#the sleeve is almost entirely shades of purple but it reads as ‘white’ because it’s supposed to

[vees-wax]

Tiny Oscar!!

I have watched far too much MMNI recently.

(6.5 hours, 28 colours, 961 stitches)

[strangersatellites]

pride, envy, wrath, sloth, gluttony, greed, ao3

Seven Deadly Sins Series (NSFW 18+)

lust (noun) - a shortcut to sexual fulfillment, but it doesn’t actually get you there. When you lust after someone, you are objectifying that person for your own selfish pleasure. 

The summer heat beats down with a strength that must rival that straight out of Hell, Eddie thinks. 

The thermometer Wayne keeps on the porch outside reading somewhere between ninety degrees and the devil’s asscrack and Eddie can feel all of it. 

Sweat rolling down his spine even where he’s sat in the shade, sunglasses and baseball cap on and a glass of ice water pressed to the back of his neck. 

You couldn’t pay him enough money to set foot in the grass, to feel the sun hit his skin and start burning it instantly.

The only thing keeping him even outside is Steve. 

Steve who is washing his car like it's the most important job he’ll ever have. He’s paying attention to details that Eddie’s never even noticed, let alone noticed were clean.

But that’s not what Eddie’s paying attention to anyway is it?

No. There might be one thing in the steamy July air that is hotter than the sun, and it's the thoughts running through Eddie’s head. There’s nothing cool about those. 

See, Eddie’s covered in a layer of grime and his hair has gone frizzy and he’s sprawled across the couch in a way he knows makes him look less like a man and more like a deflated balloon.

But despite the heat, Steve looks like a vision.

He’s got on a tight little pair of cut-off shorts that do absolute wonders for his thighs. 

He’s ripped the sleeves off and cropped one of Eddie’s old band shirts, a white one at that, and Eddie’s eyes can trail all the way from his shoulder to his happy trail, view unobstructed. 

He’s got his hair pushed back with a pair of sunglasses that started on his eyes but were apparently hindering his vision too much. Whatever. Eddie’s not complaining. He looks sexy with his hair pushed back.

It started out innocent enough. With Eddie mentally making a note to tell him he looks cute the next time he’s close enough to the porch.

But that was before he took a break from scrubbing to douse himself under the hose. 

Because now Eddie’s old, white band shirt is stuck to his skin like glue. Like it was painted on just for him. Eddie loves Steve’s strong arms, he does. But he’s never going to pass up an opportunity to watch the way the muscles in his back ripple under his skin. The “Metallica” stretched across his shoulders is just icing on the cake.

When faced with the wrath of the sun, Eddie’s skin turns pink and tender. But Steve goes a beautiful warm golden and his freckles seem to multiply. 

Right now Eddie’s eyes are glued to Steve’s legs. The way his muscles go taut when he squats down to scrub at his hubcaps. If he squints hard enough against the harsh afternoon light, Eddie can almost make out the indentions of his own teeth on the underside of his thigh. The fading purple bruise he’d sucked into soft skin, sweaty for an entirely different reason. 

He thinks of the way he’s made those strong legs tremble and shake. The way he’s had them wrapped around his waist, his head. 

Steve shifts and sits on the grass, leans back on both of his hands and throws his head back with a sigh. Eddie’s gaze gets redirected to the shirt clinging to his chest, his soft, but still strong tummy. 

He wants to lick his collarbones and leave bruises on his neck. More bruises, that is. There’s already a few mottled across his skin because Eddie just can’t help himself. How could he? How could anybody help themselves with Steve in their lap whimpering their name like a prayer? Eddie gave up trying to hold back a long time ago. 

When his eyes come back into focus Steve is stretching to reach across his windshield, back muscles stretched long and strong. If Eddie closes his eyes he can imagine the feeling of the welts he’d left across his skin. Claw marks drug all the way down his back. Can almost imagine the feeling that elicited them. The groan he’d pulled out of his boy in turn. 

Eddie snaps his eyes open and is met with Steve’s lazy smile looking his way and he really can’t be blamed for the heat it sends dipping into his stomach and the strained huff he grits out. 

The way Steve throws his head back again, this time in a laugh at Eddie’s distress, doesn’t help his case. 

It gets the worst though, when Steve sets to detailing the hood. 

Now he’s got his back directly facing Eddie. He’s bent over at the waist, hips popped back and his spine dipped low and Eddie’s not a praying man, he’s not. 

But he’s about to send up one of gratitude because sometimes he can hardly believe Steve’s his. 

And Eddie’s not stupid. He knows Steve’s onto him. He knows because he’d laughed. Because he’s peeking over his shoulder every few seconds to see if Eddie’s eyes are still on him. He knows because he’s tugged his little shorts up enough that the crease of his ass and his thighs sits right below the frayed denim hem. 

There might’ve been a time where Eddie would’ve tried valiantly to redirect his train of thought. To stop himself from making a fool of himself. But now Steve’s his boyfriend. And Steve knows Eddie’s thinking about getting him naked more often than he’s not these days. He’s just as bad. 

So Eddie lets himself sink into it. Into the visions of the bounce of Steve’s cheeks when Eddie smacks him. Of the tiny freckle just shy of his hole and how he loves to sink his teeth around it. The tiny heart tattoo on the back of his right hip that Steve totally should not have let Eddie give him, but they both love nonetheless.  

He thinks about the way his normally strong voice, breaks and goes soft when Eddie fucks him. The way he squirms when he rides Eddie’s face. 

The goosebumps that break out across his skin on the comedown and his glassy eyes and soft smile. 

His eyes are wide open but he’s so lost in the memory of his boy’s ass pulled against his hips that he misses when Steve stops washing his car and climbs the steps of the porch. Doesn’t see him until he feels his weight drop down across his lap and hears Steve ask what he’s thinking about in a sultry whisper.

So Eddie really doesn’t feel all that bad about his thoughts burning hotter than the summer sun when he says, “Nothing, baby. Just you.”

[itsallyscorner]

This could be a request or not depending on how much time you have 😅 but for your information, yes, I am thinking Tom giving y/n hickies on her neck like the night before a bunch of interviews the next day and she's like, "Are you serious?" and he's like "I couldn't resist, I just love you so much!" and when y/n shows up the next day wearing a turtleneck after she told Zendaya that she would be wearing a dress Z immediately gets suspicious and figures it out bc I feel like she's like that 😅😂

Hehehe I haven’t written anything smutty lately and I miss it. So thank you for requesting this anon, much love to you🥰 Ugh, the thought of this gave me butterflies in my stomach😭 Happy reading!❤️

Also, little note for everyone who’s sending me requests! Yes, I see all of them! Part of the reason why I haven’t done some of them yet is because I have to think of concepts on how to execute them properly. So bear with me, love you all🥰

💌.

Love Bug

My soft boi🥺

Warnings: implied smut

(Gif from Pinterest)

The AC in your bedroom was just not doing you justice. The Californian heat was at an all time high today and has transformed you home into an Easy Bake oven. Though you were probably exaggerating, your thin crewneck sweater still clung onto your skin, making you uncomfortable. Peeling the sweater off your body, you toss it into your laundry basket. You’re left in a tank top and some lounging shorts as you sprawl yourself out on your bed. The coolness of the comforter bringing your body some relief from the heat.

Sinking into the sheets, the hustle and bustle of the day finally hits you. You’ve had a long day of press with your cast mates, promoting the movie you were all in, Spider-Man: Far From Home. You loved your job, but the press tours could just be so tiring. You were forced to wake up early in the morning and sit in a room for how many hours of the day to only be asked the same questions (most of the time). Though press tours did have its pros, meeting fans around the world and traveling to new countries was something you always looked forward to.

Marvel being Marvel, they always had to make it big. For the last few weeks you have all been traveling around the world, tired but nonetheless having an amazing time. Thankfully, this was the last stop of the press tour, California. You were back in your own bed and your boyfriend was staying with you for the time being.

You were on your phone, going through Instagram and looking at various photos that were taken today during today’s press engagements. You’ve even made your own contribution and posted your own batch of selfies and funny videos.

The door to the connected bathroom in your room opens and reveals your boyfriend. Your eyes break their focus on your phone and shift to the man in front of you. You smile and turn your phone off giving him all your attention. A smile forms on his own lips as he crawls up the bed to join you.

“Missed you all day.” He whispers against your skin, placing his head on your chest. His arms are wrapped around your figure, one leg hooked over yours. You move the hood of his sweatshirt from over his head and began to run your hands through his hair.

“Mmm, I missed you too.” He cuddles closer to your chest, arms tightening around you. His eyes momentarily shut, basking in your soothing motions.

“How was your day with Jake?” You ask him. As much as Tom wanted to do press with you, he was stuck doing them with Jake, while you did your interviews with Z and Jacob. Tom enjoyed having his interviews with Jake, but he missed being near you, even if you were just a room away.

Tom shifts so his lips are near the skin of your exposed neck. He hums against you before his lips come into contact with the soft surface. He had been tempted to mark you up all day. You wore a beautiful spring dress with a low neckline that displayed the skin of your neck. All he wanted to do was scatter red and purple love bites all over you, letting the world know you were his.

You gasp as he nips on the space between your neck and shoulder. “Interviews were good, but I just couldn’t get you out my head.” He slots himself between your legs and presses you down into the mattress.

“Teasing me with the pretty little dress of yours. Just wanted to kiss you and mark you up.” He says huskily against your neck. His breath sent shivers down your spine as goosebumps formed on your skin. His mouth sucks harder on the spot, teeth nipping gently, while his tongue soothed the bruising spot. He moved up so one of his hands are holding him up beside your head while his other strokes your side.

“Baby, we have an early morning tomorrow.” You didn’t want him to stop, but it was currently 2am and you were both expected to be awake by 6am.

His lips have made their way to the other side of you neck, pressing light kisses that turned to open mouthed ones. You giggle gently pulling him away from your neck so you can look him in the eyes.

“Babyyy.” He whines trying to shove his head back into the spot. A pout is on his lips, which were now a darker shade of pink from how much he was sucking on your skin.

“Tom, we need to be up at six.” You reminded him. Tom leans closer a boyish grin now on his expression. You couldn’t help but kiss him back when his lips captured yours. You feel him smirk against you as he pulls away.

The hand on your side moves to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. “We’ll be quick, I just wanna feel you. Please?”

You stare at him for a moment as his hand drifts down your body and by your shorts. Excitement swirls in your belly as his fingers get closer to your growing heat. He kisses your cheek as his hand slips past the band of your shorts to cup your mound. The wetness brings a smirk to his face as his dark eyes gaze into yours.

“Baby, look how wet you are.” He praises you as he moves your panties aside and dips his fingers into your wetness. You sigh, eyes slightly rolling back as his fingers spread your wetness on your folds.

“Fine, but—“ You bring your finger to point again him, “No marks on my neck, I’m wearing a dress tomorrow with a low cut again.”

Tom nods connecting your lips again, “Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ll be careful.” He assures you before diving his head back into your neck.

~next morning~

You enter the bathroom, tying your hair up to keep it away from your face. You turn the shower on and wait for the water to warm up. While you wait you take a look at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes widen when you get a glimpse of you neck. You gasp out loud as you see the sides of your neck with red bruises with hints of purple on them. You had them on both sides of your neck and a small one almost on the center of your throat.

“TOM!” You yell, your voice echoing in the bathroom. There was some rustling behind the door before it was yanked open. Tom entered in nothing but his boxers looking disheveled, hair pointing in all types of direction and his eyes barely open.

“What happened?” His voice was raspy, something that usually made you swoon but right now you couldn’t even focus on it.

You turn to him, aggressively pointing to your neck. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful!” You mock him, repeating what he said to you last night before he railed you into the mattress.

Tom’s eyes widen as well before he cringed. To be fair, you did warn him. He just didn’t know how to hold back when it came to you. He cautiously approaches you a sheepish grin on his face.

“I know it looks bad..” he begins. You shoot him a look, “Are you serious right now? Tom it looks like an octopus strangled me!”

Tom moves back to look at you, “Well you weren’t complaining last night.” You shoot him another look and he nods knowing you were annoyed with him at the moment. He stands behind you looking at the mirror you were both in front of. His arms wrap around your torso as he tries to soften you up.

“I’m sorry, I just love you so much and I couldn’t resist it. I love making love to you and I just get so lost in it and I know you warned me too, I’m sorry.” He apologizes hugging you from behind. You could tell he actually felt bad by the genuine look in his eyes. You sigh leaning back into him and resting your hands above his, interlocking your fingers.

“I forgive you, it happens.” You mumble, head trying to come up with ways to cover up your neck. “How do I even cover this up?”

Tom looks at your neck through the mirror, “Makeup will work right? Just put on some concealer or that color corrector thing you use.”

You nod at his suggestion. “That’ll work for a few hours, but makeup wears off. What if I accidentally wipe it off?”

Tom pursed his lips together in thought, “You could ask Laura to bring you something with a turtleneck.”

“It’ll barely move and your neck will be covered the entire time.” He suggests.

“Yeah, it’ll probably work. I just hope she hasn’t left yet, I should text her.” You move from Tom’s hold and turn the shower off. Before you leave the bathroom, Tom pulls you into a hug again. His face nuzzles against your hair, “I’m sorry, again.”

You smile and stroke his back, “I told you I forgive you, it’s ok love.” You pull away and peck his lips. Tom smiles and leans down to kiss your shoulder. Something he always did when you guys were having a moment. Instantly, you jump back and push him off, “Get your fucking lips away from my neck. I don’t need anymore hickies right now.”

~later~

Your stylist, Laura, ended up bringing you a stunning white dress that stopped above your knees. It was short sleeved, hugged your curves perfectly, and had a turtleneck that covered your neck. She gave you a pair of leather knee high boots which pulled the look together. Your hair was curled, pulled back into a half up and down style while short strands of hair framed your face. Compared to the panic you felt when your first saw the hickies, you were relieved when you saw yourself in the mirror again an hour later. You felt like a modern Go Go Girl as you admired your outfit.

You arrived at the hotel where all the interviews were being held. You make your rounds of greeting everyone, saving Z and Jacob last since you’ll be with them the whole day. You enter the room and see the two of them already sitting in front of the cameras. Jacob spots you first, “Aye! Good morning!”

You smile and walk up to them, giving them both hugs. When you pull away from Z she gives you a look. Her eyes scan you from head to toe, squinting at your dress.

“Weren’t you just complaining that yesterday was too hot? Why are you in a turtleneck?” She interrogates you. You smile nervously at her while you settle in the seat on the other side of Jacob.

“Um, you know, it’s a bit chilly today.” You lie. Jacob eyes you as well catching on Z’s point.

“(Y/n), it’s 95 degrees outside.” He tells you eyes panning around the room. Zendaya smirks leaning forward to get a better look at you, “I think someone was busy last night.”

“No, I wasn’t. I had a very nice sleep, thank you very much.” You sweetly smile at her crossing your arms.

Jacob snickers beside you, “I bet you did.”

“I guess Thomas couldn’t keep his hands off you last night.” She teased, exposing you.

“Or his mouth.” Jacob quickly adds smirking. Your cheeks get flustered squeezing your eyes shut. Jacob and Z burst out laughing at Jacob’s comment.

“I don’t even have a come back, blame Tom.” You throw your hands up in the air giving up. Z calms down and leans over Jacob to rest a hand on your knee.

“Hey, it’s ok, man. If I were Tom, I wouldn’t keep my hands off you either.” She tells you jokingly, helping you get over the embarrassment of wearing a turtleneck. You catch on and wink at her, “Aye, say less.” Your hand resting on top of hers.

Jacob puts his hands up looking shocked, “What did I just walk into? I—I gotta go.” He pretends to shove your hands away and gets up from his seat.

“I’m telling Tom about the sexual tension I felt in this room.” He yells over his shoulder as he walks out the room. You and Z look at each other amused, “Is he actually?”

Z shrugged, “Honestly, he’s probably getting some water. He was thirsty.”

The two of you catch up with each other. Talking about the press tour and what you were both planning on wearing for the premiere. You were in the middle of describing your dress when Tom bursts into the room with Jacob trailing behind him.

“STAY AWAY FROM MY WOMAN.”

[reignstormz]

| Lion & The Lamb |

INTRO; After hiding your secret crush on the hottest guy in school since freshman year, senior comes around and you finally come face to face with the Samoan, sharing an intimate moment together.

WORD COUNT; 2,300 (maybe, not sure, had some issues, pretty short)

WARNINGS; Takes place in 1984, Bullying, Sweet interactions.

CAST; Y/N ( Yourself) Y/B/F/ N ( Your best friend's name) Roman, Jey, Jimmy, Naomi, and Galina Anoa'i. (Just a story, not saying Galina is anything like her character in this fic)

MINI PLAYLIST; Give Me Your Love - Pebbles/ Two Occasions - The Deele / Ready Or Not - After 7 / Rock With You - Michael Jackson / Time After Time - Cyndi Lauper

🦋

NOVEMBER 9th, 1984

The sounds of teenage laughter filled your ears as you sat in the passengers seat of your best friend's car. You sighed, trying the best you could to block out the noise as you read your book that was sitting in your lap. It was a hectic, busy Friday night. Your school's football team had just won yet another game and everyone was at the Drive In Movie Theatre to celebrate, goof around, or get down to business. Typical things that high school students would be up to. You on the other hand, didn't go to the game and was only here because your best friend practically dragged you out of the house.

You were not so big into the normal teenage, high school experiences. You were very quiet, antisocial, and didn't have many friends. School dances weren't your thing, especially parties. Instead, your way of having fun was just keeping yourself company. You were one of the smartest, if not, the smartest girl in school; You were a straight-A student, and you loved to read. Reading brought you joy and gave you the opportunity to escape to a different reality. Many people labeled you as nerdy, but you could care less.

