been heading to the housing department to ask for a roommate,” You smiled at the memory.

You weren’t entirely sure how true it was at the time, but knowing her as well as you do now, you knew she did NOT do well by herself. She was confident and full of self esteem to everyone else in the public, but when it was just the two of you she seemed almost...sad, most of the time. Like being happy was just the dress she put on to wear in the world.

“....I hadn’t thought about it like that,” Rafael said softly, now slightly regretting how snarky he was towards her most of the time.

“And now I know why,” You gestured towards the house. “That thing about her mom not wanting to ‘deal’ with her, I honestly don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have my parents,”

“Yeah, my mami and abuela are the two most important people in my life,” He nodded in agreement. “And Ariel...well, as far as I know, she’s never had a ‘dad’ stick, and her mom is just…” He paused. “Not really interested in her daughter,” He added with a sad shrug.

“...Your dad didn’t stick either? You asked cautiously, hoping you weren't prying.

“My dad…” He chuckled sarcastically. “My dad was...let’s just say life actually got better when he left,” He looked down. You saw pain and shame in his eyes, and you instantly empathized.

Not so much with the dad thing, but that constant nagging of shame and hurt. Which was totally unnecessary because you actually had the most loving family in the world, which only made you feel more guilt and shame, because you couldn’t appreciate it the way you were “supposed” to. It was just the way you were wired, and they understood that. But it didn’t help sway your guilt.

“He shacked up with Ariel’s mom for a few months and then took off with a LOT of her money,” He clenched his fists of the thought of the trail of destruction his father seemed to always leave behind.

“Luckily, Ariel’s mother didn’t associate myself with that asshole, although I’m pretty sure it’s because she wanted to replace him with me,” He shuddered at the memory of the several times Ariel’s mom had tried to “seduce” him when he was younger.

“Oh God,” You inadvertently made a grossed out face. The offended look on his face instantly made you panic. "Not like, you're gross. Just...she's gross. Hitting on a kid like that,"

"Oh I was ummm.." he chuckled nervously, looking towards the ocean. "I wasn't a kid per say," he coughed awkwardly.

"....How old were you?"

"I think I had just started at my first practice," he avoided the question. "She has a thing for lawyers. Probably becauses around them so often, always divorcing husbands,"

"So like, 28. And her mom was on husb--" You tried doing the math yourself.

"...I'm 15 years older than Ariel," He answered your mental question.

"Oh well, I mean that's cool," You smiled awkwardly. You failed to mention that you had graduated a year early in high school, so you were two years YOUNGER than Ariel.

"Uh huh," he raised an eyebrow with a chuckle.

"I get along with older people anyway," you said, than backpedaled immediately."I MEAN, not that you're old, just--"

"OldER," He kept his amused look at your faltering.

"I'm sorry, I wish I could blame this on the alcohol but I'm just…" you sighed. "Not made to interact with Humans,"

"Aw hey now come on," he punched your shoulder like a kid. "You're doing great, it's really cute," he smiled then realized what HE had just said, and backpedaled.

"I mean, endearing," he found a more suitable word, trying to hide the fact that he was probably a little buzzed and more attracted to you than he probably should be. However he noted the somewhat disappointed look you had when he corrected himself.

"You're probably the first person to think so,"

"Except Ariel, right?"

"She tolerates it, she definitely doesn't think it's 'cute'. She's tried to 'fix' me since we met,"

"Seriously?" "Who does she think she is--?" He started to get up like he was going to give her a "talking to".

"No no no, it's fine Rafael really," You stood up quickly and pulled on his arm gently, making him turn around quickly. You wondered if he had just felt that….reaction between you.

You were far too intellectual to believe in trivial things that people spoke about like a "spark", but in that moment you had to think to yourself maybe they had a point.

"Right, sorry," he nodded and quickly sat down. "I may be a little more buzzed than I thought,"

"No that was really sweet, honestly," you smiled softly. "I probably didn't explain it well," "She just wants the best for me,"

"You're perfect the way you are, Y/N," "I mean, you seem like a good kid,"

"Kid?" You were suddenly offended, though you weren't sure why. You'd always been thought of as a child, being younger than your peers most of your life. Always in higher classes in high school, younger than your college classmates. It had never bothered you before, not once.

But when Rafael called you a "kid", it felt like a gut punch, which made you feel even worse. You just met this guy, what was wrong with you?

"Person," he corrected himself. "I meant person," but the damage was done.

"....I should go check on Ariel, make sure she didn't get herself in a 'situation'," you turned to walk back into the house.

"Hey no wait Y/N, I thought we were--" He started to go after you but you put your hand up.

"No, really. I probably shouldn't have left her alone in the first place," You didn't even grab your drink you just waved your hands dismissively and disappeared back into the party before he could say anything else.

“....I guess I’ll sleep in my car,” He muttered to himself as he headed back around the house.

-----

The next morning Rafael had to leave early to get back to the city, but he had texted Ariel.

"Tell Y/N I'm sorry, and tell her if she has any questions about law to text me anytime, day or night,"

"What did that dick do to you?" She stomped into her bedroom, where you were sleeping.

"What? Your bro-- Rafael? Nothing! He didn't do anything!" Your head snapped up instantly awake.

"Well what's he apologizing for?" She held out her phone; you didn’t have your contacts in so you couldn’t read it.

"...For calling me a kid," You shrugged sadly.

