#she's slowly getting used to his antics but nowhere near immune!

[bxtonpxss]

@dnangelic from [HERE]

"Well you know, a girl’s gotta have her hobbies." She finds herself amusedly quipping back. In any other instance, she’d be positively embarrassed by his teasing, but her concern for his well-being outweighed everything else. Her attention was fully focused on gently and meticulously cleaning his wings, and it caused her to miss his usual grin in the mirror which would've easily got her heart pumping. She was almost done, having been at the task for nearly a half hour… maybe longer? This room lacked a proper time device so it was anyone's guess.

"Please don’t!" Immediately comes her exasperated groan at his words, momentarily imagining him coming to her covered from head to toe in filth with the intention of having her clean him off. She's not sure if she could handle that--- she was kind of getting used to his shameless speech, her cheeks still burned brightly with blush, but she's begun to sputter less and less in surprise, at his words at least.

She's still a bit jittery when it comes to the touching, having a boy be so bold with her is very surprising. Though she dreads the thought of him coming to her covered in an absolute mess, she wants to reassure him that despite her words she really doesn't mind it. Neya rose from her stool and walked around so she could crouch in front of Dark, her cheeks burning brightly while she pointedly kept her gaze strictly above his neck due to the improperness of this whole situation, but this was very important and he needed to know her feelings.

"But…" she begins softly, "if you ever need help with this kind of cleaning, please don’t hesitate to ask!" Neya reaches out and gently brushes the feathers near his arm, gaze becoming soft as she smiles, tone filled with deep sincerity. "These are… important to you, right? You can’t really make any daring and flashy escapes with your wings weighing you down or being damaged." She didn't really understand everything he did, but considering how messy they were, he utilized his wings a lot. They were almost like an extension of him in that regard she thinks, so maybe she'll cut him some slack.

" So, I guess... if it's going to be like that-- then, I don't mind taking care of you Dark-san!”

[meetmeatthecoda]

Fic!!

@scifi-gk Here ya go!! :D The “tonight” I promised turned into “stupidly late bordering on early morning” but my posting usually does that sooo sorry about that :)) But yeah, here’s eight tiny chapters of fic based on this post called “Sweet OTP Things” which was just too damn cute to pass up. I used it especially to practice writing really short things really quickly. Trying to weave a believable situation complete with cute OTP feels in just a couple of lines is hard!! LOL so here’s my practice, basically! :D But I hope it’s still enjoyable! :)) Any feedback is loved and this will be posted on FF.net and AO3 as “Sweet Moments” with a link to the inspiration post! :) Much love y’all! <3

Give me more of Person A nuzzling into Person B’s neck because they’re cold and tired, and Person B m e l t i n g.

The heat’s on, filling the car with warm air swirling around them, slowly thawing their fingers and toes, numb from being out so long in the frigid December air. They’re huddled closer together than they normally would be in the backseat, gravitating toward the closest source of warmth in the dark.

Red sits very still, not wanting to disturb the odd peace and stillness that has settled over them here in the backseat, Dembe driving up front, seemingly immune to the atmosphere behind him. Lizzie is pressed close to his side, shivering slightly, and Red is cold too but he’s more worried about her. They were outside for too long and her coat is far too thin and –

Then he hears her teeth start to chatter and he simply can’t take it anymore. Red shifts to pull his arm out from where it is trapped against hers, his heart fluttering at her quiet noise of protest, and puts his arm around her shoulders instead, fully tucking her into his side.

Lizzie doesn’t question it, only exhaling a small breath in surprise, something Red can feel thanks to how close they are, and then it’s only a moment before she’s moving even closer, throwing her free arm around his waist and turning her head. He wonders for a moment what exactly she’s doing before he feels a cold shock on the warm skin of his neck and he completely melts inside as he realizes it’s her nose, because she’s nuzzling into his neck, her eyes closing with a quiet, contented sigh.

And Red stares wide-eyed into the darkness of the car, completely in shock as the secret love of his life cuddles with him.