You were over people picking on you, and judging you, which was one of the biggest reasons why you were so reserved. You got bullied heavily up to 4th grade, and your parents decide to homeschool you until high school came around. They wanted things to turn around for you, but it was the exact same. The only difference was, you made one solid friend and you ate school lunch, something other than food from your refrigerator.

Currently, the theatre was going to show Prince's "Purple Rain" and you were in the car waiting for it to start with your best friend. She also happened to be a cheerleader. You met her in PE class, one joke led after another and you guys became very tight. You were kind of surprised that you two were friends since you were so opposite from each other, and from different crowds.

Y/B/F/N's turned her head to look at you. She sighed, rolling her eyes briefly before she snatched your book out of your grasp. You groaned with irritation, and turned as well to make eye contact with her, "Can you stop? You made me lose my place."

"Can you just have fun for once? Girl. We're at the movies and the first thing you want to do is shove your nose into a book." She shades, throwing your book into the backseat.

"I didn't want to come tonight." You stress to her, "I have studying and homework I need to do-"

"That's all you ever do." She cuts you off. "Come on, you've known how long I've wanted to see this movie. Just do this one thing for me, please?"

"So you want me to sit in a car for an hour?" You questioned. A smile slowly creeped onto her face, which quickly answered your question.

You sighed, unbuckling your seatbelt to get out of the car. She furrowed her eyebrows, "Wait, where are you going?"

"I'm getting snacks." You replied, and before you got out of the car she grabbed onto your wrist.

"Can you get some popcorn? Please?" She asked, with clear as day begging look on her face. You rolled your eyes and got out of the car before she asked for candy as well. Any ounce of candy in her system was a not an option, especially since she had to still take you home tonight. As you walked to the concession stand, you saw just about every single familiar face from school. You were so focused on not making eye contact with anyone that you accidentally bumped into another person in front of you, causing their drink to spill all over your white long sleeved shirt. A couple people who were walking by giggled and the girl you bumped into couldn't of been worse.

"Even those ridiculous glasses you wear still can't help you watch where you're going." Galina dissed, looking you up and down before pushing past your shoulder. Her best friend, Naomi, looked at you apologetically for a second before following behind her. You sighed, looking down at your ruined shirt and turned your head, glaring at her. You saw Galina and Naomi walk back to their car, where the the most popular guys in school happened to be. The twins, Jimmy and Jey Uso, were sitting in the trunk of the car while the guy you've had the biggest crush on for the longest was leaning against it.

Roman Reigns was by far the hottest guy you've ever laid eyes on. He was the captain of the football team, he was smart, and also very kind as well believe it or not. You've only talked to him once, and that was when your chemistry teacher paired you two up for a project not too long ago. Roman was nothing but sweet to you, but since you were extremely shy and quiet, you barely said a word to him the entire time. Not only that, you didn't want any rumors to get out that you liked him. You would get teased nonstop, and Galina, who happened to be his girlfriend, would go out of her way to publicly humiliate you. However, it was nothing new. She was the typical mean girl that everyone was afraid of; You, well you weren't afraid of her really, you just didn't have the energy to deal with her bullshit so you always held your tongue.

"What happened to my fruit punch?" You heard Jey ask Galina. She sighed, wrapping her arm around Roman's waist while he looked down at her.

"Some nerd bumped into me and got it everywhere." She replies, and Roman raised his eyebrow.

"What nerd?" He says. Galina nods towards you. Before you and Roman made eye contact, you quickly turned back around and hurried to the bathroom to try to clean yourself up. This night couldn't get anymore embarassing, you thought.

You stared at yourself in the mirror with a lost expression. There was no way you were going to get this stain out of your shirt. You heavily sighed, adjusting your slightly crooked glasses. As you let a hand fall from your nose to your chin in stress, a strand of your sleeve ended up getting caught on a piece of your braces.

You rolled your eyes, groaning. You hated wearing braces for a million reasons, but this was the main reason why you couldn't wait to get them off soon. They got caught into everything. You tried again and again to get the strand to untangle itself but it wasn't budging. Shit, you thought. Now you had no choice but to go back to the car so your friend could help you. So many things were going wrong tonight and all you wanted to do was just go home at this point.

You took a deep breath before exiting the bathroom. As you turned the corner, you almost ran into someone else for the second time. You sighed, closing your eyes for a second before looking down.

"I'm sorry." You apologized, sounding a little funny since the strand was still stuck on your braces.

"Damn, you need some help with that?" An attractive voice said, that you immediately recognized. Fuck, you cursed in your head. You slowly looked up and saw the tall Samoan tower over you with a concerned look on his face. You nervously started to tap your foot and your heart began to beat very fast.

His facial expression turned into an amused one and he gently took the strand out of your hand to help you get it loose, "I'll take that as a yes."

Within a minute, he got the strand loose from your braces and you were finally able to rest your arm by your side. You shyly pulled your sleeve shirt down, "Thanks.."

He nodded with a faint smile on his face. Little did you know, Roman always had a thing for you as well. He knew you as the quiet girl in class, ever since freshman year. It was now senior year and you haven't changed a bit. You guys were in classes together but never spoke before, or even sat together until one project. He admired the fact that you were different; Girls threw themselves at him all the time, which made you think that you could never stand a chance but you were wrong. He loved the fact that you were extremely smart and had a head on your shoulders. You had a unique type of beauty that he adored; The glasses, braces, the infectious laugh and the shyness. Roman deep down has a weak spot for the nerdy girls, even though no one knows about that at all. People assume all the time of what his type is or who he was as a person, when really no one knew who he truly was. The only people that knew him best were his family, and Galina at one point but as time went on Roman wasn't happy with the person she's become.

Galina was practically Roman's day one, they've known each other since they were kids through a family friend. She was never like this intimidating, rude person that she was now. Galina actually use to be very sweet, but ever since high school came around and she started hanging out with certain crowds, that's when the popularity really went to her head. Even though it made Roman sad at times that she wasn't the same person she used to be, he was not afraid to let her know how he felt about it. She promised him she'd change, but she's so far gone that it's out of control. You can't make people change, they have to do that on their own and if not, it's time to let them go. Roman thought about doing that many times, but he just didn't want to hurt her, especially with the history they had. It was just hard all around, and you made it even more tough for him.

"Whatchu' doin here all alone?" Roman asks curiously, then looked down at your shirt subtly. He saw a huge red stain and his mind went back to Galina saying she spilled her fruit punch on someone. He couldn't really make out your face since you walked away so fast, but now he figured out that you were the person that she might of spilled it on. Shit, he cursed in his head. Roman felt very guilty.

You noticed that he looked down at your shirt, causing you to slightly cover yourself from embarrassment. Chuckling nervously, you say "Oh, um. I accidentally spilled my drink everywhere..so I came here to clean it up."

He knew that you were lying since he was aware of what happened, but he didn't push it. He's noticed a lot of people cover Galina's ass so they don't get on her bad side. Roman nodded, looking down and unzipped his black jacket that was apart of his track suit, "I got sum' for you then."

"No no that's okay," You kindly reject. You look behind him to see if anyone walks in on the two of you and your heart starts to race. Lord knows that no one can see you in his jacket. Especially Galina, if so, everyone would be on your ass. You didn't feel like dealing with that drama.

Once he took the jacket fully off, your eyes went directly to his arms. Damn, his biceps were huge. You were completely glued to them until Roman jokes out of the blue, "You know, if you wanna' feel them you can just ask."

You snapped out of it and you covered your face, trying to hold back a laugh while blushing. You looked back up at him with a smile on your face, "That's hands down the corniest thing you've ever said to me."

"At least it made you laugh." Roman says with a small smile on his face. You admire his gorgeous smile while you had one of your own, gently grabbing the jacket out of his hands. You couldn't help but take it after that. This reminded you of all the times Roman would crack the dumbest jokes in class just to get you to smile, since you were so quiet and rarely talked to him. It went over your head that he only did it to impress you.

"I should probably back to my friend before she freaks out." You say shyly, thanking him for the jacket before getting ready to leave. Roman didn't want you to leave since he was enjoying this moment alone he had with you, so he thought fast and quickly stood in front of you. Real smooth, Roman.

You looked at him weirdly and Roman's face turned red. He was going to say something but he completely forgot his train of thought, making you want to laugh. The look on his face was priceless. The both of you grinned at each other before you fell out laughing.

"Don't look at me like that, girl.." Roman said bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck while you giggled.

"I'm sorry, but you should've seen the look on your face." You pointed towards his face, not being able to contain your laughter, making him laugh even harder. He had the cutest laugh, you could listen to it all day. Once you guys both pulled it together, you both stared at each other in a comfortable silence before he asked, "Do you mind if I can buy you some popcorn or something?"

"Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that Roman-"

"Don't worry bout' it, come on." He chuckles, nodding towards the exit. You smiled at him, secretly loving every second of this. Never in a million years you would've thought a crush of yours would go out of his way to do this for you. Roman was such a good guy; You were having such a bad night before and he instantly made it better.

You both walked out of door and to the concession stand. The entire time, you guys stood there goofing off and talking while you waited in line. As you guys were occupied in a conversation, you noticed that you were getting a couple of suspicious looks since you were wearing Roman's jacket. However, no one dared to mess with you or give you slick comments either since they were shocked that you happened to be friends with him. Roman wouldn't hesitate to defend you if they did anyway in a heartbeat, but they knew better. You've seen Roman on multiple occasions stick up for people who got picked on at school, and it made your heart beat even harder for him. If there was a way you could just tell him how you felt, you would, but there was just no way in hell that was possible.

"Thanks, Roman. Even though I really don't need all of these snacks-" You giggled softly, looking down at the bag of snacks he had gotten you. Even though you couldn't never complain about snacks.

"Shh." He joked, cutting you off and took the opportunity to sneak cotton candy in your mouth so you'd stop talking, making you laugh. Roman smirked, taking his thumb and wiped off your bottom lip a little bit.

A frog got caught in your throat again as he flirtatiously wiped your lip. You both gazed into each other's eyes for what it seemed like forever until you both heard the movie start. You cleared your throat, and from behind him you saw Galina, Naomi and the Usos stare at you while they were still at the car. The Usos looked at each other with dumbfounded look on their face, like they wanted to laugh but they knew Galina would kill them. Naomi softly smiled at the two of you, while Galina had the most pissed off look on her face.

"Hey..I'll see you at school?" You say to him, with a soft smile on your face but not too noticeable since you knew Galina was staring at you.

Roman simply nodded, returning the smile and just stared at you in awe quietly. You said your goodbyes before you went back to your friend's car.

"Damn, Y/N. I just said popcorn not the whole concession stand." She says, looking at me weirdly. Then she just blankly stared at you for a minute before her eyes widen, realizing what you had on.

"Bitch, is that Roman's Jacket?" She squealed, and you hushed her real quick before she got excited.

"I'll explain later, okay?"

Your friend alternated looks between you and the movie, giving you the side eye as she took the popcorn out of your lap, "This conversation isn't over."

TAGS; @gold--gucciempress @wwzentertainment @flawlessglamazon @nicolewoo @romanreignshairdresser @sassymox @pennysky @lemonjvicey @thandiwethagirl @haharollins @rollinshield3 @sheerbeautyreigns @zaddyreigns @brookethegamer @alination @vir-tual @reigns-5sos @wickedsunfire

[got-svt]

radio star: a svt social media au

summary: when yn accepts a job at her campus’ radio station her first year in uni, she didn’t expect she’d be anonymously singing stressed out university students to sleep. now, a year and a half in, she didn’t expect that there’d be people trying to figure out her identity either. genre: college au, slice of life, humor, fluff, angst pairing: ??? x f!reader

(masterlist)

warning: please don’t read unless you’ve read/been to part thirty-four !! this is the endgame point so tread cautiously ! but if you have read it or you came from there, then…enjoy;)

part thirty-five: worth it

Wonwoo held his breath, waiting for you to hang up. Maybe you���d tell him goodbye, thank him for being such a good friend and all the advice he had given you these past few weeks. His heart ached at the thought of you rejecting him, but part of him expected it anyways. He should’ve been more forward, more bold in his advances towards you. But he was terrified, the thought of losing you as a friend was much too great a fear for him to risk on something as silly as his emotions. There were multiple moments that he just wanted to tell you, to exclaim to the world that you were the one he wanted, and each time he found himself biting down his tongue — denying himself the simple pleasure of openly expressing his feelings. Wonwoo shut his eyes, it was too late to feel any sort of regret now. Not when he had multiple opportunities to actually make a move. 

He was halfway back to the dorms when you called him, his ringtone blasting through what would’ve been a quiet walk home. Wonwoo knew you weren’t feeling okay earlier, he’d spent so much time with you that he could easily read most of the emotions that made its way onto your features — whether it was happiness, anger, or embarrassment, he knew all the clues that suggested a certain emotion. He wanted to prod further into your claim that you were fine, but your years of friendship came with a certain kind of patience and trust, you’d tell him when you were ready and he was more than willing to help you out. He always was.

There weren’t too many people out on the street at that point in the afternoon and he had been lucky enough to spot a nearby bench when he answered your call. Wonwoo immediately knew something was wrong, you didn’t have to say anything the moment he picked up, you wouldn’t have called him everything was truly okay. He sat down, wanting to give you all of his attention, you were going to need it if you were distressed enough to actually call him not even hours after he left your side.

Wonwoo heard your voice, quiet and shaky, and it took everything in him not to run to you then and there. He kept his feet glued on the concrete beneath him, ignoring the twinges of heartache that made its way straight into his chest. It didn’t take him long to realize where you were going with that call, what exactly it was you wanted from him. You were about to make a decision, and you were afraid.

Afraid of how he’d react? Possibly. Wonwoo’s mind went into overdrive at the very thought, were you afraid that you were going to hurt him? Oh no, of course you weren’t going to choose him, he never had a shot anyways. 

Wonwoo took a shaky breath of his own, letting cool late afternoon air fill his lungs, he should get it over with now. The sooner this call ended, the sooner he could fall back on his bed and let the pain fully consume him. 

“Please don’t think about how we will react to it, at this moment that doesn’t matter. What matters is what you feel. We’re grown ups, we can handle heartbreak. Sure it will hurt, but we can move on. I can’t speak for the others, but I just want you happy. Even if I won’t be the one to bring you that. The only question you need to ask yourself isn’t ‘what about the people I hurt’, it’s ‘who is the one I love?’ ”

His voice lacked the usual confidence it did whenever he gave you advice, but he hoped you wouldn’t notice, he hoped harder that you wouldn’t call him out on it if you did.

Wonwoo waited for your response, seconds stretched into what felt like hours for him. He kept his gaze down on his feet, trying to stop the tears that threatened to spill. The sound of your breathing was soft, but he could hear it, you were thinking. 

“Wonwoo?”

Your voice startled him, sitting completely upright in shock. There was some hesitation in your voice, like you were wondering if you should even continue speaking. His heart shattered, you were about to break his heart, weren’t you? He sighed, Wonwoo figured that he would have to quickly move things along, rip the band-aid off for both of you.

“Yn, it’s okay, I can handle rejec—”

“It’s you.”

You cut him off before he could even finish speaking, his eyes went wide. This couldn’t be real, this definitely wasn’t real. Has the sky always been this alluring shade of purple and orange? One hand held his phone tighter, the other gripped the edge of the bench, his knuckles almost turning white.

“What?” He sputtered out, surprised at himself for being able to find his own voice. 

“It’s always been you.” You breathed out, traces of a smile evident in your words and voice — like you were just now figuring it out too. “You’re the one I love.”

Wonwoo hung up, the flat dial tone ringing in your ear, almost like it was mocking you for confessing. Your breath gets caught in your throat, have you been reading things wrong this entire time? 

You sighed, unable to stop the tears that freely fell from your eyes, you didn’t think it would go this way. Well, you didn’t know exactly what to expect so you couldn’t be too mad at yourself, or Wonwoo either. So why did your chest still ache, heart constricting and squeezing as you gasped for any amount of air that you could inhale. Why did you hold onto that tiny sliver of hope for so long, the hope that he could possibly love you back? Did he only really see you as a friend? Was it a mistake even confessing in the first place?

But it was true, he was the one you loved. At the end of the day, at the end of everything that has happened to you in the past few weeks, he’s the one you wanted. It was always Wonwoo, he was the one who stuck by you through everything, who was always on your side no matter what, who took care of you from the sidelines. He was the one who made you feel excited to go to the studio, because you knew he’d be there working with you. He’s the reason you looked forward to walking home in the afternoon, because you spent it walking beside him. He’s the one you could talk to about anything and everything without judgement, maybe some slight teasing, but you knew you could let your walls down around him. 

It pained you that he didn’t feel the same. 

That he didn’t feel the same rush of emotions that you did. The way heat colored your cheeks whenever your hands would accidentally brush, the giddiness that came with knowing you’d be spending almost an entire day together, the way working never really felt like work because you were around each other and somehow his very presence enough made you feel comfortable and at ease.

But he didn’t feel all that. 

Why else would he hang up on you?

Maybe he was freaked out by the suddenness of your confession, you had been friends for so long that it must’ve been difficult for him to see you in any other way. You just wished he told you that he wasn’t interested instead of abruptly hanging up. 

A loud knocking on your door interrupted your thoughts, it was rapid, incessant, like the person on the other side of the wall couldn’t possibly wait to be left in. You wiped your tears with the sleeve of your sweater, trying your best to make yourself look as presentable as possible for your unexpected guest. You knew there was no point to it though, your eyes were probably puffy, cheeks red, and nose runny.

“Who could this be?” You muttered, angry and annoyed at the disturbance, all you wanted was to have one good cry before you had to face anyone again the following day.

“What?” You called out, opening the door with so much force that for a brief moment you were afraid that you were going to tear your arm off. 

To your surprise, Wonwoo was the one at your door. He was bent over, hands on his knees, panting as a thin layer of sweat coated his entire face.

“Did you run over here or something?” Your head was tilted to the side, blinking back wildly at the sight in front of you. 