"Oh. Well you ARE a kid, sweets" Ariel instantly dropped her anger into her happy self, patting you on the head like a dog.

"No I'm not…." You muttered. "Did he say anything else?"

Ariel didn't like the idea of that pompous prick getting his claws in you, she didn't like it one bit.

"Nope," she lied.

"Oh," you replied sadly.

"Oh please don't tell me you care what what that bonehead thinks" she scoffed. "He thinks he's some 'big deal' because he has a fancy title,"

"No he doesn't," You instantly defended him, though you weren’t sure why. Weren’t you mad at him? No, actually you were kicking yourself for taking it so hard and just leaving him on the beach. You could have stayed there talking to him all night.

"Oh no, he got to you didn't you?" She acted concerned. "ugh I knew it, I should have warned you,"

"Warned me?" You looked at her confused.

"Yeah, it's what he does," she continued to lie. "He likes to seduce my friends for sport," She continued to spin a web of deceit.

"I...I don't believe you," You mumbled. You had never dared to even slightly disagree with Ariel, terrified anything would set her off and she’d “disown” you.

"Excuse me?” Her head whipped around.

"I don't believe you," you repeated. Her eyes widened with shock at your defiance. She almost lost it on you, before realizing honey worked better than vinegar.

"Honey, think about it," She came around and sit next to you on the bed. "He reeled you in and then called you 'kid'. Probably because you started making heart eyes at him, right?"

"I don't, it wasn't--" You tried recalling every single detail of the interaction.

"See? He just likes the sport of getting women to fawn over him and then move on,"

"But then why did he apologize?" You pointed out, still not sure of her accusations.

"Probably because you're my best friend and he knew I'd kick his ass for hurting your feelings,"

"But--" You were sure it had been YOU who walked away from HIM. But...he didn’t come after you. Maybe he was satisfied with making you upset?

"He didn't ask me to give you his number," she flat out lied. "He obviously didn't want any more contact with you sweetie,"

She had a point. She smiled in victory when she saw the determination and hope in your eyes dissolve into sadness.

"I'm sorry, honey, I should have warned you," she feigned sympathy, pulling you into a tight hug. "Now let's get that skeezer out of your mind," she grabbed your hand and pulled you away.

------

A few days later

Rafael was bewildered that you hadn't contacted him. Did he imagine the connection you two seemed to have? Was he more intoxicated than he thought? No, that wasnt possible. Had he really hurt you that much by calling you a kid? And if so, why? Did you feel something that would hate for you to see her as a kid?

He decided to text Ariel.

"Hey...did you tell Y/N what I said?"

"Yes. She said to fuck off. You must have really pissed her off BRO."

That didn't seem right. That didn't even sound like something you'd say. It sounded like something his evil stepsister would say.

"Did she say that or did you say that?"

"Stay away from my friends, and get your own you perv,"

He knew it. She probably didn't even give you his number. “Oh god,” he thought. What if she hadn't said anything at ALL?

He needed a plan.

[orangerosebush]

Sturm und Drang

In hindsight, Butler should have realized it would only be so long before his charge grew bored with life within the manor. Artemis Fowl I had made sure the Fowl estate was well stocked with the finest things their fortune could afford: the kitchen had aromatic spices from every inch of the globe; the library was practically bursting with esoteric texts; the walls were adorned with beautiful tapestries and paintings. Artemis Fowl I had beaten the world down so that it fit within the stone walls of Fowl manor, and in theory, his wife and son had to want for nothing. When Angeline had been younger, Butler remembered her leaving on weekend trips to visit her family or friends, but after her son was born, it seemed like she was content to retreat into the beautiful dollhouse her husband had fashioned around her. Perhaps the reality of who her husband was and where she lived had finally sunk in, Butler mused, carrying the tea tray. At least inside she didn’t have to think about the sectarian violence broiling in Northern Ireland, or the heating-up Cold War, or the vile things her adoring husband had done to pay for their life in the manor.

Butler poked his head into the Fowl study, rapping a hand against the door frame. At the desk inside, Artemis Fowl II was curled up in his father’s ornamented leather armchair, nose buried in a book. The boy’s ears perked up at the sound, but he didn’t look up from his reading.

“You weren’t at lunch,” Butler remarked, stepping inside.

“I apologize,” Artemis said, his young voice cold and clipped in a way Butler had never stopped thinking of as strange. “I was busy.”

You’re seven years old, Butler thought, setting the tray down on the mahogany desk. Busy?

“Your mother missed you,” he said instead, and Artemis lowered his book, eyes almost guilty.

“I promise that I will be at dinner.”

“You should eat,” Butler ordered, pushing the tea and toast closer to the boy. Artemis hesitated for a moment, but he finally obliged, taking a small bite out of the portion of the toast with the least amount of jam on it. Artemis chewed thoughtfully, setting the food back down on the plate and pointedly nudging it away. Butler pressed his lips into a thin line. Thank Christ that at least Juliet wasn’t a picky eater.

“May I ask you a question, Butler?”

“Always, Artemis.”

“Where does Father go when he leaves on business?” Artemis inquired, and Butler sighed. He moved the tray on the table, making room for him to rest his weight against the desk.

“He’s on a business trip, Artemis. He’s told you this.”

“Where does he go, though? He won’t tell me what his ‘business’ is.”

Butler shrugged. “Your father told me the same thing.”

Artemis looked at him shrewdly. “I don’t think I believe that, Butler.”