Because Red?

Well, he’s warm now.

*7 more of these under the cut!*

Give me more slow dancing with no music, arms wrapped tightly around each other, breaths mingling.

She’s sitting on the couch, tucked into one corner, looking small and sad, her eyes heavy and wet. He feels his heart ache for her, wants to help her, always. And the only thing he can think to do is move forward and offer her his hand.

(It certainly isn’t the first time he’s surrendered to her.)

She looks at him in confusion, her brow furrowing and her chin trembling, looking so lost that he can only do one thing. He simply reaches down and takes her hand, tugging her gently but firmly to stand, pulling her without hesitation into his arms. She goes without resistance, not taking her hand back and unconsciously bringing the other up to rest lightly on his chest. With that, Red starts to move, just swaying slightly from side to side, taking her with him.

“What are we doing?” she asks quietly, a whisper, really, just breathing the question to him.

“We’re dancing, Lizzie,” he answers just as softly, slowly moving his free arm to rest around her waist.

“But there’s no music, Red,” she murmurs, sounding a little amused now and he’s so happy, even if it’s technically at his expense, loving the thought of her fondly shaking her head over his silly antics.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” he whispers, bringing his cheek to rest ever so gently against hers, silken and soft, warm and lovely. Perfect.

Lizzie.

“We’ll make our own.”

Give me more of Person A playing with Person B’s fingers because they’re bored, tracing the skin, examining the scars.

They’re only an hour into their long flight to Paris, nowhere near landing, and Liz is already restless. She’s finished the book she was almost done with when they boarded Red’s private jet and she was stupid enough not to bring a second one so here she is, tired of gazing out the window and too excited to sleep.

Bored.

Red is there next to her, as usual, occupied with a crossword puzzle, happy as can be. Liz would peer over his shoulder and try to help but Red likes to do his puzzles himself.

Stubborn man.

So, Liz can do nothing but stare, watch him frown at the paper, his bottom lip jutting out in the cutest pout, before his eyes light up as he thinks of the answer, hurriedly leaning forward to write it in. Liz feels her lips quirk up in a grin, something completely beyond her control. He’s just too adorable.

Liz’s eyes drift down Red’s arm, bared to her gaze by his rolled-up sleeve, and down to his hand, holding his signature red pen, neatly writing letters in the little boxes. His hands are really something, strong and capable, all long fingers and neat nails, a light dusting of blonde hair, and, when she looks a little closer, a curious collection of marks.

Liz frowns, leaning forward and unceremoniously taking Red’s writing hand in both of her own, running her fingers over the tendons and knuckles, and spying a faint line right above his middle finger. It could be from anything, knowing Red. Knife, sword, scissors. She can never tell with him.

“What’s this from?” she asks without preamble, tracing the long line with her own finger.

“Paper cut,” he answers simply, not questioning her sudden inspection.

Oh.

Liz smiles and hums absently in response, moving to run her thumb over the prominent bone of his wrist instead.

“Lizzie?” Red questions idly.

“Hmm?”

“As much as I’m enjoying this, do you think I’ll be getting my hand back anytime soon?”

Liz smirks to herself. She’s not bored anymore.

“Not until we get to Paris.”

Give me more soft kisses, lips barely touching, just chaste little things that leave both parties irrationally breathless.

It’s almost too much to bear, sitting this close to him, in some sort of tense limbo. They stare each other down, eyes not straying from one another, not challenging or cautious, more tentative and unsure. Their knees press together on the couch where they’re sitting, in the dimly lit living room of his latest safe house, where dusk fell quietly around them and left them suspended in this timid twilight.

Slowly, barely daring to breath, not taking her eyes off him, Liz moves her hand forward to lightly ghost her fingers over the back of his hand, resting on his knee inches away from her. She hears his slight intake of breath, sees his mouth open in surprise, as close as she is, and she revels in it.