Wonwoo responded by engulfing you in a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around you, making you step back a bit at the force of his actions. It didn’t even matter that he was slightly sweaty from what you assume was the run he took to make his way over to your doorstep. Your heartbeat sped up, you were sure that Wonwoo could hear it, feel it even as your body was pressed closely to his.

“I’m in love with you.” He spoke, Wonwoo’s lips close to your ear, sending shivers down your spine.  “I have been for the longest time.”

You pulled back ever so slightly to look at him, “Then why did you hang up?”

“I would be doing you a disservice if I did it over the phone.” He looked back at you, wiping away the tear streaks still left on your face. You could tell he felt bad about making you cry, you saw it in the way his head was tilted to the side, how his bottom lip jutted out in the smallest of pouts. “I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Is that some sort of jab at me because I told you over the phone?” Your brows furrowed, lightly hitting him in the chest. Of course he teases you not even seconds after confessing his own feelings. You were about to make a teasing retort of your own, mouth parted just as the words were ready to leave your lips, when you heard him chuckle. Light and airy, almost as if he didn’t have a single care in the world. Genuine warmth and happiness radiated off of him, it was infectious and anyone could feel it from miles away. 

“I’m just glad you feel the same way.”

“I do.” The furrow in your brows disappeared, the look of fake annoyance turning into one   of serenity. Part of you couldn’t believe you had waited this long to tell him, but you knew it was right. All of it was to lead to this very moment. “I’m sorry, it took me so long to realize it.”

Wonwoo smiled the softest of smiles, his gaze on you tender — like you were the only thing possibly worth looking at. A hand reaches up to cup your cheek, his thumb lightly grazing the skin underneath, “It’s okay, you’re worth it.”

Your hand moves on its own, gently resting above his as you melted into his touch. Wonwoo pulled you closer to his chest, placing a small kiss on your forehead before resting his chin on top your head, a content sigh escaping his lips. In that moment you knew: you were exactly where you were meant to be. You were home, and there was nowhere else you would rather be. 

wonwoo’s epilogue <33 

[dickwheelie]

heyyyy coming in a few days early with the “expression” prompt for @aspecarchivesweek! just a lil something about jon wearing a shirt he doesn’t like. enjoy!

(also on ao3)

_______________

All of Jon’s clothes are in greyscale.

Well, this isn’t entirely true—some are a very light tan, or a dingy brown. One mothbitten vest is a glaring 70’s orange that Jon deeply dislikes, so it stays at the back of his closet. These are the clothes he inherited from his parents and possibly also his grandparents, which he can’t bring himself to throw away. The rest, however, strictly range from white to black, practical to a fault.

Jon has a working theory that he may be the first person in history with an allergy to clothing stores. Entering one instantly stresses him out, and all he wants is to get what he came for and get out as quickly as possible. Figuring out how to match colors, as he eventually learns by the time he’s in uni, is a waste of time and consideration. Much easier and simpler to only buy clothes in shades that match no matter how you swap them out.

Of course, there are exceptions, and as life goes on in its chaotic and unaccountable way, he acquires items of clothing he wouldn’t otherwise have picked for himself. A colorful sweater from Georgie as a birthday gift. A free T-shirt from a uni event. He keeps these things for their sentimental value, but rarely wears them out of the house.

However, sometimes life is not only chaotic but also utterly unmanageable. And sometimes Jon finds himself with a promotion he doesn’t really know what to do with, an entire archive to organize, and less time than he’s ever had to do laundry.

And, well. One has to wear something to work, doesn’t one.

This is what Jon keeps telling himself as he miserably pulls on the last clean shirt left in his flat. He should know; he’s checked four times, and if he checks a fifth he’ll be late for work. He gives himself a glance in the small, dirty mirror stuck to the inside of his closet door, and looks away almost immediately, strangely embarrassed.

It’s just a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt, which is maybe a bit unprofessional for the workplace, but it’s not as though anybody minds how the people who work in the basement dress. The problem comes from its colors. Well, one of its colors. Three of them—black, grey, white—are perfectly suitable for Jon. But following those, at the bottom of the shirt, is a glaring, bright violet.

The shirt is a casualty of the aforementioned chaos of life. A friend of an acquaintance had given it to Jon to wear to a pride parade several years back, which he had ended up skipping out on anyway. Since then the shirt had been kept out of sight and mind, packed into the back of Jon’s closet for a rainy day that he’d never really expected to arrive.

There’s a first time for everything, Jon thinks, almost reflexively. The words don’t mean much to him, philosophically speaking, but they are a steadying mantra nonetheless. He goes to pull on his coat; by some measure of luck, it’s a cold day out. He plans not to take it off again until he’s safely back in his flat that night.

The trouble is, of course, that wearing one’s coat while making tea in the break room in an adequately-heated basement looks rather conspicuous to one’s coworkers, and leads to questions.

“You feeling alright, boss?” Tim asks, as he retrieves his bagged lunch from the fridge.

“Yes,” Jon says, stiffly. “Perfectly fine. I’m just cold.”

Sasha, who has followed Tim in, says, “Not sick, I hope.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jon says again, though he is beginning to feel a bit overheated. “It’s just cold in here. You don’t feel cold?”

Tim and Sasha shake their heads, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Jon says for the third time in thirty seconds, and promptly flees the break room.

By late afternoon, Jon is sweltering, and has no choice but to take off the coat. He’s careful to close his office door before he does so, resolving to put it back on if he needs to be seen by anyone for the rest of the day.

Though the garish violet stripe in his periphery is distracting at first, he loses himself in his work soon enough, spending an hour or two tearing through a stack of statements that are, by and large, utter nonsense.

He loses himself in his work so much, in fact, that when there’s a knock at his office door, he says “Come in,” without thinking.

“Hey, Jon,” says Tim as he enters, “d’you have a copy of statement zero-one-three-two . . .”

Tim’s voice drifts off, and Jon looks up, irritated. “Zero-one-three-two-what?”

Tim’s staring at him, an eager expression on his face, and Jon’s stomach goes cold. He looks down at the shirt, remembering, and stops himself from groaning. If he doesn’t react, maybe Tim will leave it alone. “What number were you looking for, Tim?” he says instead, very calmly and professionally.

But of course it doesn’t work. Tim’s face breaks into a smile, and he gives Jon a big, showy once-over. Jon rolls his eyes even before the words are out of Tim’s mouth. “Looking good, boss.”

“Tim, I have even less patience for sarcasm than usual, so if you could please—”

“Who said anything about sarcasm? You look good! Casual, ah, Tuesday suits you, Jon.”

Jon puts his elbows up on his desk and massages his temples. “I ran out of laundry.”

“Ah, been there.” Tim seems to have taken Jon’s resignation as an invitation, because he helps himself to the chair opposite Jon’s desk. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the pride flag type, though. Don’t even think I’ve seen you with laptop stickers.”

“No,” Jon says, “I’m not. Not usually. This is just the only thing I had lying around. It’s from years ago, I never wear it.”

“Aw.” Tim genuinely looks disappointed. Jon wonders if perhaps he’s losing what remains of his tenuous ability to read people. “That’s a shame. You look good in purple.”

Jon has reached a point in his life, he’s fairly certain, where he ought to have heard such a comment before, or at least know the proper response. In actuality, he cannot recall a single instance of someone in his adult life complimenting his choice of fashion. He looks down at the shirt again. It’s the same as it was before: too-bright and obvious. He highly doubts it could look good on him in any shape or form. “Um. Thank you?” he says, sounding more bewildered than grateful.

“Really! It, like, brings out your eyes, or something. I dunno, but I think it’s nice on you. Not sure why you went through all the trouble to hide it all day.”

Jon shifts in his chair. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s very loud, isn’t it. And obvious. It’ll just attract attention.”

Tim looks at him for a moment or two. “Jon,” he says, “is this just about the shirt? Or is it also about the shirt?”

“That makes no sense, Tim.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jon, admittedly, does. One of the things he appreciates most about Tim is that they can be honest with one another, if only after some customary back-and-forth. He sighs deeply. “It’s—it’s just . . . a lot. I know it isn’t, really, in the grand scheme, it’s just you and Sasha, a-and Martin, too, I suppose. And it’s London, no one’s going to—it’s safe. I know that. B-But it’s a lot, being seen with everything—out in the open. By strangers. To know that they know. And even if they don’t know, they’ll . . . they’ll probably be able to guess.” He stares down at the scratched, cheap wood of his desk. Long ago, someone had carved a tiny pentagram on the lip of it. If Jon’s sense of humor weren’t buried under three layers of anxiety at the moment, he’d probably find it funny. “And I know it’s childish, to care what a bunch of strangers would think. But I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just let it go.”

There’s a painfully long pause before Tim speaks up again.

“Well, I’ve got good news for you, Jon.”

Jon looks up at him warily, and finds that Tim is smiling at him. “What?”

He points at Jon’s coat where it hangs off the back of his chair. “You can put that back on.”

Jon blinks at him.

“At five,” Tim goes on, “you can put your coat back on, button it up, and walk out of here, and when you get back to your flat, Jon, you can do your bloody laundry. And you never have to wear that shirt ever again. Problem solved.”

“But . . .” Jon’s voice peters out before he can come up with a real protest.

“If wearing pride colors makes you feel like that,” Tim says, his voice gentler, “then don’t wear them. Simple as that. Not everybody’s got to carry a flag twenty-four-seven. Or ever. Doesn’t make you any less queer. Hell, even I take the pins off my bag sometimes.” Tim squints into the middle distance, muttering, “I can never seem to get the laptop stickers off, though.”

“But—what about what you said about me wearing purple?” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but Tim’s argument is quite good. And the thought of never wearing this particular shirt again does sound rather appealing.

“So wear an aubergine button-down every once in a while!” Tim shrugs. “Or don’t! It’s none of my business.” He tilts his head to the side. “Actually, please do wear an aubergine button-down sometime. You’d turn some heads down here.” He pauses. “Figuratively, I mean. I’m sure everyone would be very respectful.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh. “Alright,” he says, feeling lighter. He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe, sometime, I’ll . . . I’ll try it.”

“I know you like your blacks and whites, Jon,” Tim says, “and I’m not here to tell you how to dress. But if you ever need advice, or want to borrow a colorful, strictly nondenominational shirt . . .” He points both thumbs at himself. “I’m your guy.”

“Okay,” Jon says, and is surprised to find that, in this one, specific case, he is.

“And,” Tim adds, pointing a professorial finger in the air, “it’s not childish to care about what other people think of you. Pretty sure it’s the most universal thing there is. Welcome to the human race, Jon. You’re among us peons, now.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “How unfortunate,” he says, drily, and Tim cackles.

Jon wears his coat home, keeping it carefully buttoned, and when he gets back to his flat he tosses the shirt into the back of his closet from whence it came. He’s not going to throw it away altogether, of course. It has sentimental value. Someday, maybe, he’ll dig it back up, if only just to look at.

For now, Jon does his bloody laundry.

[hafanforever]

Three of a Kind

Since Frozen II came out, I have been eager to do an analysis to compare and contrast Elsa’s three dress transformations, and here it is at last. You can read more about some potential meanings of the colors of Elsa’s main dresses in both feature films here, and read about her and Anna’s main clothes from the original film in my analysis “Colors of the Clothes”.

Different Dresses

In Frozen, Elsa makes her first dress transformation near the end of her song “Let It Go”. She turns her coronation gown into an ice-made, crystal blue, off-the-shoulder dress with a right knee-high slit, a bodice covered in blue ice crystals, and long, translucent, powder blue sleeves. Attached to the back of her bodice is a long, transparent, pale blue cape decorated with large snowflakes. Elsa’s transformation also causes her tights to disappear, leaving her legs bare, and changes her dark brown flats to ice blue kitten heels.

In Frozen Fever, when Elsa transforms her ice dress into her party dress, its general design remains the same, being off-the-shoulder with a bodice, a right knee-high slit, and an attached transparent cape. But because Elsa uses her magic to freeze pink flowers on different parts of her outfit, the chlorophyll from the stems turns her kitten heels and dress emerald green, the latter of which has light green translucent short sleeves and a bodice covered in teal ice crystals patterned to resemble leaves. The pink flowers decorate Elsa’s sleeves, bodice top, and her now-emerald green cape, which also contains flower and leaf designs.

In Frozen II, Elsa undergoes her final dress transformation towards the end of her song “Show Yourself”. Her pale blue dress becomes a white off-the-shoulder dress with a right knee-high slit and white long sleeves, which have the symbol of the four elements at each shoulder. The color of her leggings change from pale blue to light grayish-blue. Running along Elsa’s chest and down to her waist are different-colored, diamond-shaped ice crystals that represent the four natural elements of fire, water, air, and earth. Her transparent cape fades to blue at the bottom and is split in two parts, as if to showcase her status as the fifth spirit. During her transformation, Elsa also goes from being barefoot to wearing white, open-toe ballet flats.

From Covering up to Coming out of the Blue

When the film introduces her as a child, Elsa is happy, playful, and carefree, and the bright blue nightgown she wears symbolizes these positive emotions. But following her separation from Anna over the next ten years, Elsa’s clothes become darker and duller in color (primarily blue with purple thrown in), and cover the entirety of her body. The dark colors/shades of her outfits and her body being completely covered highlight Elsa’s confinement and isolation from Anna (and the entire outside world), the suppression and concealment of her powers from outsiders (which is also emphasized by the gloves she always wears), and her own emotions of depression, anxiety, fear, and other negative ones that result from her feeling burdened by her struggles to control her magic.

On the day of her coronation, Elsa’s clothing conceals her entire body, from her cape color covering almost her whole neck all the way down to her feet being covered by tights and shoes. Like the clothes we briefly see her wear during “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?”, Elsa’s coronation outfit hiding the entirety of her body represents her concealing her powers from her people. Besides her powers, Elsa is also concealing her real self on this day. As an introvert, she does not like being in the spotlight and sometimes feels shy around people. She is worried, nervous, anxious, and terrified about being the center of attention and can only think about the worst that could happen. When she talks to Anna and tricks her into dancing with the Duke, Elsa shows how warm, playful, and mischievous she can be. But she does it briefly and with restriction, then she becomes closed in again to avoid taking a risk on having her powers be exposed.

However, when she runs away to the North Mountain and sings “Let It Go”, Elsa reveals a liberated side to her personality. Without being hindered by stress, responsibilities, or the fear of hurting others, Elsa gains much more confidence in her abilities and accepts them as a part of her once again. Since her secret has finally become an open book to Arendelle, Elsa shows no worries or cares about what people will think of her. She also finally rejects her father’s rules about concealing them so she can be free to be who she really is. She creates a brand new dress over her coronation one as a symbolic way of rejecting her past and fate as the queen of Arendelle. Elsa gives her dress and it’s attached cape a bright blue color, one that is almost identical to her childhood nightgown. Elsa’s desire to be free of her past restrictions and no longer repress her powers or anything else about herself is also shown when she makes her tights disappear and has her legs be completely bare.

In contrast to her coronation dress and casual outfits from her childhood and adolescence, Elsa’s ice dress is sparkly, lighter and brighter in shade and color, and looser and more comfortable in fitting. While blue is sometimes believed to be the color that best associates with depression and sadness (as in saying that a person feels “sad and ‘blue’”), I think these meanings best fit the dark blue colors of Elsa’s clothes that she wears during her 13 years of isolation. Blue can also be linked to peace, quiet, reservation, and confidence. The paler the blue color, the more freedom one feels. All of these traits are displayed in Elsa during the song, so it is perfectly reflected by her ice dress being a crystal shade of blue. In nature, crystal blue is often associated with water, particularly ice and occasionally snow. Since Elsa has ice/snow magic, this shade of blue has another reason to be an appropriate color for her dress.

The Big Blue/Green

Now in terms of Elsa’s dress in Frozen Fever, its green color is meant to represent spring, a season of renewal, rebirth, and growth. It is also the time of year when the weather is warm, allowing flowers to bloom. On Anna’s 19th birthday, nearly one year after the main events of Frozen, Elsa works to make up for lost time with Anna by giving the latter a big surprise party. That and the two of them spending the day together is how Elsa celebrates their new beginning as sisters and friends. So she makes herself a brand new dress of a whole new color in order to be properly clothed for such an event. Furthermore, since flowers bloom in springtime, the addition of Elsa freezing the flowers on her dress (as I explained in “Dressed to Party”) make for a perfect decoration choice.

Besides the fact that Elsa makes her ice and spring dresses herself, as described above, and largely because Elsa creates the spring dress over the ice one, they are also similar in their basic designs, especially with crystalized bodices and attached transparent capes. Simultaneously, they also have some notable differences (other than their colors), such as the ice dress’s cape being decorated with snowflakes, while the spring dress's cape is decorated with the pink flowers. But one other difference that stands out to me is the sleeve length of each dress, with the sleeves of the spring dress being shorter than those of the ice dress. The more I thought about it, the more I believe that their lengths are meant to represent how Elsa feels about herself and her powers. Elsa created her ice dress at a time when she was feeling much more happy, confident, and free...but she wasn’t feeling ENTIRELY happy, confident, and free. At that time, she was finally just BEGINNING to accept herself and her magic. Due to the haunting memory of harming Anna in their childhood, Elsa still saw herself as a freak of nature. She was still burdened by inner turmoil, poor self-esteem, self-loathing, and other insecurities regarding her magic. She wanted to be loved and accepted, not feared or hated. And of course, Elsa wanted more than anything to reconnect with Anna. But she still thought that her powers would never allow society to accept her. She still thought that they only made a danger to the world. And so Elsa was convinced that it was best if she lived in total isolation to protect her kingdom and Anna.