“That’s too bad,” Butler admitted. “Because that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

“You work for me, though,” Artemis argued, brow furrowed. “If you do know more, then you must tell me.”

Frowning, Butler leaned back. “I protect you. I work for your father.”

Sensing that he’d offended, Artemis tried to backpedal. “I… no one will tell me, Butler. Why? I simply want to know more about my father.”

His bodyguard considered Artemis' plea.

“I’m sorry if I seemed dismissive,” Artemis wheedled, prodding further. “I’m… I’m just curious.”

Despite being fully aware Artemis’ apology was motivated more so by ulterior motives than it was by genuine compunctions, Butler softened.

“I know you must miss him,” he relented.

Artemis perked up, sensing he’d succeed in wearing down Butler’s earlier decision.

Butler ignored the voice of Madam Ko in the back of his mind. He wondered if he could absolve himself for a brief moment of weakness surrounding his bodyguard principles.

Artemis was just a boy, Butler thought. And a smart one at that. He doubted that there was a child on earth that could be satisfied with simply artifacts from the outside world.

Reaching to ruffle his charge’s hair, Butler almost smiled at the way Artemis scrunched up his face.

“Why must you and Mother persist in doing that?” Artemis complained.

“Just another grown-up thing, I guess,” Butler ventured, humming good-naturedly when Artemis scoffed.

“What are you reading?” Butler asked after a moment, changing the subject. Artemis glanced back at his book, debating his next course of action. Finally, his excitement surrounding the book he’d been reading won out over his desire to continue pushing Butler regarding his father.

Artemis spun the novel around, allowing Butler to examine it properly. “It’s a collection of short stories by Kenzaburō Ōe. Right now I am on ‘Lavish Are the Dead’.”

Butler nodded, picking up the work and mentally filing the name away. He was nearly positive Artemis fell very short of the intended age demographic.

“What’s it about?”

Artemis’ eyes lit up. “The subject material varies, but the tone is similar between the stories. Ōe’s style is very derivative of French existentialists. I like him more than Sartre and Camus, however.”

“Camus wrote ‘The Stranger’, right?” Butler surmised, looking at Artemis for confirmation. “Read that book during university. I’ve never forgotten the way the author described the old man’s sickly dog. Poor animal,” Butler reproved, tsking.

Artemis nodded. “Yes, that was Camus. ‘Lavish Are the Dead’ is similarly macabre in the service of its philosophy.”

Butler thumbed to the first page of the short story to which Artemis referred. He narrowed his eyes, reading silently. Artemis continued on, unconscious of Butler’s increasingly deepening frown as the man scanned through gruesome paragraph after paragraph.

“I suppose it can be read in many ways. One view would be that it’s a meditation on the forgetting of the Pacific War, despite the violence’s profound impact on the cultural psyche. However, it could also be read as the submerged presence of the Korean War in Japanese society, memory, and culture. I’d argue both critiques come mainly from the perspective of the intellectual establishment, be it that it is both Ōe and the protagonist studied French literature at the University of Tokyo.”

“Artemis,” Butler said slowly, resisting the urge to rub his temples or to throw the offending text from the room. “This is about dead bodies being kept in the medical faculty of a university.”

His charge tilted his head, blinking owlishly. “On a literal, textual sense, I suppose so, yes.”

Butler made a face, putting the book down. “It’s not appropriate for you. It’s… too much. You’re too young to be reading something like this.”

“I asked Father. He’s the one who brought it back from Tokyo,” Artemis offered lightly.

Butler floundered, unsure.

To push the matter, Butler would have to either insinuate the Fowl patriarch was so absentminded as to not curate the reading material of his son or he would have to insinuate that the man had made an incorrect call in judgment. Either would be a challenge to Artemis Sr.’s authority. Either would be making a statement on which of the two had more of a say over Artemis’ behavior. An absentee father or a paid caretaker — Artemis was beginning to test the waters of which of the two men had more of a claim to be the male figure to whom he deferred, Butler realized.

Artemis watched Butler, waiting for a response.

“I see,” Butler noted, being careful to keep his tone even. Artemis’ eyes widened, a motion that would have been nearly imperceptible had Butler not been searching for a reaction on the boy’s face.

The surprise vanished from Artemis quickly, and his eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

Rising, Butler pushed the book back towards Artemis. “Yes. If he approved the book, then I am fine with it.”

“You have no further opinion on the matter?” Artemis pressed.

Butler shrugged. “I’m just your bodyguard. Is my private attitude towards the matter necessary?”

A completely bullshit statement.

Butler knew that.

Artemis knew that.

Hell, it was likely even Artemis Sr. knew that.

Butler blamed Artemis Sr., just a bit. Usually, the Fowls and Butlers were closer in age. As eerily as the young Fowl might present himself, it was hard to not feel parental twinges towards the boy when Butler’s primary duties as a bodyguard were mundane things — things like keeping Artemis from skinning his knees around the house or preparing meals for him and Juliet. The Major and Artemis Sr. were unambiguously boss and bodyguard, but Butler, who had to force himself to not subconsciously categorize both Artemis and Juliet as his kids, and Artemis, who knew his father as a visitor to the house instead of a permanent fixture? Their dynamic was undoubtedly more fraught, unspeakably more complicated to unpack.

But Butler couldn’t bring himself to give words to his failure. To do so would make it irreversible. It’d be the final nail in the coffin he’d fashioned for himself.

So he pushed the tea tray closer to Artemis, quietly getting up to leave.