It takes him a moment, a scared moment for Liz, waiting anxiously, but it isn’t too long before she feels rather than sees Red’s hand inch forward to brush her knee, and with that light touch, she knows she’s not in this alone.

(She never was.)

And it’s that thought that gives her courage enough to inch her head forward, leaving her hands to rest, their job done, and move her eyes to his lips. He follows suit, advancing at the same rate she is, slowly, achingly slow, as they get closer, until their lips finally brush. It is a soft, dry thing, barely there, and yet it is enough for a first kiss.

They pause, not moving away but not moving any closer as they consider each other in silence. Liz sees a gleam in Red’s eyes, something she can interpret easily and, oddly enough, feel reflected in herself, and it brings a flush to her cheeks. She felt something when their lips touched, something unfamiliar but very welcome, nothing jolting, not a shock or a spark. More like a smolder, warm embers starting to glow somewhere inside her.

Red examines her in turn and soon his eyes stray down to her lips, gazing at them in something akin to longing and it’s enough for Liz. She reaches out and kisses him again, keeping her eyes wide open, too enthralled by his face to stop looking quite yet as they share gentle, sipping kisses, Liz feeling as though he’s stealing her very breath, something she willingly gives to him. She watches his eyes drift shut, an action seemingly beyond his control. And as lips caress hers, so warm and persuading, she can’t help her own eyes starting to slip shut from the sensation, only one thought resounding clearly in her head.

(This is right.)

Give me more humming in the kitchen, making brownies at 3 AM for no reason at all.

He wakes to the smell of chocolate, smiling pleasantly before his eyes have even opened, wondering what Lizzie is making for breakfast, is she –

Wait.

Red is instantly alert and confused as he opens his eyes to see it’s still dark outside. He frowns and glances at the clock on Lizzie’s nightstand.

3:11am

Well. That’s odd.

He is out of bed within a few moments, tugging a white t-shirt on to accompany his striped cotton sleep pants before he pads out to the kitchen, stopping when he hears and sees Lizzie, completely at a loss for words or movement.

Because there she is, dressed in his button-down shirt and nothing else, all bare feet and a messy pony tail, humming softly to herself as she mixes some kind of chocolate batter in a big bowl, smears of it on her face and hands, looking up to smile brightly at him.

At three o’clock in the morning.

She’s going to kill him.

(He loves her so much.)

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” he thinks it’s a fair question, personally, but she doesn’t seem phased, just continues to stir happily.

“Making brownies!” she says, smiling.

Well, that doesn’t help.

“Mhm,” he murmurs patiently, now starting to smile himself, unable to stand in the face of her happiness without absorbing a little for himself. “And why are you making brownies at three in the morning, love?”

It’s Lizzie’s turn to look puzzled, which he finds hilarious, and she just shrugs at him, starting to scoop the batter into a large tin.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she says simply. “Wanna help?”

He blinks at her for a second more, taking in the unusual sight, and then nods. What else can he do? It’s not the most ridiculous thing they’ve ever done. And something about the thought of he and Lizzie puttering around in the kitchen together while the rest of the world is sleeping makes him as warm inside as the preheated oven.

So, he hurries forward to grab a spoon and start scooping, pausing only to playfully lick the smear of batter off her face, making her giggle.

They’ll sleep later.

Give me more holding hands, that simple act nearly overwhelming one or both of them, thumbs stroking over knuckles, fingers interlacing.

It’s all they can do, here in the back of an FBI SUV, in full view of Ressler and Samar in the front, with Ressler’s tactless eyes flicking to the rearview mirror at regular intervals.

It’s been another day, another life-threatening situation, another close call. This time they were both there, Red and Liz, as the team was surrounded, at least twenty guns pointed at them, the foreign hit men gesturing and yelling in a language none of them spoke. It was so scary, all of them fully expecting a gun to go off somewhere, and one of them to be struck by a stray bullet.

Killed by chance. Completely uncontrollable and unpredictable. Terrifying.