With all this in mind, I think that the long sleeves of Elsa’s ice dress represent how Elsa felt that she still had to run away, hide, and live alone, away from people. It wasn’t what she really wanted to do, but thought that it was the best decision overall. Although she yearned for acceptance and to mend her relationship with Anna, Elsa believed that none of that was ever going to happen. However, after she removes the eternal winter on Arendelle and returns as the kingdom’s reigning monarch, Elsa and Anna show their people that there are good things that the former can do with her magic. Due to her sister’s love and encouragement, and the acceptance she has started gained from the Arendellians, Elsa finally starts to become more confident about herself. Therefore, her original playful, fun-loving, carefree personality, long dormant since her childhood, makes a return.

By the time of Frozen Fever, things are going much better for Elsa. She and Anna have rekindled their bond, and their friends, family, and people have come to respect, trust, and love their queen, magic and all. The love and acceptance she has received over the last year has no doubt helped Elsa to start becoming more confident, relaxed, and comfortable with herself and her magic. As a result, her original personality has not only remained but strengthened, allowing her to gain much more control over her powers than she ever had in her life. However, despite the newfound happiness and confidence she had started to gain by the end of Frozen, I didn’t think it meant that Elsa would be able to instantly move forward into the future with all new confidence and never look back at her past with shame and guilt. On the contrary, as shown in Frozen Fever, she continues to feel guilt over the past. She aims to make up for it by going to great lengths to give Anna a memorable birthday, wanting her sister to be content at all times. In doing so, Elsa shows her perfectionist ways by wanting even the slightest detail to be perfect, and frets if even the smallest thing isn’t matching her ideal vision of perfection.

So I think the sleeves of Elsa’s party dress being shorter than those of her ice dress represent her powers no longer being a secret from the world, and that her people have accepted them. Having her secret no longer BE a secret, and having been finally accepted by society, has made Elsa feel more genuinely happy and free than ever before. Yes, she still has feelings of guilt over the past, and she shows guilt in the present time when she apologizes to Anna, thinking that her illness has ruined the latter’s birthday. But it’s only expected that she would have some of those old feelings after just one year of extraordinary changes and progress. With Anna remaining by her side, the optimism and encouragement Elsa would get from her sister would help her continue to grow into her confidence about herself and her abilities.

Blue Woman, White Dress

Frozen II follows in the footsteps of the original Frozen by having moments that mirror scenes from its predecessor, and one of them is that both films feature Elsa singing a song during which her clothes undergo a magical transformation and she gets a brand new dress. But I want to point out that Elsa’s dress transformations in Frozen and Frozen II are distinctly different in one key way: Elsa HERSELF transforms her dress in the first film, but she does not do it in the second film. As I said in “Free Spirit”, Elsa transforms her ice dress with her own magic. It is based on her own conscious effort AND her own conscious choices of running away, exiling herself, and living in complete isolation.

While Elsa does show joy and an ability to let go of her fears, as I said above, these feelings are only temporary. Based on the events that unfold later, she does not continue feeling the positive emotions she displays in “Let It Go”. The fact remains that Elsa is still haunted by the pain of the past. She still obviously wants to know why she is so different from everyone else by having these powers. When she decides to live in her ice palace on the mountain, Elsa is still hiding and living in fear. She thinks the world will only ever see her as a monster. Because she is still burdened by her insecurities and feels that running away is her ONLY solution, Elsa does not find TRUE or COMPLETE happiness, freedom, confidence, or peace. 

In Frozen II, during “Show Yourself”, the transformation of Elsa’s dress happens by the magic of Ahtohallan rather than by the magic of her own hands. It is done without any conscious effort on her part. Similar to what she did during “Let It Go”, Elsa makes a choice about her future, but what differs this time is that it is one she HONESTLY believes for herself. She’s finally ready to face her future without being hindered by the past. Her transformation happens so effortlessly because it reflects the elation and joy she is feeling inside from having just come upon all of the answers she has been seeking. Elsa finally learns that the spirits of nature bestowed her with her powers to reward Iduna for rescuing Agnarr the day the battle between the Northuldra and Arendeliians took place. She is a gift of her mother’s heroic deed and a chosen one who is meant to undo the wrongs of the past. Elsa has discovered the purpose of her existence and destiny as the fifth spirit, all of which she has embraced.

So unlike when she underwent the transformation of her dress in the first movie, Elsa now has permanent feelings of joy and elation. Because she has finally found all the answers for which she has yearned all her life, she no longer has to hide, run away, or repress herself. Because she finally knows her true place in the world, she no longer feels any stress, restrictions, or worries about herself and what people will think of her. Knowing now what her true calling is and why she is magical, Elsa has at last gained complete, permanent confidence in herself and her powers. NOW she is truly and completely happy, free, confident, and at peace.

As I said in this analysis, the colors of Elsa’s main dresses in both feature films, from crystal blue to pale blue to pure white, are meant to be like how ice turns from blue to white or colorless as it goes from being under compression and pressure to having so much less pressure. While I described above the positive definitions of blue and how they fit Elsa when she creates her ice dress, her reaction upon learning what she has done to Arendelle reinforce how her dress’s color can be like blue ice, and thus have negative associations. When she journeys to the forest in the second film, Elsa’s blue dress is a paler and far lighter shade, reflecting how she has become less stressed, pressured, and more confident since her people have accepted her magic. Yet she is still wearing blue because she stills feels discontent with her role as the queen and wonders why she is magical. But when Elsa undergoes her transformation into her fifth spirit dress, it is colored pure white. White is known for being a color with psychological meanings of wholeness and completion, along with the new and beginning. The fact that Elsa has found out everything she has wanted to know about herself makes her feel whole and complete, especially now that she has been given a whole new beginning with her true purpose as the fifth spirit. Therefore, the color of her dress being white is entirely appropriate.

Conclusion

Elsa goes on quite a journey throughout the Frozen franchise, and her three dress transformations show that perfectly. In Frozen, after she accidentally harms Anna, Elsa starts out as a guilt-ridden person living by confinements and restrictions while simultaneously being unable to accept her special gift. But it is thanks to Anna’s love and optimism that she slowly starts to gain confidence and freedom over her three-year reign as queen. By the end of Frozen II, Elsa has found out everything she ever wanted to know and started assuming her true identity, so she feels better about herself than she ever has before.

I said in my analysis “Two Songs, One Woman” that “Let It Go” and “Show Yourself” act as the two halves of one whole circle, with the circle being Elsa’s relations with her magic and her journey of earning her freedom and accepting herself. What began with “Let It Go” has ended with “Show Yourself”, culminating with Elsa discovering everything she has wanted to know and realizing who and what she really is.

Elsa’s story is now complete, and I couldn’t be happier to see my favorite Frozen character grow and change as she learned to accept herself and her special gift. 😁😄😊❤️

To close this analysis, I want to give a shoutout to one of my fellow Frozen fans and Tumblr buddies @foreverfrozensolid for coming up with the title! 😁😁😁

[rosy-cheekx]

I Want To Be A Real Fake

@kaiserkorresponds said: Black and White + "I want to be a real fake" + formal clothing <3

Prompted fic that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I received it! Hope you like it, Kaiser!

-

Jon would not consider himself fashionable. He has a distinct sense of style, yes, but that style lately has been Tired-Academic-Works-in-a-Cold-Office,-Steals-Sweaters-When-Necessary-core. Not exactly suitable for the business casual dress code The Magnus Institute “requires” (no one seemed to pay attention to the Archive staff’s choices of attire), but certainly not suitable for the small rectangle of cardstock Elias Bouchard hands him, on a quiet spring morning in the Archive.

“What’s…what’s this?” Jon asked, staring at the neat, printed text as if it was Greek. (If it were Greek, at least, he could decipher parts of it. He was an English Lit student, after all, and he had really enjoyed etymology.) The card was a stiff black and white, with the black owl logo, the symbol of the Magnus Institute, printed in the top middle. Glancing down at it, he saw a date, and the words: “black-tie.” Shit.

“My apologies, I forgot how tired your position tends to leave you.” Elias’s voice was prim and polite, but Jon still winced inwardly. “As a head of a department, you are now strongly encouraged to attend the fundraiser I host in April each year. Our donors are fascinated by our departments, and especially the Archives. Gertrude’s disappearance has raised questions as to her successor, and I trust you can assuage the concerns of our donors at your accomplishments in the position.” Jon chose to believe that Elias’s keen eye didn’t sweep the mountains of paperwork that surrounded his desk as he surveyed the small, poorly lit office. “I’m certain you’ll be able to find appropriate attire for the occasion.”

He turned on a heel, halfway to the door before seemingly considering something. “Ah, and Jon, one more thing. Gertrude always requested she bring an assistant. Would you like to do the same? I am happy to accommodate one more for the catering count.”

Jon snapped his mouth shut, utterly dumbfounded by the responsibility just thrust upon him, and nodded mutely, before clearing his throat. “Ah-um, yes, I would appreciate that. Does it matter which one?”

“Someone who can make a pleasant impression, please.” Elias raised an eyebrow, nodded almost imperceptibly, like he had made a decision, and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe on the way out. “I trust your judgement.”

Jon counted to thirty, to be certain Elias wasn’t coming back, and slouched into his office chair, scanning the save-the-date again, without the immense pressure of Elias’s eyes on him.

“The Magnus Institute Fundraiser Gala,” it read below the embossed owl, within a thin black border. “23 April, 7-10 pm. Black tie. Catered.” Jon traced the owl with the pad of his finger, flipping the card over to see, in Elias’s thin cursive: Make a good impression, Jon.

God, this is going to suck.

-

“Sasha, come on.” Jon wasn’t one to beg, but desperate times and all that. He had cornered her in the breakroom, while Martin was on a research trip and Tim was getting takeaway from the chippie down the street. “It’s only three weeks away, and you’re the one I trust the most. Please.”

“Jon,” Sasha sighed, smoothing her skirt patiently. “I would if I could, I swear to you. But my sister’s wedding has been planned for months, I’ve already requested time off, and I can’t undo all that for a work party.”

“Fundraiser,” Jon corrected instinctively, even as he signed in resignation. “Fine. I just really didn’t want to go alone.”

Sasha scoffed, shaking her head to herself as she opened the fridge and pulled out her bagged lunch. “You have two other assistants you know. What about Tim? Or Martin?”

Jon wrinkled his nose at the thought of bringing nervous, rambling, doe-eyed Martin to the gala. “God no. Martin would be too much; I need someone who can handle themselves and hold a decent conversation. I need someone who can attend a black-tie gala and look more at-home than me.” A withering look from Sasha.

“So why not Tim, then? He can do all those things.”

“Do all what things?” Jon jumped and spun around to see Tim, carrying a grease-spotted bag in one hand and a paper soda cup in the other. He surveyed Tim in a moment: the button-up shirt, red and printed with tiny black balloons, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, dark black hair artfully mussed. High cheekbones dotted with freckles, and what Jon swore could be the faintest bit of eyeliner.

“Tim, would you like to go to a fashionable, catered work party with me?”

“Boss,” Tim lowered himself to a knee and held out his soda solemnly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Tim, that’s backwards. The kneeler isn’t the one who accepts,” Sasha chuckles helpfully.

“You’re just jealous of our love, Sash!”

Good Lord.

-

Jon was really hoping the food would be good. He was in Tim’s flat, in the toilet, checking himself in the mirror one final time. His hair was carefully braided, courtesy of Tim’s deft hands and coiled into a thick bun at the base of his skull, gold and emerald hairpin snugly in place. His suit was nice: a respectable white shirt, dotted with tiny lime-colored flowers he had to strain his eyes to see, under a dark green suit jacket and matching trousers. The suit itself was cut in a rather androgynous style, pulling tight at Jon’s waist in a way he rather liked, and contrasted beautifully, he thought, with the smooth brown of his skin. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his thigh and, satisfied, stepped into the hall to tell Tim he was ready to go.

“Tim, I’m all-woah,” the exhale was accidental. Tim’s suit was certainly not subtle. He was wearing a deep blue turtleneck, hair perfectly coiffed. Over the turtleneck, the suit jacket was white, a spray of water-color flowers in all shades of blue and purple shifting with every movement. The navy blue heeled suede boots on his feet accentuated his already-tall frame “Tim, you look good,” Jon breathed.

“Ouch. No need to sound all surprised. I know I clean up well; I dirty pretty damn good too.” Tim chuckled and adjusted his sleeves. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. ‘I don’t want anything too crazy.’”

Jon grinned shyly, rocking on his heels of his own, less intimidating dress shoes. “I like it, I think. It feels nice.” The excitement over how good he felt in the clothes had, all too briefly, suppressed the impending doom he was feeling about the evening’s events. “Are you ready for tonight?” he asked for what must have been the fiftieth time, spinning the solid black ring he wore around his finger.

“Yes, Jon. Talk about the reorganization process as a structural renovation, converting files to audio formatting for future accessibility, don’t talk about artefact storage even a little, don’t get caught up with anyone too pretty, I get it.” His voice was flat, bored by the repetition. “This is going to be fine.”

“What-what if it isn’t, though, Tim? What if they ask about Gertrude or how their money is being used, o-or how the restructuring is going? I can’t bloody well tell them I’m using a tape recorder that’s probably older than I am.”

“Jon,” Tim’s well-manicured hand was on his shoulder, nails the same blue of his turtleneck. “Take a deep breath. For Gertrude: be honest. It was a tragedy, and you hope she’s found, but until then you’re doing your best to act on her wishes as her replacement. And for the rest, be vague. Restructuring is going ‘as well as can be expected’ or ‘is running quite smoothly with the help of your three wonderful assistants.’” He winked. “And tell them you’re using a multimedia system, that’ll confuse those old boomers enough to move topics. And it is technically true. Laptops and a tape recorder are multiple medias. Anything else we can riff, you know? I can talk with the best of them.” He eyed Jon meaningfully. “This will be fine. It’s one night. And we’ll get chips after. Promise.”

Jon nodded and closed his eyes, breathing steadying. He was grateful Tim had been available. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

-

“So, how did you know what black tie meant?” Jon asked, eyeing Tim across the seat of the cab. They’re on their way now and Jon’s hands are steepled tightly, pressing his fingertips against each other until it hurts to do so. “I had to Google it last week when I went shopping, in case we had to wear literal black ties.” He needed to talk about anything, anything but this stupid fundraiser they drove steadily towards.

Tim grew silent for a moment, considering his words. “My brother was an extra in a movie once and started dating a stylist for one of the leads. He fibbed his way into getting us tickets for premieres, so I’ve made my way through a few high-fashion events.” He shrugged, fiddling with a thin silver bracelet along his wrist, were Jon knew the letter D was carved in delicate cursive. “I like it, too, you know? Dressing up for events. It makes me feel debonaire, like a spy.”

Jon shook his head in disagreement. “Makes me feel fake,” he mumbled, eyeing the lorry floor beneath them. “Like everyone knows I don’t belong. I hate having their eyes on me and knowing they’re better than me.”

Tim prodded Jon with his elbow gently, raising his eyebrows in a comforting manner. “That’s it though, isn’t it? We aren’t fake. We worked our way here. Hell, you’re the boss of an entire department, Jon. We’ve gotten to where we are in the Institute because we deserve to be here. And anyways, everyone at that party next week is gonna be fake. They’re pretending to care about our jobs, and we pretend to care about their money, and they pretend they’re even the ones who write the checks and not some snooty financial advisor in Wales.”

Jon shrugged, trying to keep himself from biting back that he wasn’t enough, didn’t earn this spot, that Sasha deserved it more than he did and was doing nothing to prove to Elias he was up to the monumental task of being the Head Archivist. He didn’t, though, and instead took a steadying breath, nodding to Tim’s comforting words.

“And anyways,” Tim continued, shrugging. “Even if we have to be fake for a night, it’ll be fun. We get to be a part of ‘the queen’s high society,’” he added in a high-pitched, overly fake RP accent, eliciting a chuckle from Jon. “And Rosie said the catering Elias orders is divine. Apparently we should keep an eye out for tiny samosas?”

As if on cue, the cab shuddered to a stop. Jon thanked the driver, paid, and followed Tim out.

-

The Institute looked different under the pretense of wealth and success. It was still the same building of course, but the floor was clear of the rain mats and the smooth marble floor paved the way to the library, the main sitting room of which had been cleared as a rather respectable grand hall to host a party. Tables lined the cordoned off books, hot plates and silver trays steaming slightly. Bottles of wine lined a bar, behind which a vested individual with slicked-back hair was pouring small glasses and taking orders. A quiet orchestra completed the scene, cello and piano in a delicate duet. Before tonight, Jon couldn’t have imagined this many people in the Institute alone, least of all the library. Not that it’s packed. There’s maybe thirty or so well-dressed individuals milling about, the din of conversation white noise in comparison to the floating of the music.

Tim’s hand is on his back, pressing kindly into his spine. Oh yes, he remembers dimly, and nods, allowing Tim to guide him into the library and hand him a glass of wine. They stand out a little, two beacons of color around what is a pretty drab spectrum of black and grey, save for a few spectacular dresses in the crowd. Jon finds he doesn’t mind it, except that it may lead to unwanted conversation. It’s not his looks he fears being judged on, but that he be found wanting when it came to his capabilities. He was always selectively self-conscious like that, some things utterly meaningless, others inexplicably important.

Jon isn’t a huge fan of wine, but he finds himself clinging to the glass as a lifeline as he and Tim meander through the crowds, largely ignored. The music is intoxicatingly simple; he finds himself caught up in the deep reverberations of the cello as they walk, feeling it deep in his chest. There were, in fact, samosas, as well as small cannoli, and he and Tim piled plates as high as they could without garnering stares.

There weren’t many people Jon recognized; he didn’t even see Elias as he scanned the crowd for faces. Wine in one hand, a plate in the other, he thought maybe the night wouldn’t be too bad.

Jon shivered, the sensation of being stared at prickling the back of his neck. He spun around, trying to appear casual, and spotted Elias at last. He was standing with a large man, broad and wearing a deep blue suit, scruffy beard a mix of tawny and white. Elias crooked his finger, smiling primly. As Jon made his way over to the pair-who he could’ve sworn he hadn’t seen previously, he was intercepted by a short bald man in a plum velour suit, leaning heavily on a cane.