Disappointed, Artemis moved to pick his book back up, returning to his previous activity.

Pausing in the doorway, Butler turned, faltering.

Artemis didn’t lower the book, but his eyes tracked Butler’s every movement like a hawk. “Yes?”

“Artemis,” Butler began, hand curling around the doorframe with uncharacteristic timidity. “Your father said he’d be home tonight. You can ask him about his trip at dinner.”

“...Will you be joining us?”

“No.”

“I see,” Artemis commented neutrally, fixing Butler with a pointed stare.

Ignoring the way his feelings stung, Butler let his hand fall from the door, turning away.

“Make sure that you eat your lunch, Artemis,” Butler said at last, weary.

“Mhm.”

Both the toast and the tea remained untouched.

[buckthegrump]

IBTHNTTTY - 13

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Y/n hates Bucky Barnes. Absolutely loathes him what makes it worse is that she has to share her office with him. Now with a promotion on the horizon she has to find a way to work with him and not against him.

Word Count: 1928

Warnings: swears, angst, a little bit of violence but in the fun way

A/n: now i know what y’all wanted from this part but i give you something better

Y/n rubbed her hands down her cheek as she stared at the manuscript. Whoever was trying to write this particular manuscript didn’t have even a grammar checker on their computer apparently. This was burning her eyes.

She pushed up her glasses as she squinted at the words trying to figure out what this author was trying to say. 

The office door closed, Y/n turned around to see who’d done it to find Bucky there.

“Oh, good morning Mr. Barnes,” this was her trying not to be a bitch. It was coming off as super formal, but she was trying.

Bucky set down his things and pulled his chair next to her desk.

He sat there and stared at her for a moment.

“Ok, I’m trying not to be mean to you but if you’re going to stare at me, you’re going to test my patience,” she said glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

“I’m gonna even the playing field.”

Y/n turned her whole body towards him. “Right now?”

“Yeah -” but he didn’t sound too sure about it.

“What about this, tell me over lunch. So you don’t have to do it at work and you can take all the time you need. You can also change your mind between now and then,” she offered. “Not to mention this author is trying to kill me.”

“Yeah, ok,” he hung his head. 

“Go get some work down.” Y/n nodded over to his computer, so he took his chair and got to work. 

Throughout the morning Y/n snuck glances to Bucky, who also looked at her but turned away before she could see. He looked stressed over something. Probably whatever it was that he wanted to tell her, but she couldn’t help that he was only going to tell her (whatever it was) because of what she’d said last night.

And he shouldn’t if he felt forced to and now she felt like an even bigger bitch than she would’ve had she simply ignored him today.

Y/n left her desk to take something up to Natasha and when she got back to the office she stood at Bucky’s desk.

“Is it lunchtime already?” He asked, he looked so nervous.

“Not yet, but,” she leaned against his desk and he stiffened, “I don’t want you to do something purely because I complained that you’d seen more of me than I’d seen of you. So we can still go to lunch but you don’t have to tell me anything. We’ll just go and have a meal.”

“You’ll sit through lunch with me? As in just two people sharing a meal?” A smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

“I mean, you’re my friend. I go to lunch with my friends. Unless you don’t want to be friends?”

“No, I - I do,” he answered.

“Try again at lunch and maybe you’ll sound more convincing,” she teased with a wink. “Hurry up and finish, I’m hungry.”

* * *

They sat in the restaurant that Bucky had chosen. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a diner. But it was special to him.

It was a place he used to frequent during the late nights in college so much so that the owners knew him and his friends by name. And knew his order by heart.

“Do you know what you want?” Bucky looked over his menu at Y/n. He didn’t really need to look at the menu Stan would already know what he would be getting.

“Didn’t I ban you for life, Barnes?” Stan asked.

Speak of the devil. Bucky was still looking at Y/n when he smiled.

“You can’t ban your best and favorite customer.” Bucky turned his attention to Stan, who stared blankly back at him.

“I’m pretty sure I told you to never come back after the last late night shenanigans,” Stan said, not changing his face at all.

“No,” Bucky corrected, “you told Sam to never come back. He was the one that was flirting with your daughter -”

“Careful.”

“I’m merely pointing out. That Sam is the one who was banned, not me, and I brought someone new,” Bucky looked at Y/n and winked, “and she is much more refined than Sammy boy, and probably tips better.”

“Not that it matters today,” Y/n said, “you’re paying.”

“Well, I’m an excellent tipper,” Bucky beamed even brighter than before.

“What would you like, Y/n?” Stan asked, pointedly ignoring Bucky.

“Can I get the plate of chili-cheese-fries? And a large soda, please?” Y/n looked up sweetly at Stan who almost smiled.

Stan walked away. And Y/n looked back at Bucky. “Is he not going to take your order?”

“He knows what I get almost every time I come in. And I would’ve already told him if I’d wanted something different,” Bucky told her.

She started playing with a sugar packet and Bucky studied her. He was still trying to figure out what he was going to do about what she’d said at the office. She had made such a big deal about balance the night before and had suddenly backpedaled. It was almost as if she was actually trying to be friends with him.

Which was another point. When she’d asked him if he wanted to be friends, he wanted to just answer no. Because he didn’t want to just be friends. He wanted more with her, but. . . Y/n seemed like the kind of person who would’ve hinted if she had any feelings that were in the slightest bit romantic for him. So friends they could be.