But backup arrived right in time and they’re here now, on their way back to the post office to be debriefed, no time to be alone in the near future. But they need something. So, by mutual agreement, their hands snuck forward on the seat until they touched and Red wasted no time in lacing their fingers together, almost too tight. But for Liz, it’s not nearly tight enough, and she’s squeezing right back, occasionally running her thumb over Red’s knuckles in her desperation to touch and be touched.

She can’t seem to regulate her breathing to anything other than short and harsh, knowing Red can hear her. And she can see Red’s other hand in a tight fist on his knee and she knows it would be touching her in a million different places right now if he had the freedom to do so. And Liz thinks that’s fair because if they were alone, she would have swung her leg over his hip and been in his lap long before now.

But, with them clutching at the only part of each other they can safely reach, their hands, here in the car, wishing they could be closer but holding themselves back, with Ressler and Samar talking quietly in the front, this is all they can do.

It will have to be enough. For now.

Give me more of Person A helping Person B with simple tasks, like brushing their hair, or putting on jewelry, where it’s obviously an excuse to be close to each other, but neither are complaining.

“Which do you think?”

Lizzie is standing in front of the mirror in their bedroom, holding up two beautiful necklaces, one with a sapphire stone and one with a pearl, asking him which goes better with her dark blue blouse.

“The sapphire one.”

Lizzie smirks.

“You’re just saying that because you bought it for me.”

“Nonsense,” sniffs Red, although she’s partially right. “It’s not my fault that any shade of blue in the world accents your eyes beautifully. What am I supposed to say?”

She’s too busy laughing to answer him, putting away the pearl necklace with nary a protest. Red sees an opportunity and steps forward quickly.

“Please, allow me,” he murmurs, his voice deep as he presses up behind her, closer than strictly necessary, taking the delicate necklace from her fingers.

He sees her roll her eyes good-naturedly in the mirror, but she watches quietly as he works the tiny clasp with ease, swinging the necklace carefully over her head, and securing it in the back, even gently pulling her long, dark hair out from under the chain.

He looks up then, meeting her eyes in the mirror as she slowly leans her head back to rest against his chest, and he wraps his arms around her waist in answer. She closes her eyes, contentedly resting against him, and they stand there for a few lovely moments before he feels obligated to speak.

“Lizzie, I thought we were going out.”

“Hmm,” Lizzie hums carelessly, not opening her eyes, snuggling back against him as Red presses a kiss to the top of her head. “In a bit.”

Give me more picking out baby names, painting nurseries, and cradling their children.

“Stacey?”

“No. Carl?”

“God, no.”

“Beth?”

“Hmm. Sam?”

“…Yeah, maybe.”

They share a brief smile before turning back to their respective walls. They are in the newly thought of nursery in their home, painting it a cheery yellow while trading baby names back and forth, Red throwing out girl names and Liz brainstorming boy names. It’s mostly for fun, seeing who can come up with the worst ones, but lately they’ve gathered some serious possibilities.

And she has a feeling Sam was just added to the list.

Liz dips her paint roller in the tray of paint and lifts it back up to the wall with a slight groan, her baby bump, now six months big, getting in her way a little.

“Are you sure you should be doing this, Lizzie?”

“Yes, Raymond, I’m fine, thank you,” she smiles at him over her shoulder. She loves him for asking and she knows he’ll only be doing it more in the coming weeks. It’s wonderful. “Hey, where do you think the rocker should go?”

“Hmm,” Red hums, coming over to dip his brush in the paint tray, dropping a kiss on her shoulder as he passes by. “Maybe in the corner next to the window?”

“Yeah,” Liz smiles, thinking about it, imagining Red holding their baby in his arms, rocking them to sleep, tucked in the corner of the room, maybe humming or talking to them, the baby squirming gently in his arms, their big blue eyes staring up at him adoringly. Her heart swells at the image. “Yeah, I like that.”

(It’s perfect.)

“Hey, how about Agnes?”

(Completely perfect.)

“Let’s add it to the list.”