“Ah, Archivist,” he smiled warmly, extending a hand to shake before seeing Jon’s hands were full, and nodding his head instead. “Congratulations on your promotion. Elias has told me he expects great things from you.”

Jon smiled politely, glancing over to see Elias and the other man gone again. Regretfully, he turned his attention back to the man. “It’s a shame about Gertrude, yes, but I’m hoping I can do her proud,” he said in a practiced tone. He glanced over his shoulder. Where was Tim? He was just with him.

“Of course, of course. I was hoping I could have a word?”

“W-with me?”

“Yes, you see, I was rather concerned when I heard Gertrude’s position had been left open. When Elias said you yourself where at the junction to take over, I wanted to meet you for myself. I worry about the Archivists in your institute, so many of you do such monumental work for so little recognition. Do you worry your work to be meaningless?  Your name insignificant when it is all said and done?”

(It is this conversation he remembers, months later, when he demands to record Prentiss’ attack. He refuses to be another mystery, a name on a placard to be wondered about.)

“I-ah, yes? No?” What was the right answer here? Jon stammered out a half-assed reply about doing his best, midway through when he felt a hand firmly on his shoulder, where his neck and collarbone met. Glancing to his peripheral, he saw a golden ring, an eye, and was frustratingly grateful to hear the cool tones of Elias Bouchard over his shoulder.

“Now Simon,” he said, voice even, “you aren’t trying to scare my dear Archivist, are you?” He gave the shoulder a squeeze but remained put. “Jon, I believe you’ve heard of Simon Fairchild, a significant donor to our establishment.”

Jon nodded wordlessly, not really listening to the two bureaucrats delve off into some topic or other, craning his neck to look for Tim. The music had picked up, he registered dimly, a orchestral melody led by a violin, sharp and whimsical.

“Jon?” Another squeeze to his neck, and Jon tried not to wince. “Wouldn’t you agree,” Elias asked, voice patient at surface level. “That the best way to move forward is to restructure the Archive?”

Jon nodded, trying to recall the answer he had rehearsed. “Yes, ah—my team and I have worked quite hard at recording the statements a-and organizing them in a way that will last long-term.”

“Ah, what a delight,” Simon—Mr. Fairchild—said warmly. Jon was reminded of the voices adults would use when they spoke to him as a child, when his inane facts about space or etymology had moved from endearing to obnoxious.

The conversation lasted for what felt like days, Jon feeling rather like Mr. Fairchild’s cane: a statement piece, contributing nothing to the conversation but unable to find a smooth exit. Leading questions from Elias led to thankfully rehearsed answers before Simon found his own exit and walked away smoothly, eyes wide and taking the room in.

“I-I really should find Tim,” Jon muttered, glancing around the room anxiously.

“Nonsense. He’ll be back,” Elias said, releasing Jon’s shoulder and taking his elbow in turn, “I would like to introduce you to a few dear friends of mine. I believe Tim is keeping one occupied at present.” Jon sighed inwardly (and maybe outwardly as well) and allowed himself to be led around the room. His wine glass was empty, as was his plate and he found it snatched away by a member of catering. He had nothing to cling to, to keep his hands busy, and was struggling not to pull out his delicately-placed hair pin just so he could fiddle with something.

Jon was taken on a tour of old rich people of England. Names flew past him, conversation buzzed around him, and still Jon felt like nothing more than a well-dressed trophy to be ogled at. Did Gertrude do this every year, he wondered dimly. No wonder she disappeared. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, speaking when needed, and feeling the swirl of the orchestra build up in pressure behind his eyes. The music was beautiful but hard to listen to. Something about it was ugly, hiding a dark secret behind the innocent melodies.

Eventually, the evening was so much of a blur that he couldn’t even begin to fathom how much time had passed. It may have been weeks, may have been merely twenty minutes. Jon glanced down for his watch before realizing he had taken it off at Tim’s flat and never strapped it back on. Pity. It only added to the dreamscape reality he seemed to be participating in.

At last, Elias led him towards the large burly man that was suddenly in view (hadn’t he always been? Jon wasn’t quite sure. The wine must have affected him more than he thought with the nerves) and Jon saw Tim, similarly trapped in conversation as he had been. He smiled apologetically as Jon and Elias approached and the larger man smiled warmly at the newcomers.

“Ah, Archivist. I hope you don’t mind I stole your companion away briefly. I was curious about the nitty-gritty of your Archive. Timothy here was very informative.” Tim winced at the use of his full name and a part of Jon smirked, relating to the sentiment of being called Jonathan or worse, John.

“I’m glad he can answer your questions.” Elias spoke before Jon could open his mouth. “I’m quite proud of the Archive staff. Jon chose well and I am sure the four of them are going to do great things together. Jon, you remember the Lukas family?”

Jon nodded, confused for a second before the man in front of him extended his hand. “Peter Lukas, at your service.” The hand was cold, and a feeling of dismay washed over Jon as he shook it. He couldn’t help the feeling that the shake of that hand was a seal of his fate.

The orchestral music had picked up, a swirl of strings and piano, ascending in pitch until it grated at Jon’s ears. No one else seemed to react to it, however, as the manic notes pulling at something inside Jon’s brain, something he couldn’t explain. It was almost like a migraine, but sharper and deep in his spine and in his ears. Elias let go of Jon’s arm at some point during the conversation with Peter Lukas, a discussion about boats, maybe? Travel? This was the conversation Elias was so keen on Jon being a part of?

As Jon felt that grip relax, the glint of the ring on Elias’ finger seeming to wink at him, Jon took a staggered step backwards. “Mr. Lukas, ah-Peter, it’s been a pleasure. Elias, ex-excuse me.”

Jon turned and dashed out of the library, feet carrying him on instinct through the winding halls and down the stairs of the institute, deep into the Archives. He stopped when he felt his feet echo against the cold, solid lino of the archival storage and bent over, hand on the wall, gasping in shallow, rapid bursts. It was too much, it was too much, he thought he could do this but it was too much and he wasn’t enough for them-

“Woah-boss.” Tim was there. When did Tim get here? Was he speaking out loud? Shit. “Jon, yeah-hey, Jon. I’m here. You’re okay. Take some deep breaths, okay? You’re going to black out if you’re not careful.”

Jon felt his suit jacket being shrugged off of him and the newly allowed freedom of his shoulder helped. He took a deep, sputtering breath, the sweet oxygen flooding his system and sharpening his thoughts.

“The-the music and the talking,” he said under his breath, Tim craning to listen without infringing on his personal space. “Too-too much.”

“The music? Jon, hey, hey, just focus on calming down, okay? That was a dick move of Elias to separate us immediately. I was talking to that Lukas guy for way too long. Not even sure what we talked about. I think he’s just one of those guys.” Jon smirked to himself as he focused on the floor beneath his feet, breathing slowly until his heart rate had resumed a normal rhythm.

“Says you,” he mumbled, eyes closing as he pressed his warm cheek to the cold wall.

“You bastard!” Jon felt a light swat on his shoulder. “I listen to people! I have meaningful conversation; just ask Martin and Sasha and Alexa from Library and Calvin from Artefact Storage. I am practically a professional listener.”

Jon smirked, satisfied with his jab and turned around, now pressing his back to the wall. “God, Tim, I do not want to go back in there.” It was hard to admit out loud, even if the evidence was written all over his face.

“Okay. So, we won’t.”

“What?” the answer was so mind-bogglingly simple, Jon reeled.

“We don’t want to be here. We’ve talked, we’ve eaten. Let’s just leave. I can tell Elias I had an emergency and you had to escort me home, like a true gentleman.”

“Lie to Elias? I feel like that cant end well.” The offer was tempting, Jon hadf to admit.

“I mean, Sasha has keys to my flat. I could ask her to start a fire, if you think that’s sufficient?”

Jon barked out a laugh at that. “Ah, no, lets save a fire for something big. Yes. Let’s-let’s go, Tim. And-er, I suppose I should thank you. For coming tonight. I know its not an ideal way to spend an evening.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim did a twirl, Jon’s own jacket slung over his shoulder. “I look hot. You think I’d pass up an opportunity to dress up like this? You’re dreaming.” He smirked and took Jon’s arm, leading him back up the stairwell. It felt different than Elias’s touch. That had been a cold tug, directional and leashed. This felt…snug, more like a link in a chain than anything else. Comforting, reassuring.

(Luckily, they weren’t laughed out of the Nando’s they popped into late at night. Lemon and herb and spices covered their hands, but they were careful to keep their jackets clean. Jon, when looking back on the evening; remembers this moment, talking and laughing and letting the fresh night air was over them. Elias, Lukas, and Fairchild be damned. He’d deal with that tomorrow.)

[mourntheantagonist]

Billy Hargrove’s Exploration of Beauty

| part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 |

| part 7: | one |

Part 7: When Blue Met Pink

chapter two: max

also on ao3

Birthdays at the Hargrove Household were never some extravagant event. Nobody ever had a party where they would get to invite a small number of friends and order a store bought sheet cake from the local grocer. They didn’t play fun party games like pin the tail on the donkey or musical chairs, they only ever had the four of them. Just Neil, Susan, Max, himself, and a lopsided chocolate cake Susan made from a box. It was only ever dinner and dessert, and a short section in the night where they would open gifts. 

Max’s Birthdays did always have a little more effort put into them, but it was still just the basic dinner, gifts, and dessert sequence with just a slight bit more care. Susan made a whole deal out of waking her up in the morning singing ‘happy birthday’ to her and making her favorite breakfast, while Billy was lucky to have Neil toss him a morning beer, but still, there were never any outside guests or fun traditions to make the time pass by. So on the day of Max’s fourteenth birthday, she sat there in her room by herself talking to friends on the phone and reading comics, while Billy sat in his, reading books he has read a thousand times before, both of them just waiting for the time on the clock to strike five.

Because the shitty part about birthdays at the Hargrove Household was that you weren’t allowed to leave unless it was for school or work. They treated birthdays like family days, where no outsiders could enter. They were meant to all be together, that was the idea, except Neil’s idea of togetherness was just being all under the same roof, in separate rooms, wasting away from the complete boredom. 

At five o’clock, they all simultaneously exited the rooms they had all cooped up in and joined Susan in the steam filled kitchen. The smell of chocolate icing and whatever casserole she chose to make occupied the whole house. Max sat down at the table that had one wrapped present sitting on top of it. It was rectangularly shaped with pink paper and a purple bow, a color combination that made Billy laugh. 

“Go ahead and open it up dear,” Susan said, “dinner will be ready in just a moment.”

Billy and Neil followed suit and took their own seats at the dinner table and watched as Max opened up her gift. She tore the paper open without much care, pink scraps flew everywhere. Underneath the pretty mess was a brown cardboard box that was sealed shut with packing tape. Billy watched as she struggled to pull the tape up from the cardboard. He watched as her face tightened as she dug her nails into the cardboard and struggled against the tape’s strength, and eventually slid his keys over to her so she could slice it open and stop the dramatic grunting. She took them with a half smile half smirk and jabbed the key into the space between cardboard flaps like she was mad at it, like she was gutting it for dinner, and dragged the sharp metal the whole length of the box. But, her smile slowly disappeared into just a resting look when she finally saw what was inside.

“What did you get kiddo?” Neil asked after he swallowed a swig of his probably sixth beer of the day. The look on her face was a very recognizable disappointment that seeped through despite the also clear efforts she was giving to conceal it. Her eyes grew soft and her whole face just fell into a dead stare.

“It’s Makeup.” she said. Her voice came out just slightly broken, noticeable only to those who were paying attention to it, noticeable only to Billy. She pulled out a few things from the box at the request of Susan. There was a package full of an entire shade range of sparkly  lip glosses, a face palette with blush and bronzer, some nail polishes of all different types of reds, all the way from the darkest burgundy to the brightest scarlet. Max’s reaction differed widely from Billy’s. Just the drop of the word ‘makeup’ made his heart skip a beat. A wave of fear washed over him as paranoia grew. He sat there wondering whether or not he remembered to take off the mascara he was practicing with earlier, were there black smears around his eyes? He looked down at his hands almost as if it were instinct to make sure the only coat on his nails was clear.

He was always very sure though. He had to be. He would rub the cotton pad over his eyes until the whites of them turned red and bloodshot, possibly even bursting a blood vessel in the process. He would make absolutely sure the area was completely clean before he even dared exit the slight safety he had within the four walls of his bedroom. A safety that in no way compared to the ease and comfort he felt under Steve’s roof wrapped up in his arms, but a safety nonetheless.

Max’s disappointment made Billy feel total envy. Jealousy, hate, resentment… She was completely ungrateful. She was not only able, but encouraged to do all of the things that he would be shamed for, and there she was, with a frown masked behind a fake smile that Billy saw right through, and he was envious. 

And he didn’t like it.

Because he was thinking all of the things people said about people like him, but in the opposite, and about Max. It was a constant battle within himself to fight off the internal monologue telling him how things are supposed to be. Billy was supposed to gag at the idea of sleeping with another man and wearing women’s clothing, Max was supposed to be overjoyed with all of this makeup, but instead she faked a smile and put everything right back in the box. She forced out a ‘thank you’ to Susan, and the rest of the evening continued on as if it was just a blip. At least that was how it appeared to everyone but Billy, who let his eyes wander over to the cardboard box on the counter every several minutes because it was always on his mind how that box would just end up in the back of Max’s closet along with all of the other useless things she’d bought in the past. It would all just sit there to collect dust while Billy was out scrounging for scraps because he didn’t have the guts to buy it himself, and Melvald’s only had so much to offer.

They sang happy birthday before the lopsided cake Susan made would eventually topple over due to gravity. Max’s mood seemed to lift as they broke out the dessert, because you really couldn’t go wrong with chocolate cake, even if it came straight out of a Betty Crocker box. It was a strangely okay night despite Billy’s constant averted attention. They all gathered for a movie and for just the two hour run time, they felt a little bit like a normal family. Passing around a popcorn bowl and curled up under blankets, it almost felt like a trap.

He brought his gift to her after the movie. It was a sock full of about ten dollars worth of quarters. “What’s this?” she asked.

“Money for the arcade? A weapon? That’s up to you. Happy birthday.”

She showed her first genuine smile of the night before he left her room.

“Thank you.”

When Billy went to bed that night, the thoughts of Max and her makeup dissolved into his sleep, and he woke up without a trace of the resentment and subsequent guilt he had felt the night before. He went on with his day without a second thought about the box that had been at that moment sitting in the corner of Max’s bedroom along with all the other makeup products Susan had bought before. 

It really had slipped his mind completely. He had other things to think about, other people to dream about, it was simply a blip on his radar and it wasn’t until several days later when he was gathering Max’s laundry so he could do an extra load, that it all came flooding back to him. Jealousy pumping through his veins at the sight of all the flavored lip glosses and those little duo eyeshadow palettes that were only a dollar at the drugstore piled high and unopened. 

So he made a bad decision. Uncalculated and reckless and would prove to be something he would regret. He dropped the laundry basket to the ground and began stuffing some things into his pocket. Several eyeshadows and glosses and nail polishes. She never touched them. She wouldn’t miss them. 

And there was no way she would know it was him, right?

Wrong. Because luck was not something Billy had. Because of course Max had to enter the house as quiet as a mouse and not make her presence known. Of course she had to walk right into her bedroom while Billy was wrists deep into the cardboard box full of makeup, with no excuse prepared on the tip of his tongue. 

When they both realized what they were doing they both froze and stared at each other, hoping their lack of movement would serve as invisibility. Max stood with her hand still firmly gripping the door knob and Billy’s hands had quickly retracted from the box, a tube of lipstick still in between his fingers and pockets visibly full with other stolen goods.

Neither of them said a word, too scared and too unsure of exactly what to say. Billy’s heart was in his throat and his fists were clenching tight enough that the glass tube could easily break.

So instead of speaking, instead of coming up with some kind of defense, he ran out. Slightly shoulder checked Max on his way through the door, took a straight path directly to his car outside, and drove to the one and only place he knew to go. The one place that he felt truly safe.

Because he didn’t feel safe right then. He felt like his world was getting ready to implode on itself and he just wanted to have those last few moments of comfort before everything inevitably went to complete shit.

He didn’t let himself cry. He was stone cold the whole drive over to the mansion at the edge of town. He didn’t break down until Steve’s arms were wrapped around him where they stood on the front porch. Sobbing into Steve’s jacket sleeve leaving tear stains and gripping the fabric tight enough between his hands he may leave permanent wrinkles.

“Hey hey hey,” Steve whispered into his ear, squeezing him tighter, surely tight enough to feel the fullness of Billy’s jacket pockets. “What happened baby?”

“I fucked up Steve. I fucked up.” Billy just repeated those last three words over and over again until his voice ran out of breath and they faded into nothingness, just complete silence from mouthed words.

“Come inside.” Steve said, taking Billy’s hand into his. “It’s okay, you’re here with me.”

Steve led Billy in through the doors of his house and up the stairs to his bedroom. Steve’s house was generally a safe haven for Billy, but Steve’s room… he felt like nothing could ever get him when he was in there. Those four walls plastered in hideous plaid wallpaper felt like an indestructible barrier, and he loved that every time he entered that room, a little piece of him found its way inside. A little piece of evidence that he existed.

It had started with the first Polaroid they took with each other. A blurry and overexposed shot of them out at the quarry at the ass crack of dawn when Steve thought that waking up early and watching the sunset would be a good idea. It wasn’t. Mosquitoes were everywhere eating at his flesh, it was cold as shit, and they were both starving… But then they saw the sun peek over the horizon and all the desire he had to leave had flipped a switch and suddenly he was glued to his seat in the dirt. Steve’s hand was rested on top of his, completely alone together in total silence getting to witness something beautiful together. It was amazing, but Billy would gladly not do it again, or rather stay in the car at least the next time, pack blankets and food so at the very least he’d be able to feel his fingers when he clicked the shutter on the camera. The photo hung on the cork board above his desk next to various others they had taken over time until they eventually ran out of film.