He also found that he wanted to tell her his secrets. All of them. Right now. But he wouldn’t, he would wait. 

She looked up at him and glared a little. “What are you looking at?”

“I was trying to figure out if your sunflower is the only tattoo or if you have more,” he blurted, not realizing it was true until he said it. He didn’t mean for it to come out as sexual as it did. “I’m sorry, ignore that -”

“No, no, it’s ok. As of right now? No but you haven’t seen me in a few weeks have you?”

Bucky gaped at her for a moment. “Wh-w-what?”

Y/n h’mmed, she propped her head up on her hands leaning closer to him. He was doing his damnedest to not let his eyes drift south.

“Are you trying not to look at my boobs?” She asked shifting slightly to put them at a different angle.

“What makes you say that? We’re friends, I tend to not view my friends like that.” Or at least try, and in this case fail.

“So you’ve never had thoughts like that about me?”

His mind flashed to the dream from a few weeks ago, he pushed the thoughts away. Now was not the time. “I’m the kind of guy who says bosom remember? And if I recall, that’s a turn off for you.”

“I never said that.”

“So you like the word bosom?” He raised a brow.

“It’s not that,” she shrugged, sitting back in the booth. Thank god. “You just seem like the kind of man to say ‘tits’. That just seems more like your kind of deal.”

It was Bucky’s turn to lean forward. He put his weight on his forearms and tilted his head.

“Do you imagine what words I use for dirty talk, sunflower?” He smirked. It was slight and only happened for a moment, but her eyes widened. “Is it only the words? Or is there more you let your mind wander towards?”

Y/n was shocked and hiding rather well, other than the slight eye reaction. Bucky was about to press for more when Stan walked up with their food. Bucky leaned away.

“Chili-cheese-fries and a large soda for the lady,” Stan said in a kinder voice than Bucky’d ever heard, “And a heart attack special with water for the hoodrat.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about me!” Bucky called after him. Stan waved off Bucky. 

“So you're a hoodrat,” Y/n smirked.

Bucky frowned at his meal. “I wanted a root beer float.”

Y/n looked down at his food then up at Bucky and his figure. “You have a crazy metabolism don’t you? Because that might make me hate you again.”

“Only sometimes, and I do work out a bit. I’m not this buff because I sit around.” Bucky paused plopping a fry in his mouth. “I do want to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Y/n’s attention was mostly on her fries , as she stabbed at them with her fork.

“That thing I was going to tell you this morning. I want to tell you but I think I’m afraid you’ll see me differently,” Bucky shrugged, “and I don’t want to tell you here.”

Y/n chewed her food for a second, she didn’t fully swallow before covering her mouth with her hand and answering. “Well unless you’re like some sort of serial killer or something else horrid like that, I think we’ll be fine.”

“Being a serial killer is what would make you hate me?”

“Yeah,” she answered simply, “Unless you killed rapists. That would be a different story.”

“So you like a vigilante?” Bucky took a bite of his burger.

“I like protectors, I like people that make me feel safe. They don’t have to save me, but I like knowing that I don’t have to have my guard up all the time,” her eyes got wide. “Oooo, that’s way too deep for lunchtime.”

“Eat, we don’t have much longer before we need to get back.”

* * *

Bucky had just paid and they were getting out of their seats. Y/n glanced over at the door when she heard the bell rang.

“Shit,” she muttered. Her heart pounded against her ribs as if trying to escape her chest. She grabbed Bucky’s wrist and he turned to her.

“What is it?” He asked softly.

“Brock is here,” she whispered, looking away from the man in question but keeping him in her peripheral vision. 

Bucky whipped his head toward the door. He took a step toward the door but Y/n’s grip on his wrist tightened. He looked down at her hand then back up at her. She shook her head slowly hoping that he understood.

“Fine,” he said, but he didn’t sound happy about just leaving.

They were almost out the door when Brock decided to not just let them pass.

“Y/n,” he smirked at her. “You ran out so quickly on our date, we didn’t get a chance to finish what we’d started.”

The bell above the door rang again.

“Leave her alone,” Bucky spat at Brock. 

“Who are you? Her pet dog?” Brock barely gave Bucky a second of attention before looking back to Y/n. “Ya know, it’s not nice to just leave someone with the bill. I’d say you owe me an apology.”

“Y/n?” Y/n looked over to see Carol and her wife Maria standing at the door. 

Y/n looked back at Brock, ready to tell him to fuck off when a fist collided with Brock’s face and he wound up on the floor.

The whole diner went silent.

“She doesn’t owe you shit,” Bucky told the man who looked like he was about to pass out. Bucky looked up at Stan who was standing there with his hands on his hips. “Sorry.”

“Well, I like this one,” Carol whispered and Y/n glared at her.

[alpacaparkaseok]

Mine

5. Draw me like one of your French girls

Genre: Min Yoongi x oc

Warnings: none

Word Count: 3.3k

At this point, I’m seriously considering commissioning my own fanart.

It all started the next morning at our first press release. Somebody had the bright idea to show me some fanart that’s been rolling in the past few weeks of a certain k-pop rapper and I. Not gonna lie...we look good together.

Too good.

Then again, everything about Min Yoongi has seemed pretty good since I woke up to a couple more texts from him this morning. I passed out after his late-night/early morning apology, but he sent another text not long after.

4:32 MYG: So does this mean I’m forgiven? Bong-cha made it sound like you enjoy holding grudges.

9:02 MYG: Morning. I hope everything goes well with you today...is it alright if I keep texting you?

9:02 MYG: Just so I can keep tabs on everything. I don’t want this to get too out of hand for you.

Obviously the poor man is just as worried about all of this as I am. I couldn’t help but give a sleepy chuckle when I woke up to his messages.

So far, I’ve done a wonderful job of ignoring how nice it felt to wake up to a good morning text.

I’ve also done a great job at keeping calm and breezing past any weird questions from the current press conference I’m in. That is, until a Korean reporter (I have a hunch they’re from Dispatch) pipes up not only with a question, but with visual aids!

“Cara, do you mind if I ask you a question? Would you like a translator?”

Reminding myself to be gracious and kind, I shake my head. “Go ahead. I should be alright without a translator, thank you.”

The reporter nods, shuffling forward until they pull a paper out of their file in hand. She gives me a sickly smile, passing the paper up to our security guard who does me the honor of bringing it right to my outstretched palm.

“This is one of the newest renderings, I was just wondering how you have been feeling about this entire situation?”

I already guessed what this was going to be about, but the picture in my hand confirms it.

It’s fanart.

To be honest, it’s very well done. It’s a watercolor, the artist placed us walking along a rainy sidewalk. Hand in hand, Yoongi’s gummy smile on full display while I look down at my toes.

Sebastian whistles beside me, clearly as in awe of the artwork as I am. Before me the reporter still wears her smile, waiting for a response. I pass the paper down the line, allowing Rhea to get a chance to admire the fanart.

Maybe it’s the boost of confidence I received upon reading Yoongi’s text this morning that has me grinning back at the reporter with a saccharine smile.

“Did you draw this? It’s very well done.”

Not everyone can understand Korean in this press conference, but the few that do start chuckling. The reporter blanches for a moment, smile faltering.

“N-no, but if you could answer the question-”

I’m sure I look very disappointed as I look down at her. She definitely works for dispatch; she practically reeks of it. Maybe that’s what gives me the boldness I need as I realize that I’m not even her direct target; Yoongi is.

Yoongi’s nice. I don’t think she is.

“Oh, everything is going fine. Honestly, I should get in touch with this artist. They’re very talented.”

The reporter’s eyebrows flick up, sensing a new method of attack. “Were you thinking of commissioning your own?”

“Honestly, I might consider it. Maybe it’ll make my aunts quit hounding me every Thanksgiving about my love life.”

With that, the paper is handed back to the security guard, but the reporter motions for him to keep it. Confused, he hands it back to me. I turn it over so I don’t get caught staring at it during the conference. That’s the last thing Yoongi or I need right now.

As the reporter takes her seat again, I can’t help but feel a little triumphant. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

🌙

12:22 ME: I never said you were forgiven, did I?

As soon as we get out of the press conference we are ushered into a van which takes us to another interview. I figure that now is as good a time as any to text Yoongi back, seeing that this morning I woke up late and was too flustered to come up with a response.

“Who are you texting?” Sebastian asks. “Is it your friend that always calls you?”

I consider lying to him for a moment, but realize that it might actually be nice for him to know. He can keep me from being unrealistic when I start to fangirl.

He may also help me to keep that promise I silently made a while ago: to not go so easy on Yoongi. Right now, it’s proving harder than expected to dislike him.

“Nosy.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “You’re grinning at your phone like an idiot, that only happens when you get texts from me.”

“Ha! Right. It’s a secret...kind of. Don’t tell anyone.”

“I’ll try my best not to.”

Taking an unnecessarily big breath, I spill my secret that I’ve kept for approximately 12 hours.

“It’s Yoongi.” When there’s no immediate reaction from him, I backpedal. “Also known as Suga?”

Before Sebastian can respond the ping of my phone pulls my attention away.

12:26 MYG: Oh good, you responded. I was getting worried you were actually mad. So is it alright if I keep texting you? I don’t want to mess with your schedule.

“You’re smiling again.”

I look up to see an annoyed Sebastian Stan. He’s not very good at sharing attention, and it would appear that Yoongi is no exception.

“How strange, I didn’t realize.”

12:27 ME: That’s fine.

12:27 ME: But I am mad!!

12:28 MYG: Hahaha sure

“Cara, we’re here.” Sebastian says as he clambers out of the car. I follow after him, pocketing my phone.

There’s a few cameras outside waiting for us, but we’re able to make it inside the building without too much fuss. Once we make it into the room where we’re supposed to have one of our interviews, Sebastian pulls a paper out of his back pocket.

“What’s that?”

He smirks at me, unfolding the paper. It’s the fanart from earlier. I didn’t even realize that he’d pocketed it.

“Tell Suga I say hi, at least.” He poses with the papers just below his chin, giving the best puppy dog eyes he can muster up. It’s rather convincing, if I’m being honest.

“You weirdo,” I mumble as I snap a photo. I’m quick to send it off to Yoongi, captioning it.

12:37 ME: Sebastian says hello.

Our interviewer is just about to come into the room when I receive a response. Not having the self-restraint to put my phone away, I quickly take a look. Sebastian peers over my shoulder, curious as well.

12:40 MYG: Winter Soldier!!!

12:41 MYG: Hi. Did he draw that?

I cackle, quickly translating the message. Sebastian looks appalled. “I have better things to do than draw fanart!”

“Yeah, like write fanfiction, right?”

He grins at me. “Obviously.”