The next thing was the drawer that Steve had cleared out in his dresser after Billy had needed to borrow clothes just one too many times. The very drawer that began this whole journey that Billy was going on. 

The main point was, Steve’s room was eventually starting to become their room. Little by little, piece by piece… And it was safe. The place where he laid in bed in that little green lace teddy where Steve had told him he was beautiful and that there was nothing wrong with him. The place where Steve fucked him in the pretty baby blue panties he bought for him. The place Steve took him to take off all that makeup he had just put on him the other day. 

Now it was the room Steve took him to, sat him on the bed, and cradled him in his arms as he cried. 

“Just let it out, it’s okay.” Steve cooed in his ear.

And he did. Loud and unrestricted sobs escaped him until he was completely drained and out of tears and Steve’s crushing hold on him had calmed him down just enough to the point that he could finally speak.

“I stole from Max.” He said, reaching into his pocket to pull out one of the glosses he’d taken. His hand was visibly shaking. “She caught me… she’s gonna… she’s gonna tell her mom or my dad, Steve!” His breathing was growing erratic again and Steve immediately responded by grabbing Billy’s face and angling it toward him so that he was forced to look him directly in the eyes.

“Hey Bills, breathe. I’m right here.” he whispered. “It’s going to be okay, I promise. Max doesn’t seem like the kind of person to just tell like that.”

“Really!?” Billy snapped. “She doesn’t?! Do you not remember how I ended up in this shithole in the first place? Max has no idea how to keep her mouth shut.”

“Billy, that was almost a year ago, and trust me. She’s better at keeping secrets than you think.” Steve ran his fingers through Billy’s hair to try and bring him back to his senses before he completely blew up. He pulled Billy in for a lengthy chaste kiss which proved successful at evening out his staggered breathing. “While you’re here, why don’t we try out some of these stolen goods? I wanna see what this tangerine flavor tastes like.”

Billy’s demeanor finally softened and he handed the gloss over to Steve and let him apply it to his lips. Always so gentle in how he let the applicator slide against them, a striking contrast to how he treated his lips when he was kissing him. Billy smacked his lips together and dragged his own tongue against them. “Tastes good.” he said with a shy smile.

“Well save some for me!” Steve said before pulling Billy back in by the nape of his neck and giving a perfect demonstration of that contrast he mentioned. Taking Billy’s lower lip in between his teeth, sucking on his lips like he was consuming his dessert, which wasn’t necessarily untrue. They kissed each other until every last bit of the lipgloss they had just applied was completely licked off and their mouths were red and puffy. They separated and before Billy could go back in for another round, Steve put his hand up to Billy’s chest to stop him. “As much as I love kissing you, you should probably run home before your dad sends out a search party.”

Billy sighed, because he was right. He ditched the stolen makeup in Steve’s bedroom and said his goodbyes, saying several little prayers to himself so that just maybe, when he finally got home, Max would still be in her room, having not said a fucking word about what she saw.

Sure enough, when he got home, Neil was fortunately working on the truck in the garage, a pretty good sign that Max hadn’t told, but still, he entered that front door with extreme caution. Susan was in the kitchen preparing the leftover spaghetti from the night before for dinner, and Max was nowhere to be seen. Rather than poking the bear, he went directly to his room to actually prepare how he wanted to confront her about it. He just wanted to sit down on his bed and try to relax, but instead there was something in the way.

Sitting on his bed was the same cardboard box he’d had his hands rifling through just an hour ago. Still full of all that still sealed makeup she had acquired over the years. There was a small sticky note attached.

“Maybe you’ll be able to get more use out of this shit  than I did. - Max”

He turned around to make sure nobody was there and he was nearly given a heart attack when he saw Max standing in the doorway.

“Jesus you need a fucking bell on you.” he said after trying to recover from the initial shock.

“I covered for you.” Max walked all the way into the room and shut his door behind her. “I’m sorry if I scared you, I won’t tell anyone if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“How did you know it was for me?” he asked, the reluctance clear in the way his voice cracked.

“You looked happy.” she said, a slight smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

Billy waved the little note he had in his hand and matched her slight smile. “Thank you… for this.” 

Max just nodded. At that point Billy expected Max to just leave his room and that would be it, but she just stood there, like she had more to say.

“Is there something else?” he asked.

Max fiddled with her hands and finally found the courage to get the words out. 

“Where did you go?”

“Huh?” Billy asked, pretending not to understand the question.

Max sighed and finally looked up at Billy with serious eyes. “Did you run off to Steve’s after I found you?”

If you had asked Billy how he would have reacted to that question yesterday, he probably would have panicked just like he did when she had caught him in her room. But right then, it was different. He didn’t feel that same panic and fear when he heard Steve’s name pass her lips like that, instead he felt a little proud. He almost felt safe. Just like he did in Steve’s bedroom. He no longer looked at Max and saw the little girl who outed him to his dad or the little brat who ran off when he was supposed to be watching her and later stabbed him in the neck with some needle. Instead, at that moment he saw his sister who not only kept her mouth shut about the makeup, but fucking gave it to him. He felt safe.

“Yeah, I did.” he said, his smile didn’t falter.

Max’s smile widened along with his.

“Good. I’m glad.”

next part

[themilky-way]

as the hours pass {loki odinson}

gif credit: littlemisssyreid

pairing: loki odinson x fem!reader (might be considered gender neutral, though)

summary: he afraid of what he feels, so he does the only the thing he knows how to do: lie. based on this ask.

warnings: super shitty angst lol cuz it was 9 pm and my brain cells were FRIED. i think that’s it?? fluff at the end tho so we good 

author’s note: this took me a whole mf week to write which isn’t that bad but i have no time now and it’s kinda scary. yolo tho lol 

----------

when tony had initially proposed a weekly movie night for the entire team, not a single person would’ve imagined anything like this. a large projector had taken the place of the regular flatscreen television, consequently lining up in all the four corners of the penthouse windows. couches and reclining chairs compiled in a large circle instead of being adequately spread out amongst the common room, and they’d all been filled by at least one avenger. to those wishing to participate, jobs and duties had been assigned the week prior, the list ranging from making popcorn to dimming the lights. it was organized-sophisticated, in a way-how it had all been brought about, and to say the majority of the residents living in tony’s multi billionaire penthouse were surprised was quite the understatement. 

over the course of a few weeks, everything began falling into place. reminders didn’t need to be set anymore, and the designated tasks weren’t viewed as chores. natasha made sure to pop three full bags of delicious kernels- ensuring thor’s bowl had just enough butter to lick his fingers clean when he finished-while steve arranged a variety of pillows and blankets around the seating space. soon enough, fading shades of purple would ignite the obscurity of the living room-all due to the led lights binded to the borders of its ceiling-and either a horror or comedy film would commence. 

in such a manner, your spot could always be found on the same peculiar couch, next to the same peculiar individual. god, at that. to literally go to hell and back, to get placed in a home that wasn’t his home with people who wanted his head wasn’t particularly an easy life to lead. he wasn’t a man of sentiment, either, nor one who engaged in communal activities, so you took your part as a good samaritan and kept him company. the seat next to loki had been unreserved, with not even thor to take its place, and you shuffled away from a very frightened wanda to settle beside him. he'd been neutral, annoyed perhaps. if a stranger came to sit next to you out of the blue, wouldn’t you be, too? 

“mind if i sit here?” a mild pause signaled a response, and the shrug of his shoulders gave it away. “i’m not really enjoying the movie, and the space looked kinda cozy,” you added. 

after you had thoroughly felt the soft cushion of the seat and all its comfort, it was rather difficult to stray away from it. every friday evening, the striped bedding of the couch awaited your presence, and a pillow of an identical design lay by the armrest. loki always got there first, a bowl of ice containing two ice cream bars in his grasp, and if the belief that he had ever been remotely inconsiderate damaged your reasoning, the chocolate chip cookie he gifted you at the start of every night proved you wrong. 

if loki truly had to be honest with himself-his father, if he was peering down from above-the companionship you bestowed upon him didn’t upset him as he presumed it would. he half-expected his cold and antisocial nature to speak for itself, to grab hold of the kindness of your heart, crush it, and scatter its pieces so your blind hands would have to search aimlessly for them. for him, the opportunity would’ve been so effortless, so relieving in its own wicked sense, but you had already known that from the minute the tips of your sock-clad toes had walked right up to his. your words had been honey to him, simple yet profoundly eloquent that had dripped away every vowel on his tongue. the warmth that encircled you caromed over to him, and then his icy fingers became regular fingers, and his wintry complexion no longer overpowered the person he strived to be.

the thought alone of developing a kinship alarmed the presumably mischievous man, and when time, the most rewarding elements of his beloved universe, presented him with such a miraculous creature, he went into a comatose. the object of his interest was no longer an object, it was a person, an individual that appeared to envelop his nonexistent grace as if they depended on it. so his beautiful, virulent mind, as plentiful of wisdom as it was, conceived what it regarded to be the only correct answer. 

the seconds of long anticipated hours grew legs, and urged fragments of minutes to run off. solitude embraced the area loki used to adore being in, and his absence planted a seed of confusion within the person always seated beside him. the following nights were mindless for you, even when wanda had selected your favorite films to view, your headspace drifting off to the god who wasn’t watching it with you. interactions between your team lessened. refusing a handful of thor’s popcorn became a habit, and although he questioned you about it, he never brought it up again. then, a month flew by before you could cognitively process it. loki’s eyes hardly ever witnessed daylight now, or you for that matter. more often than not, his ear perked up at the soft squeaks of sneakers before their shadow halted in front of his door. the air in his lungs would almost escape from him entirely, lips pursed so tightly he felt them turn white, before mere seconds later distorted voices trailed your feet away from the barrier that separated him from you. foolish, he’d been foolish to deceive you so childishly. what could he possibly tell you now, that wouldn’t lead you to scurry away from him?

tonight, the best remedy to get some rest was to fix some tea. a good read seemed suitable enough, too, so a copy of The Scarlet Letter decorated your pillow. you trusted your weary legs to navigate you to the kitchen while your brain busied in forming unrealistic scenarios, as silly as it sounds, and you were doing fine and dandy until a conversation reeled you back in. an all too familiar voice-one you hadn’t heard in so long-was speaking, ranting, about things that bothered him? yeah, that was it. 

it was wrong to what you did at that moment, your dear mother had taught you better than this, but the never ending words spewing from loki’s mouth had glued the soles of your feet to the chilling tiles. 

a heartbeat shriveled to nothing, a weighty ache engulfing it in all its mighty glory, and everything you ever came to know became deception. “...ridiculous! i’ll tell you one thing, brother, and that is that they’re absurd for thinking i’m better.”

a booming retort-thor’s-defended you. “you’re ridiculous. they’re good to you and you’re going to throw it away because you’re afraid?” he neatly placed his mug on the counter before his firm hand landed on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed in reassurance. “if you keep pushing people away, you’ll outlive centuries-worth of joy.” loki flicked it away. “do they truly matter to you? enough for you to stop hurting them?”

the wall pressing into your shoulder obscured the visual of loki nodding his head. the tea you craved for now sounded disgusting, and no matter how hard you blinked your eyes, a puddle threatened to hover over them. you began toying with the sleeves of your sweater, hating the emerald shade you chose for it, and your head drooped down to focus on its marbled designs. odd shapes helped center your emotions, too much that you missed a figure passing by the entry. 

did you jump? yes. did loki jump? also yes. 

“what-why are you-why are you standing there?” his voice was shaky, concerned. he looked at your figure over once, his nervous glare lingering a little too closely at the pigment of your shirt, before he focused on you. it was hard for him to miss your anguish. the question his brother had previously asked him looped in his head, and by odin yes-yes, you mattered to him. 

“did you hear what i said?” he gulped. “all of it?”

your pupils were fully dilated, mouth inconceivably dry, so you muttered a tiny “yeah.”

“it’s alright, though. i’m not-i’m not mad, or sad, or whatever. i get it.” with enough strength, you pushed your body away from where you’d been cornered and started your leave. a tightening on your wrist stopped you. 

“please don’t go.” loki never begged, and he always trusted his ego to prevent him from doing it, but he’d inflicted grief on his most treasured midgardian, and he’d have to remedy that. “please.” 

“loki, hey it’s alright. i’ll leave you alone if that’s what you need.” he held you tighter before pulling your palm up to meet his chest. “what are you-look, i’m sorry-”

“you’re sorry?” he cut you off. “i’m sorry, don’t you see what you do to me?” the pad of one of his own hands moved to cover the back of yours to push it further onto his covered heart. it was beating faster than godly possible. if he were anyone else, maybe he was nearing a heart attack. “i do believe you’re the first one to do that.”

you ceased touching him before beginning to speak, but he knew your apologies, your questions, before they even escaped your lips. he fumbled on his words for some time, thorough confessions of his feelings never came as easily as he hoped, but he managed to get the point across. his obsidian, curly locks drizzling over his tiresome face distracted you, and his enticing features, his slurred attempts to achieve your forgiveness forced a tiny grin onto your mouth.

“it’s okay, honey,” you extended a hand outward in greeting. “let’s just start over, yeah?”

he choked on a breath at the name, and then two clammy hands melded into one, and everything was alright for once. “i’m loki, and the pleasure’s all mine, darling.”

[frenlom]

A masterpost of Egos

Sammy (They/Them/Their/Theirs/Themselves): Agent 4501 from The Agency, where they work alongside Becky and Myrtle. Sammy is essentially the brains of this whole operation. Calm, calculating, smart, is the most logical one out of everyone. They wear a black trenchcoat which they leave untied, a yellow turtleneck, blue jeans and black boots, as well as a black fedora with a yellow band. Their hair is orange and falls around their shoulders, partially covering their eagle eye, which is a permanent result of being turned into an eagle and the potion not working completely to turn them back. When angered, stressed or scared their fingers extend into talons, which they use to fight with if they need to fight. They can also grow wings and fly, but it takes a lot of energy and concentration so they only do it in emergencies. They like to know things, especially about what other people say or do or think, which is probably why I end up analyzing my dreams so much to try and work out if there's any deeper meanings to them. Current hobbies include playing chess, learning languages, inventing metaphors with Star and Olley, and making a key out of a paperclip and a wooden skewer for reasons I won't delve into here.

Becky (She/Her/Hers/Hers/Herself): Agent 4724 from The Agency, where she works alongside Sammy and Myrtle. While Sammy's the logical one, Becky is the protective one -- she wants me to be safe in the environment I'm restricted to, so she set up a bunch of rules to try and keep me safe, but unfortunately they're impossible to conform to. However, in light of recent discoveries Becky's reduced her impossible list down to just one, much more manageable rule which I won't discuss here. In her human form she wears an orange shirt and black waistcoat, with black trousers and black boots similar to the ones Sammy wears. She also occasionally wears a black fedora like Sammy does, however the band of hers is orange. She has hazel eyes and her blonde hair that reaches down to her waist, which she ties in a ponytail when she's not wearing her fedora. In her natural form she wears the same outfit, however she has large black raven wings, large pointed dog ears and pale yellow fur the same shade as her hair that fades to black around where her wings are. She likes playing chess with Sammy, and she likes reading things that I write.

Star (Bun/Bun/Buns/Buns/Bunself): The inventive little daydreamer, basically bun is my imagination. Bun wears a blue and white tie-dye spiral t-shirt and a blue skirt, with white stockings and small blue high-heels. Bun has brown hair with blue highlights that barely reacher buns shoulders, and buns eyes are green like Sammy. Bun is the quietest of all of the Egos, and easily overwhelmed. Bun likes to help out a lot when I'm writing, and invents a whole bunch of scenarios that I write out. Bun also likes metaphors, and spends lots of time inventing them, often helped out by Sammy and occasionally Becky and Olley.

Olley (She/Her, Bun/Bun): Olley is the emotional one of the group. Easy to please, but also easy to upset or scare. She wears a lavender turtleneck, blue leggings and purple socks, and a lavender bobble-hat with a purple bobble. Like Becky she has waist-length blonde hair, but her eyes are a dark brown. Bun likes hanging out with Cherry a lot since bun thinks what it can do is impressive, and she likes helping Star and Sammy make up metaphors.

Cherry (It/It/Its/Its/Itself): Cherry is...the actor, I suppose. It can put on various facades, slipping in and out of each as if putting on or taking off a mask. On the subject of masks, it has one that it wears -- a red mask that covers its entire face, one with a smile that shows off sharp white teeth, and a black veil on the inside that makes it impossible to see in through the eyeholes unless you're up close. The rest of it's outfit shifts around depending on how it wants to be perceived, but when it's relaxed it wears a dark grey hoodie with a red diamond on the front and a brown hood, black leather gloves, black ripped jeans and grey baseball-boot style shoes. It keeps it's hood up when wearing it's hoodie, and it tends to keep it's mask on as well unless it's completely comfortable around people. It likes reading the things I write as well, and also just enjoys reading in general. It also likes spending time with Sammy because Sammy likes to point out things they notice about other people, which helps Cherry acting because it gives it more to think about and channel in it's performances.

Myrtle Jade (She/Her, They/Them): Agent 4869 from The Agency, where she works alongside Sammy and Becky. Not much is known about Myrtle at this stage, other than the fact that they're from the same agency that Sammy and Becky work at. She'd been tasked with trying to carry out Mission 4513 prior to Sammy and Becky being assigned to it, but failed. It's...somewhat of a sore spot. They wear a long dark-green dress with red gradient sleeves, a dark green fedora with a bright red band, red high-heel boots and a golden pendant in the shape of an eye with an emerald set into the middle of it. Her hair is black and wavy, reaching down to her waist, and her eyes are bright green and occasionally glow with some sort of magic. They also have sharp, pointy teeth (similar to the fake teeth on Cherry's mask) and a long forked tongue that seems almost snake-like in nature. She largely keeps to herself, but she has been seen hanging out around Olley, which is when her eyes were seen to be glowing.