12:42 ME: No, but he says he’s writing fanfiction.

12:42 ME: We’re about to start an interview rn but I’ll tell him to send you his rough draft later. 😏

Interviews pass, and it isn’t until I’m finishing up dinner that my phone pings with another message from Yoongi. I nearly impale Sebastian with my fork as I lunge for my charging phone; he’d come into my hotel room to eat dinner with me.

“Watch it!” Sebastian grunts, shoveling food into his mouth at an alarming rate. We were promised lunch by Rhea earlier but it ended up just being a small snack as she was whisked away by a long-lost friend. The two of us managed to control our hunger for as long as possible, but Sebastian wasted no time calling up some food for us before we even got back to the hotel.

We barely beat the delivery boy here. He wasn’t all that surprised that we were American. Sebastian had tried out some very choppy Cantonese. What did end up surprising him was that he was delivering a meal to the Winter Soldier. I was able to sneak into my room undetected while the boy’s eyes were bugging out as Sebastian signed his hat.

“Sorry,” I mumble around my food.

9:12 MYG: I’m still waiting for the rough draft.

I translate the message to Sebastian, who cackles and promises to get started on it as soon as possible.

9:14 ME: Sorry, Sebastian said he’s still trying to write it. I’ll let you know when it’s ready!

9:15 MYG: That’s alright. I’ll be patient.

9:15 MYG: I saw a clip from your press conference today.

My stomach lurches as I realize what clip it was that he probably saw. Does he think I’m some crazy fangirl now? I mean, I might be. But he doesn’t need to know that.

9:18 ME: I didn’t get you in trouble, did I?

Sebastian notices my change in expression and shoots me a worried look. “Everything alright?” I shrug.

“Yeah...I just hope I didn’t get him in trouble with what I said at the press conference today. I think that reporter was trying to go against him somehow.”

“He’s a big boy. Did he say anything about it?”

I look back down at the messages even though I already know what he said. My stomach lurches again as I see the three little dots at the bottom of the screen.

“No, not really. He just said he saw a clip or something. He’s typing right now, though.”

9:20 MYG: I thought I was the worrier. No, you didn’t. How was the rest of your day?

“What’d he say?” Sebastian grabs our cartons of food, tossing them into the wastebasket.

“He’s just…”

“Are you blushing?!” My friend stares at me from across the room, eyes wide. “No way! You like him!”

“No! No I don’t!”

“Yes you do, don’t lie to me! You’re so into him!” Sebastians hurries back over grinning wide. “Wow, he must be a good texter.”

That really is helping my blush. “Nooo, he’s not. He’s just nice. That’s it. It’s just fun having someone nice to talk to, you know? He feels really bad about everything and - Sebastian quit it - and it’s just sweet of him to care. That’s it.”

Sebastian stops looking at me with his puppy dog eyes and leans back in his chair, a contemplative look overtaking his features. “I thought I was nice to talk to.”

I pause for a second, breath getting caught in my throat. “Y-you are. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He shakes his head, giving me an award-winning smile. “No, I know. Aren’t you going to respond?”

“Oh! Yeah!” I focus on my phone again. There’s an uneasy feeling rising in me at Sebastian’s comment, but I brush it off for now. He’s always been bad at sharing his friends. He’s the same with Anthony Mackey, I’ve seen it up close.

9:25 ME: True, I’ll let you worry. My day was good, just finished up dinner. How was yours?

“There, I-” I look up proudly only to find Sebastian’s chair empty and the door clicking shut. “...I did it.”

MYG: It was great. Got lots of work done.

MYG: Have you decided if you’re going to come to the festival or not? Also, Bong-cha says hi.

ME: Wow, she can’t even tell me herself. No respect. No, I honestly didn’t even think about it today...but I’m pretty sure we’re all going either way.

MYG: Haha she’s not happy with your comment.

MYG: She’s reading over my shoulder, I promise I’m not reading our conversation out loud. Is your director making you go?

I just miss the chance to respond as my phone lights up with an incoming call.

“Bong-cha, quit reading my conversations you little weirdo.”

“Hey, how’s it going with you? I’m great, thanks for asking.”

“Are you still in the room with everyone?”

“No, just left. You should see Yoongi right now, though.”

“Why?”

“He looks like a kid in a candy store every time he gets a text from you. It’s adorable.”

“Yah!”

My friend’s cackle soars through the phone, and I swat at the air as though I could somehow get her to stop.

“Please tell me you guys are coming to the festival.” Bong-cha’s sudden change in tone has me pausing, chewing on my lip.

“We are. Why?”

“Come stay with me!” Bong-cha shouts. I jump up, a grin already working its way onto my face. “It’ll be just like old times. And, I was looking at the schedule you sent me...there’s a couple of nights where you’re done relatively early. We could go do something fun!”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. My phone is buzzing with incoming texts, but I ignore them for now. “Yeah, that’ll be fun. I’m not sure if I can come stay with you-”

“C’mon,” Bong-cha whines. “I never get to see you anymore. We’ll make it work! Oh, I’ve gotta go, Tae brought Yeontan. But let me know!”

With that, Bong-cha cuts the line and leaves me on the other side caught between excitement at seeing my friend and dread at having to come face to face with Yoongi. Texting is one thing; but actually spending time with him?

“Just be his friend,” I mumble to myself. Settling down, I attack my food once more. The space where Sebastian sat before makes me furrow my brows.