[shreddedparchment]

Pseudo Princess Pt.08

On a Pedestal

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader          Word Count: 6,019

Warnings: mentions of sex, language, angst

A/N: I know I just released one last night but here’s another one. I will wait before posting another chapter at least a day in between so that I can respond to all of your lovely comments. I read each and every one of them and I appreciate them so much! Enjoy and let me know what you think! xoxo

His Majesty comes to you again that night. And the next. And the next.

For two weeks, every night, his Majesty climbs into your bed. He’s grown softer in that time and his touches are kinder. He throws in a caress every now and then but the act is over quickly and though the discomfort is all gone now, you feel nothing more than his now familiar stretch, the heat as he releases within you, and then he’s up and gone before you’ve caught your breath.

It doesn’t even hurt that he leaves you. It’s routine.

You feel no rejection anymore. You sleep.

Finally, at least you can sleep.

In fact, you oversleep. You sleep for almost twelve hours every day and Nat grows increasingly worried.

“How are you feeling?” She’s wrapping you up in your thin white robe which clings and turns sheer as the residual water from your bath left on your skin is soaked up.

“I’m fine.” You follow after her, looking over her shoulder as she rummages through your wardrobe.

She moves dress after dress aside before she stops on an orange and white number with florals stitched into the voile skirt. The waistline is broken by golden ribbon with orange tails of the same material as the bodice that hang to the right side of your waist. Golden vines have been embroidered up and down along the long white sleeves to match those mirrored on the bodice.

When she turns, she bumps into you with a small ‘oof’.

“Your Majesty,” She laughs as you take a step back.

“Sorry.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” She checks again, holding the dress over her arm.

“Yes.” You smile at her, a real smile. You feel better. “That’s a pretty one.”

“It should be, you’re meeting with Steve today.” She explains and your heart suddenly clenches.

“What?” Your hands are clammy, your heart is pounding. Your lungs are suddenly struggling.

Why are you so anxious?

“His Majesty has asked me to get you ready. He will give you a proper tour of the castle and then he will discuss with you your duties as Queen. You’ll be with him all day.” She smiles as if this is a good thing.

And yes, okay, you’re a little excited you get to spend some much-needed one-on-one time with him. Maybe he’ll finally open up to you? It is depressing only seeing him when he comes to lay with you.

You’re not exactly sure what to do now that you’ll have to try and connect with him again though.

“What do I say to him?” You ask her, nervously dropping your robe as she moves to you with your underdress.

“What do you-?” Nat stops, hands spread between the dress as she stares at you with confusion.

You hold your hands out to her and she snaps out of her thought to slip your hands in the sleeves and then lead the underdress over your head.

She’s thinking very fast as she dresses you and doesn’t answer your question.

Once your outfit is complete and she’s got you sitting in front of your vanity to brush and do your hair—she puts an orange ribbon through it and then braids your hair around it—she watches your face as she works.

“Hasn’t Steve been coming to you at night?” She asks.

“Yes.” You reach out to pull over a small box which you open to find several rings inside. Some of them are simple gold and silver bands. Others have gems.

Your eyes are drawn to two thin bands; both are silver. One is a weave of two thinner bands that loop around each other like lattice work, the other is a very thin silver band with a small perfectly round blue gem.

You slip one onto your forefinger, the other onto your middle.

They feel weird.

“Then why don’t you know what to talk to him about?” She asks, looking as if she already knows the answer.

“What do you mean?” You nearly chuckle.

“Well, don’t you talk when he comes to see you?”

“No.” You finally meet her emerald eyes in her reflection. “He comes in, wakes me up sometimes when I’ve fallen asleep, he sleeps with me, sometimes he’ll lay beside me for a bit, but then he gets up and leaves. He’s never in here for more than an hour. At most.”

You take off the rings and put them back.

“So, he’s not even trying.” Nat says, not a question.

“I suppose he’s doing his best.” You tell her. “I didn’t marry him because I thought that he’d fall in love with me.”

You turn your eyes back to the box and open it again to look at the jewelry inside. You reach up to fidget with your necklace, tracing the star with your finger.

“I’d…I’d hoped that maybe he might have come to like me, but I didn’t know just how much he was still in love with Margaret.” You shrug, meeting Nat’s eyes again which stare at you with a sorrowful sympathy. “I have a good life, Nat. Before I came here, I worried about whether I would go to bed hungry or whether Martin Argus would come to my cottage to try and steal my virtue again. I was unprotected and alone and poor and…now I’m the Queen of a prosperous kingdom. I have jewelry that I’ll never wear and dresses that cost more than I could have earned in six months with my stitching.

“I’m not alone anymore. I have you and Peter and Bucky and…even his Majesty. I have a husband and hopefully soon I’ll have a baby. I’ll have my own family. I had nothing, Nat. Now I have everything.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“This is the garden. There are flowers of various types but we’re missing quite a few from the Southern countryside. Most of the ones we do have were grown by hired gardeners but that little plot just beyond the fountain is off limits.” His Majesty points across the cobbled path, over the teal waters of a limestone fountain, across the Snapdragons in varying shades of pinks, yellows, and purples, to a pavilion made of dark stones, deep oaks, with a sturdy slate roof.

Inside the pavilion is a bench with pale yellow cushions and a small table. Large blood red gerbera daisies surround the base and sit in a large vase to the left of the stairs that lead up into the cozy space.

You don’t have to ask why that spot is off limits.

With an ache in your chest you move around the fountain, staring at the gazebo you’ll never sit in until you’ve put it out of sight as you wander further into the maze of beautiful foliage in his Majesty’s massive garden.

It’s very structured. Most flowers kept together in various displays. It’s pretty but it lacks charm. There’s no real theme. Just flowers planted in a very orderly fashion.

His Majesty follows behind you. You walk until you reach a peach stone wall then turn to move down along a row of violets. The smells in the garden are sweet and rich. They saturate your hair and clothes and the breeze that flows in over the walls of the garden feels good.

“You won’t ask me why that pavilion is off limits?” His Majesty suddenly asks.

He’s speaking a bit more quietly. Intimately. There’s no one around but you and him so his easy volume feels personal. Peter stayed by the arched gateway to give you two some time alone. Nat and Bucky have no doubt snuck off for a bit of time alone themselves. You lost both of them about an hour ago when his Majesty took you through the enormous library on the second floor.

“In fact, you’ve been very quiet throughout the entire tour.” He observes.

“I have nothing to say.” You tell him. “And I don’t have to ask you why that place is off limits. I know, without you needing to say.”

You’re a little miffed and maybe you’re not as good at hiding it as you hoped.

“Margaret always spoke her mind.” He says, unknowingly driving a small nail through your chest.

You have only yourself to blame. You’d gotten enamored with him before you married him and only more so since. Even after he’s hurt you several times, you can’t find it in yourself to care less although you’ve gotten better at not showing the hurt.

“Tell me why you’re so quiet.” He asks, it’s not an order.

You turn to look at him and the sight of him nearly kills you. He’s heavenly in his primary blue tunic, white stitching highlights the fine fabric. His black undershirt and trousers draw focus to the pleasing way he fills it all out. His hair is still long and full, flowing yellow strands in the afternoon breeze.

And those eyes. So focused, so blue.

If you didn’t know better, you’d say that he can see right through you, but you know it’s the other way around.

What is he expecting you to say? That you’re disappointed? That you hate his castle? He’s made sure to point out the flaws of the architecture when he can, and he pointed out to you the lack of foreign language books in his library. He complained about the small size of his throne room and the room where balls and parties are to be held is too narrow.

The balcony where the musicians are to sit and play is too high up to truly enjoy the music, and the kitchens have a surprising amount of mold in its storage and the cooks seem to only cook the same things over and over.

He’s tried to get you to complain about something since the moment he began to lead you around and you know that he’s looking for fault in you. Something has to be wrong with you, he’s sure of it.

So, you give him what he wants.

“I haven’t said much because I don’t understand how someone with so much can find room to complain.” You stop and turn to face at him, meeting his eyes with all the courage you can muster. “You say that your stores in the kitchen have too much mold? There were four other closets above ground that most of that food could be moved to. A simple fix if you really wanted to remedy the problem.

“You said there isn’t enough variety in the dishes your cooks serve but I ate stale bread and cold beans for most of my life when I was in that school for my emotional problems so I don’t really see how you can complain about roasted chicken, pies, and cakes.”

“You said that your castle is crumbling on the first floor but the school I went to had a large hole in its roof. It was always too cold in the winter and too wet in the spring. I caught several colds and still have a little trouble breathing when it gets too humid.” This isn’t a complete lie. You did get sick often at home and you do still have trouble breathing but the condition didn’t develop in this fictional school that your father is supposed to have sent you to.

“Personally, I have never seen so many pretty flowers and if there is one flaw that I see it’s that you keep them all separated. For this garden to be truly beautiful you need only mix them in together. Then your garden will look like the Gods have blessed you with a small bit of heaven. It already smells wonderful here. How you can want more…?

“And if it’s a fault that you’re looking for in me, I can’t read. That’s why I didn’t say anything when we were in the library. You wish you had more books in foreign languages, but I can’t even read one in my own tongue. I can’t write. I received no lessons in history or arithmetic at my school.

“Your life of privilege…it’s a blessing, your Majesty. One that is not bestowed upon many. That’s why I’ve bee-”

“Tony sent you to a school where they didn’t teach you to read or write?” His Majesty interrupts, moving a step closer to you as his brow furrows with his frown.

His takeaway from the little speech you just gave surprises you and you open your mouth to respond but can’t find what to say.

“How often did you get sick?” He asks, stepping closer.

You blink, frazzled, heart pounding. “I…Enough that I struggle to breathe at times. It’s not uncommon. Most of those that I went to school with developed the same symptoms.”

“Does Tony know that you struggle to breathe?” He wonders, reaching out this time to place his hand around your arm showing a surprising amount of concern.

It’s throwing you and you can’t seem to think straight.

What is he doing? What is he saying? Why is he touching you?

“Wha-? I um…No.” You finally say. “He doesn’t. Didn’t. I was only back with him for a week before I came here to be with you, he had hardly any time to reacquaint himself with me.”

This is making Tony sound worse than what he really is. This isn’t right.

“But I hid it from him.” You add, hoping to remove some of the taint. “Every time he visited and when he came for me, I tried my best to present him with the daughter he deserved and not the one he was given. It’s not his fault that I was born broken.”

Steve frowns, sliding his hand down to your elbow before he releases it. “You’re not broken.”

He moves around you, rounding the corner and giving you a moment to catch your breath.

“Are you coming?” He asks, and you quickly follow.

He waits until you’re beside him and this time he walks with you.

“You’re right about my privilege.” He nods. “Sometimes I forget how good I have it here. Things are stressful. Being King and having responsibility over so many people isn’t easy. The stress of that can dim the brightness of what makes this life good. I didn’t mean to make you feel as if I were looking for a flaw. I just wanted to-”

“Yes, you did.” You cut him off, looking straight ahead as he turns to watch you. “I know that you don’t want me. I know that if you could trade my life for Margaret’s you would, and I think trying to find something very wrong with me helps you feel better about all of this. About having to marry me.

“I don’t want to replace your dead wife, your Majesty. I would never presume to think that I could. But I will do my duty. I will give you an heir and then I will step out of your way. I know that’s what you would prefer.”

He stays silent.

He doesn’t deny it.

He thinks as you walk, moving deeper into the garden until the only sounds you can hear are the shift of the wind, the twittering of birds, and the soft buzz of bees somewhere in a tree nearby. The soft hiss of both your feet as you step along the sparse cobbled path is mesmerizing in its repetitive nature.

“How did she die?” You ask him, fearful of upsetting him but you’ve been dying to know.

“Nat hasn’t told you?” He asks, surprisingly calm about it as he stops just as the two of you reach a small area, closed off with a stone bench nestled beside a pond where small fish nip at the surface as tiny flies land for a drink.

“I didn’t want to hear it from Nat.” You explain, moving to sit on the bench. You’ve been walking all day, up and down stairs without much of a break.

His Majesty watches you and when you’re seated, he moves to sit beside you, shoulders slumped as he stares at the pond and the purple, wine, and yellow irises that surround it.

“I don’t want to learn about you from someone else.” You continue.

He’s quiet for a while and the two of you sit in silence. You don’t interrupt whatever train of thought he’s on and he finally sighs.

“She fell off her horse.” He says, shaking his head. “It was nothing, at first. A swollen ankle. A small bump on the head. But she’d cut herself on a rock when she fell, and we didn’t see it right away. She didn’t feel it for a few days. By the time her fever set in, we were already too late.

“The infection spread. It did its damage and it took her from me.” His Majesty bites his lip, miles away from you back in the past. His eyes darken.

“I’m so sorry.” You whisper, afraid to disturb his grief.

“It’s a stupid reason to die.” He mutters darkly.

Then, as if he hadn’t been talking about her death, he moves on.

“You’ll start your duties tomorrow. You’ll visit the poor for an hour every day. Maggie used to pick a single day and visit for longer. She was very kind to those less fortunate. Maggie used to host the ladies at court for a while every day as well, and once a week she threw a small dinner for the ladies and their husbands.”

He looks at you, up and down as if assessing you.

“We probably shouldn’t do that until you can at least read.” He spits, maybe more aggressively than he means to.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, ashamed at your lack of education.

“Why are you apologizing?” He asks, upset. “You didn’t do it to yourself. Tony’s the one that should have made sure you were receiving a proper education. He throws you off to that school and then acts like you’re not even a part of his family for so many years then throws you at me so that you’re my problem…Maggie wouldn’t apologize for her circumstances. Stop apologizing.”

You shrink as his tirade lengthens and you look away, fearful that he might see the way his anger affects you.

“Maggie used to be up at dawn. I expect you to do the same. You’ll get lessons in the morning and in the afternoon, you’ll make your visits. On Fridays we receive the people to address their concerns. I expect you to be at my side every Friday. No exceptions.” He orders and then rises.

You make to get up, but he turns to look at you, is that contempt? It’s something. Not good. You’re not sure what.

“Stay out of that pavilion.” He warns. “And never bring up Maggie again.”

He leaves you sitting there, shaking and wondering why you’d had to open your mouth and ask about Margaret. Next time, you’ll just ask Nat.

You do as you’re told.

Your days all start to look the same.

You wake up, bathe, dress, eat breakfast, go to your lessons for four hours, have lunch, then you leave the castle to visit the poor. And that’s where you stay until Nat has to pry you away.

At first, you’re scared to get involved. You don’t remember any nobility in your father’s kingdom coming to visit but you were slightly better off than these people. You help them cook and you help them clean up the small homes they live in.

You aren’t a doctor and you can’t help in that sense but you can at least help make their living spaces cleaner.

Most of them remind you of your own little cottage only theirs seems to be falling apart at the seams.

When you realize how little money it costs to help make their homes a bit better—new roofs, patched floors, new lumber to reinforce walls and ceilings—you give up your own allowance to help get it done.

Fridays—since it’s the day of your shortest visit—are the day you dedicate to bringing them as much food as you can.

His Majesty had already started the practice of giving away food that isn’t eaten to the poor, but you take it a step further and set up locations around the castle city for donations of foods about to expire.

Many people donate when words gets out that the new Queen has started this new program.

With the influx of food, the poor are able to eat more regularly. It lightens your heart and you feel more at ease when you lay your head on your pillow at night.

Despite being able to see him more often during the day while you go to your lessons and then help him on Fridays with his people, it’s at this time that you spend the most time with his Majesty.

At night, he comes to you, when you’re on the brink of sleep after a tiring day.

For a while after your tour, his Majesty had only come in and done his deed, then left. Sometimes he would sit with you, ask about your day, but say very little himself.

Tonight, he sits at the end of your bed but doesn’t look at you.

You sit up, startled by his hesitance. By now he’d be on top of you, getting this part of his and your duties over with.

“My king?” You probe, staring at the taut lines of his back.

“Why are you staying so late in the villages?” He sounds tired, like he’s had a long day too.

Is he going to be mad at you for staying late?

“They need so much.” You explain. “I’ve been helping them with their mending. The children need clothes. The women also lack proper garb. Their houses were falling apart and the cost to help them is so little-”

“Is that what you’ve been using your allowance for? That money is so that you can get what you need.” His Majesty counters.

“I don’t need anything.” You laugh a little, just a small chuckle. “I have more dresses than I’ve ever had in my-”

Shit…wait…no. You were a princess. You are rich. You’ve had lots of dresses. Or so he thinks…

“-than I’ve ever had need to wear.” You quickly recover and hope he doesn’t realize your slip.

What would he do if he found out you were common? Just as poor as the people you help every day? Margaret was of noble birth. She deserved to be Queen.

“I have no need for anything else.” You assure him.

“Take some time off. You need to take care of yourself too.” He orders. “I saw you in the city yesterday. What were you doing?”

You scoot closer to him, pushing your sheets away as you slide to sit slightly behind him and to his right.

Excited, you can’t help but lean around to look at his face better. “I saw that you have the food we don’t eat here in the castle delivered to the poor and I thought…I’ve started a donation program with the churches and business in the city. People bring the food that they do not need or that is about to expire, and I have a few soldiers distribute it to the poor. The food will only last a day or two by the time they receive it but for some of them, it’s all they have.”

“Whose idea was that?” He looks over his shoulder at you, his exhaustion evident in his storm blue eyes.

“Mine.” Your brief excitement fades. He’s so tired. He looks so damn tired. “Have you not been sleeping?”

He ignores your question. “I’ll see what funds we have free so that those that help you get a small payout for their assistance.”