What’s going on with him? I mean sure, we’re really good friends. But we still see each other constantly, why would he be so possessive?

It’s probably all just in my head. My phone light up with the texts I received a couple of minutes ago while I was still on the phone, and this time I physically cannot restrain the smile that comes through as I realize Yoongi is still texting me.

MYG: Really no pressure about the festival. I know Bong-cha really wants to see you, but please don’t feel like you have to come and hang out with us.

MYG: We’re not even that cool, anyways.

MYG: Are you just hanging out with Sebastian tonight??

I stare down at my phone for a moment, the smile being wiped from my face. Plopping down heavily on my bed, I close my eyes and power off my phone.

Yoongi is nice. So nice, apparently, that I can’t even tell now if he’s trying to get me to stay away. The fact is simple: he’s a nice man who has a reputation to uphold and is trying to keep everyone happy. That includes me.

He’s nice for texting me and trying to make sure I’m doing alright. Any decent human being would do that. But there’s also the fact that I’m new to this game in the spotlight and I know that I’m not going to be able to keep my feelings out of this.

I take a moment to breathe, forcing myself to push away the impending panic that sets in. This is no way to live, and I know that I’m only setting myself up for heartbreak when someday I don’t wake up to a good morning text from Yoongi.

It’s only been one day of communicating and I can already feel myself getting too attached.

Powering on my phone again, I flinch at the new texts.

9:17 MYG: Bong-cha just told me her evil plan. 😩 Did she tell you about it on the phone?

9:31 MYG: Sorry if you’re busy! Just text me back when you can. Let me know about your plans for the festival, too.

Even though I’m itching to text him back and waste away the rest of the night talking to him, there’s another more pressing matter I have to face. Quickly getting up and leaving my phone there in order to fight the temptation, I grab my room key and head a few rooms down. A quiet knock and a few seconds later and Sebastian is opening up his door.

He looks down at me warily, and I feel almost like we had a fight because of the way he’s looking at me. Emitting a loud sigh, he shakes it off and grins down at me in a way that makes me question if I even saw the previous expression at all.

“Hey,” I mumble out weakly. Moving past him into his room, he follows silently behind me.

“Hey…?”

Without another word I land face first onto his bed, the action pulling a laugh from him. Good. His laugh reminds me that this is real. This friendship is real, and Sebastian for all his annoying teasing, is a true friend.

Bong-cha is miles away and busy. She’s also biased. So Sebastian is the next best thing.

“I’m freaking out,” the pillow muffles my words but I know he hears me loud and clear. The mattress dips on one side as Sebastian settles onto it, and a moment later a hesitant hand begins kneading the flesh at my shoulders. I let out a satisfied sigh.

“What’s going on?” His tone is gentle, and the sound of it nearly tugs some tears out of my eyes.

“I’m pathetic, Sebastian.” I clutch his pillow and bury my face farther into it. “I’m so pathetic! I’ve literally never met the man before in my life, and I’ve spent the last 24 hours sending a few texts back and forth and I already feel like I’d jump off a cliff for him!”

Sebstian’s hands pause in their kneading for a fraction of a second before continuing on. “I told you you liked him.”

I turn to look at him, and again I catch that wary gaze before he drops it. “Really? ‘I told you so’? Rude. I need help, Sebastian. It’s never going to happen, he’s just being nice, and I just need to be cordial and get through this. Right?”

He nods, contemplating a bit. “Sure. He seems like a great guy. But at the end of the day, the two of you are just caught up in a weird media frenzy and that’s it. Is that what you want me to say?”

“I guess.” I huff, flipping onto my back as I stare up at the ceiling. “Why do I like him though? Am I just desperate?”

Sebastian stands up and laughs. “No way. If you were desperate you would be falling for me, not some inconvenient, crazy famous kpop star.”

Somehow his words make me laugh, the feeling easing the panic a bit. “You’re right, I guess.”

🌙

I end up passing out in Sebastian’s room only to wake up at 3 am and find myself a little too close for comfort to my co-star. Gently untangling myself from his mess of arms and legs, I sneak out of his room and back to my own.

Half-asleep and looking the part, I groan at my reflection in the mirror as I try to brush my teeth. Pointing at my reflection with my toothbrush, I give myself a pep talk.

“You are not pathetic,” pause to spit, “you’re not desperate,” rinse out the brush, “you’re just friendly. You’re practicing making new friends, and Yoongi as well as all of BTS are a part of that. That’s it.”

So when I finally settle down into my cold and very empty bed, I don’t feel very guilty sending Yoongi a late-night text. He never texted me again after the last one I saw, and I easily brush off the feeling of disappointment and replace it with relief.

3:13 ME: Yeah, we’re going. No, I have no idea what the evil plan is. Do we need to come up with a counter-plan? And sorry I never responded...I was busy annoying Sebastian and left my phone in my room. Good morning! This is payback for your late texts last night!

I fall asleep easily after that, double checking that my phone is on silent before snuggling deep down into my pillows.

Honestly, what do I even have to worry about? Everything is going great with promotions, the movie is finished and should be well received, and in a couple of days I’ll get to go see Bong-cha and make new friends!

Into the silence, I can’t help but laugh. I’m not dumb enough to believe that everything will go as planned.

Especially not as my dreams take over and the only thing I can dream of is a man in a black suit, turning around to greet me over and over again. I can never quite see his face, but somehow I know him.

Even in my unconscious state, I lie to myself and say that it’s not Min Yoongi.

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