You hadn’t even thought of that. Of course, the good people letting you take donations at their places should get something in return.

“Thank you. You don’t mind my using a few of your soldiers to help me?” You almost whisper, heart soaring, butterflies in your stomach making your body hum.

“No. I don’t mind. They’re you’re soldiers too.”

This is the first time he’s included you in ownership of anything in the castle or kingdom. You feel like you could fly.

“I’m sorry that I snapped at you in the garden.” He says, remorse tainting his usually luscious deep tone.

You shake your head. “It’s alright. I shouldn’t have asked about Margaret.”

“I don’t know that I have the energy for you tonight.” He admits, sighing lightly and a startling thought occurs to you.

Does he consider it a chore? To sleep with you?

You don’t exactly find it fun either. It’s never felt like those girls back home said it would. Good? It just…you’re not even sure what to compare it to. Nothing you’ve ever felt before. Invasive a bit but you’re not unwilling.

Your heart however is full of disappointment that the few moments you get to have him all to yourself is nothing more than a task to be checked off his schedule.

“I’m at your leisure, your Majesty.” You can’t help the way you curl in on yourself again, feeling once more unwanted and out of place.

He scoffs a small laugh, there’s humor in it. “You make it sound like all I need you for is-”

He stops as he meets your eyes. His smile fades. There’s surprise in his eyes and you’re not sure what it means.

He swallows hard, blinking rapidly as he turns towards your fire and his fingers flex into a fist.

“Why aren’t you pregnant yet?” He suddenly asks, and you’re so startled by the question that you don’t know how to answer.

That tiny seedling of doubt and fear that has been growing in the depths of your soul for the six months that you and the king have been married…why haven’t you gotten pregnant yet? Every night for six months…something should have stuck. Is there something wrong with you?

Will he leave you if you can’t give him an heir? You’ll have to go back to father a failure. Will he then turn you out too? Everything depends on you holding up your end of the bargain.

“I don’t know. I’m-”

“Maggie was pregnant when she died. And we were only married three months.” His Majesty says, and although you know he doesn’t speak the words to hurt you…you feel like a failure. Once again, you don’t rise to the level at which Margaret was at. And, wait, she’d been pregnant when she passed?

So, his Majesty hadn’t lost one love of his life, but two?

“I’m trying.” You tell him, suddenly yearning to comfort him.

“If she could do it in less than three months, why can’t you? I only have six months left.” He tells you wiping way your compassion as fear takes its place once again.

What does he want you to do? What can you do? You’ve done what you should. You’ve been here for him. You’ve made no protest and you’ve made sure his seed is kept within you.

“Until you’re with child, you’re to stay here in the castle and keep yourself well. I’ll send for a doctor in the morning.” He gets up and moves to your door

“Yes, your Majesty.” You sigh, slide back into bed, and settle in for the night.

Strangely enough, you don’t hear your door close for a while. Almost as if his Majesty hadn’t left right away. What reason would he have to linger?

Your sleep is restless.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re depressed.” Nat says, Peter walking a few feet behind the two of you.

“I’m not.” You argue.

“She is.” Peter says.

“Hey!” You turn to look at him, throw him the book you’d brought down with you which he dodges easily then smiles as he turns and moves to pick it up.

You’re much better at reading now but you’re very slow. You try to keep a book with you at all times for practice.

“What’s wrong? Is it because Steve told you to stay in the castle?” Nat knows you too well.

“And because I’m still not pregnant.” You sigh. “The doctor said I was fine. So…why?”

“Maybe you’re both trying too hard? He’s got all the stress of the Kingdom on his shoulders, not to mention-”

Peter clears his throat.

“I’m not stupid, kid.” Nat tells him, frowning at him.

They exchange a significant look and you suddenly feel out of the loop.

“What, Nat?” You probe.

“And you’re not exactly stress free either. Since the moment you married Steve you’ve been on edge.”

That’s not what she was going to say. You narrow your eyes at her suspiciously. They’re keeping something from you. All of them.

This isn’t the first time something has seemed off. Sometimes you’ll catch Steve, Bucky, Sam, Nat, and Peter huddled together in the throne room or the library and when they see you they rush off in different directions.

What are they hiding?

“Maybe taking a break from trying is what’s best for both of you?” She nods.

“But it’s the only time I spend with him, except for Fridays in the throne room. And even then, he doesn’t look at me or speak to me. That time belongs to his people. If he would just…” You give up, defeated.

Stopping where you are, you turn to stare at Margaret’s pavilion and hate her just a little bit.

You shouldn’t. It’s wrong of you to hate her but you do. For a few moments, right now, you hate her for being here first. For winning his love so easily when you seem to struggle even for a shred of kindness.

He will never love you, but you still can’t give up. Something must make you this stupid. You should know by now that the King holds no regard for you whatsoever.

You’re a means to an end for him. His Queen in name alone. You are not the love of his life. You are to give him his heir and then you’re expected to slink into the background where he’ll never have to deal with you again.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Where is she?”

“She’s in her room.” Bucky informs him. “Not happy about it, but she’s safe. Natasha’s helping her pick something out for dinner.”

“Mm.” Steve nods.

“Is it wise to host this dinner tonight? All of those people? All of them watching the two of you. Most of them know you don’t love her, but they’ll be expecting to see a united front.” Bucky explains. “Can you give them that? Can you pretend for a night?”

“Am I wrong to ask her to stay in the castle?” Steve wonders, ignoring Bucky completely or maybe he just didn’t hear him?

“I don’t think so. But I think you’re wrong to order her to. You didn’t ask her, Steve. You and I both know that you told her to do it and gave her no room to argue.” Bucky shakes his head and Steve watches him with annoyance. “She’ll do anything you ask her to.”

Steve knows and hates that. He hates that you’re so compliant. He wants you to tell him no. To fight and argue with him. He feels like you’re not being yourself. As if he broke you that first night and since then you’ve cowered and given way to every one of his wishes and whims.

“Will you take a break? From sleeping with her?” Bucky wonders, keeping his voice quiet as he and Steve pace through the garden, the fading light of sunset burning with a soft orange glow as it paints the sky a pink blush.

“How can I? It’s been six months and she still isn’t pregnant. I need to get this done before the year is out.” Steve sighs, frustrated.

“You’re letting all of these outside issues affect both of you. Why can’t you just stop thinking about what you should or shouldn’t be doing and just…I don’t now…get to know her? Just be there for her. She’s already there for you. Would it kill you to focus on her for a change?”

“I am focusing on her.” Steve argues, and he really is but no one can see inside his head.

“Says the man in head-to-toe black. You didn’t even tell her what today was, did you?”

Steve hates it when Bucky knows him this well.

“It’s none of her business.”

“Horseshit.” Bucky spits. “There’s paying your respects, Steve and then there’s wallowing. You’ve been wallowing for three years now. When are you going to let yourself be happy?”

Steve stops, staring at the pavilion with it’s red daisies swaying in the evening breeze.

“She’d want you to be happy. If she could see you and the way you’ve been—what would she say?” Bucky asks, waiting as Steve stares at the place he’d first asked his first wife to marry him.

That had been the beginning of his life. Steve had chosen his Queen and they’d begun down a road that he would have braved fearlessly with her at his side. He’d been so ridiculously happy that he hadn’t anticipated a time when things would not be right.

Then she was taken from him and he was stuck in this world without her.

He thinks back to last night, your eyes cast down at your bed as the disappointment radiates off your womanly form.

“I’m at your leisure, your Majesty.” You’d said, as if you exist only for his amusement. To be used and discarded.

Steve couldn’t believe the look in your eyes, the clarity of your emotions on display by body language alone.

He’s made you feel small and unwanted. Which is ridiculous.

It’s not that he doesn’t want you. More and more you’re on his mind.

You’re in his thoughts when he wakes, but then Margaret is there, and he feels guilty.

You’re the best part of his day, when he gets to go see you in passing in the library while you’re busy with your studies or those moments he’s with you in front of his people.

As desperately as he’d tried to find something wrong with you, he’d failed. He does want you, but something happens between the moment that he walks into your room to make love to you and the act itself.

Something stops him from letting go and he can feel it in you, the stiffness with which you hold your body as he takes you, that you aren’t there with him.

Is that because of that first time? When he’d hurt you? Are you afraid of him?

Fuck.

You’re so smart despite the lack of education you received at that school Tony had sent you to. You’re compassionate and so damn kind. You’ve done more for the people of his kingdom than anyone else ever did. Your empathy is unparalleled, and he knows that you’re too good for him.

“Steve?” Bucky checks, as Steve hasn’t said anything for several minutes.

Steve sighs, knowing exactly what Maggie would have told him.

“She’d tell me to hold onto what I have. She’d tell me to see what I’d lose if I don’t start to appreciate Y/N for what she’s worth.”

He shakes his head.

“What?”

“I’ve never made her smile. Not once.” Steve admits.

“Margaret?” Bucky asks, confused.

He can remember Maggie laughing and smiling with Steve all the time.

“No. Not Maggie. Y/N.” As he turns to walk towards the gate, he reaches for a pale pink peony and gently cuts it from its stem. These flowers smell like you. They remind him of you, every time he sees them. “Do you think this will make her smile?”

He looks at his friend and as Bucky follows, he smiles at Steve, tilting his head to the right as he stares at the flower.

“I don’t know. But it’s a good place to start.”

Steve thinks so too.

[stovetuna]

Hi, I hope you’re having a wonderful holiday season first of all! Second, if you’re feeling it, maybe Blind Date AU for Steve and Tony? Ty!!💖

PEACHY!! of course, darling, anything for you. Setting this in an amorphous MCU timeline again because I’m working on stretching my 616 writing muscles on another fic ;) 

- - - 

Steve knows it’s going to be a long night the moment he receives a text from Natasha that simply reads: Carbone. 1800. Wear the blue shirt.He’s tried—countless times, in fact—to dissuade her from doing this. It’s been a running joke between them for years, ever since that first time in the back of the C-130. 

Too scared? 

Too busy.

It’s not that he’s averse to the idea of being with someone. Far from it—he craves exactly that in ways he can’t articulate, not to Natasha, not to Sam, not to anyone. Sometimes, not even to himself. But the idea of dating, especially being set up on blind dates, makes something twist and sour in Steve’s stomach. The thought of being pushed into something despite his wishes because other people think it’s what he wants, or that dating is something expected of the unattached, is deeply upsetting. 

Plus, his life is complicated enough as it is. Adding an unsuspecting stranger to the mix would only complicate more. And how would he explain it to them, his life? How could he ask for understanding when what he does is so outside the scope of the average person’s day-to-day reality? How could he ask anyone to wait up for him, not knowing if he’d make it back to them alive? In what universe would that be fair to a partner? 

It’s not. That’s the point. Nor is it the point that he’s been nursing a crush on a certain someone on the team for the past year, a man so far out of his league it makes Steve’s head spin. That’s just background noise, at this point, an asterisk at the end of a sentence: Steve Rogers is not interested in dating.* 

*Unless your name happens to be Tony Stark.

Steve’s fingers hover over the phone screen, deliberating in his head how to respond to Nat’s text. The way she’s written it is different from her previous attempts at matchmaking. No so-and-so from such-and-such is nice, you should ask her out. I met this random guy during a raid yesterday, I got his number for you. Want it? This one’s come to him like a gift of flowers, beautifully arranged and packaged, leaving no way for him to bow out of it without coming across like an asshole. 

He shudders to imagine what Nat would have to text the person she’s trying to set him up with if he did: sorry, Captain America is a huge wuss. Feel free to order something to go, on me.

On the one hand, she means well. She knows Steve is lonely for companionship in ways his friends and the Avengers can’t satisfy. She might even know about his crush on Tony and this is her way of trying to help him past it. On the other hand, Nat is a notorious troll, and she could just be doing this to him for laughs. But it has been a long time since he’s gone on a date, even if he does hate the practice pretty much on the whole. One more for the sake of a stranger’s feelings won’t kill him. 

Fine, he texts back, but you’re my sparring partner for the next two weeks. 

Natasha’s response is so lightning fast it would make Thor dizzy.  

Worth it. 

Steve wears the blue shirt. He also goes to the effort of ironing his black slacks and polishing his dress shoes, because he knows Carbone’s reputation as the kind of place one goes to make an impression and/or be impressed. Tony talks about it all the time. “Oh my God, Steve, their spicy rigatone alla vodka is so good, it’s actually sinful,” he’d told him once. Steve had watched Tony’s eyes glaze over and his tongue slowly slide out to lave his bottom lip, obviously salivating at the thought of some random pasta dish, and it had taken just about everything in Steve’s power not to launch himself across the kitchen counter and chase Tony’s tongue with his. 

“I’m sure I’ll try it at some point,” he’d replied instead, pinching his thigh hard enough to dissuade his blood from flowing further south. 

At 4:30, Steve looks himself over in the full-length mirror in his bedroom. The black jacket seems overbearing for early summer, and he wonders if it’s worth keeping on. Should he bring it just in case? Is the tie too much? It feels like too much, especially after thinking about Tony and his tongue. Now he’s hot under the collar, about to go on a date with someone else. Damn it. Steve wrenches the black silk knot loose and pulls the whole thing off. It goes on the bed, along with the jacket. He unbuttons his shirt to the clavicle and rolls up the sleeves. (Tony has visibly admired his forearms enough times for Steve to make a deliberate habit of it.)

But Tony flirts with everyone, Steve reminds himself, and then he’s out the door. He opts to walk across town and down 12th Avenue, what should be a long walk along the Hudson shortened considerably by his long legs and enhanced speed. It’s one of those beautiful New York days, long, late May sunlight lingering in the clear blue sky even as Steve turns the corner onto Thompson Street at 5:45. It’s breezy but not chilly, warm but not stifling. People are everywhere, happy, flushed and bubbling over with spring fever. Even the hardened locals aren’t immune to it—Steve spots a grizzled bar owner just down the street who’s leaning against an old brownstone, face tipped up toward the sky, lips pulled tight in a barely contained smile. 

It reminds Steve distinctly of Tony, how his eyes crease deeply at the corners when he grins.

You’re supposed to be nervous about this date, Steve reminds himself as he opens the door to the restaurant. He’s immediately enveloped in dark tones of bluish green and the smooth voice of Frank Sinatra. He’s early, but the staff brings him through immediately to an intimate but decently large corner table in the back. A waiter, bald-headed but sporting an impressive mustache and wearing the hell out of a purple three-piece suit, pours Steve a glass of champagne and another for his date, who’s starting to cut it close, time-wise. 

At 5:56, Steve glances at his watch and takes a sip of water, opting to watch the bubbles in the champagne glass rise to the surface and pop instead of drinking it outright. At 6:08, the same waiter refills his water glass. They make small talk even as Steve fidgets under the tablecloth. In all of his gearing up for this blind date, the thought had never crossed his mind that the other person might be the one to duck out. 

Averse to dating as Steve is, he can’t say the thought of being stood up on a blind date doesn’t sting a little bit, even as it drives home his rationale for avoiding the entire practice in the first place. At least he’ll have ammunition against Natasha the next time she tries her hand at matchmaking. 

By 6:20, the back room is filled and noisy with other dinner guests, many of whom are also on dates and are doing a terrible job of pretending not to glance pityingly at Steve and the two untouched champagne glasses on his table. Steve sighs and shrugs at the waiter (his name is Duncan, Steve learned during Refill Number Three), who’s come by to refill his water glass again. How many does that make? Five? Six? Duncan glances at the empty seat across from Steve and shakes his head.

“It happens,” he says, genuine sympathy (but mercifully no pity) writ large across his middle-aged face. “In any case, you probably dodged a bullet. Want something a little stronger?”

Steve remembers telling Tony he’d try the spicy rigatoni alla vodka if he ever came here. Reservations to Carbone are hard to come by, and he should seize the opportunity while he can, even if it’s bittersweet. “Thanks. That’s okay. I think I’ll just—”

A man’s flustered voice appears suddenly from behind Duncan, cutting through the noise, words spilling out in a rush. Steve notices heads whipping around to gawk, bug-eyed, at whoever’s just appeared.

“God, I’m so sorry I’m late, usually I’m never late to this kind of thing but there was a malfunction with the—with the thing, and…I…uh…”

The man’s words trail off as Duncan steps aside to let him through to his seat. Steve is standing—when did he stand up?—and realizes with a jolt (and an unmistakable, overwhelming ka-thump of his heart) that he’s looking directly at Tony Stark, whose face has gone an endearingly bright shade of red, almost the same shade as the armor. 

“Steve?”

“Uh,” Steve is too distracted by the furious blush currently working its way past Tony’s pristine white shirt collar to respond at first. “Hi, Tony. Wanna, uh, have a seat?” Nailed it. 

“Sure…” Tony sounds skeptical. That’s fair. He’s probably already sussed out that this date wasn’t Steve’s idea. 

Duncan, to his credit, says nothing as he fills Tony’s water glass. But Steve doesn’t miss the warning look the waiter shoots him as Tony tips his head back for a drink, or the way Tony’s face goes slightly pale as he sets the glass back down on the table, chastised. 

Once they’re alone, the other diners seem to quickly get over the initial shock of seeing Iron Man and Captain America on a date together and go back to their own meals. The air in the room is fragrant with the smell of four-star Italian food, but Steve’s stomach is too tightly wound now to appreciate it. 

Tony breaks the silence. He always was braver than Steve gave him credit for. 

“So,” he says, “Going by your poleaxed expression I take it you weren’t expecting me.”

It’s not a question. Steve laughs hoarsely. “Yeah, you could say that.” More like you’re the last person I expected but I am so fucking happy you’re here. He doesn’t say it, but at least Tony looks more relaxed now. Smiling, they both take a sip of champagne simultaneously.

“D’you think Nat and Clint placed bets on whether or not one of us would cancel?” Steve asks. Tony laughs outright. Not for the first time, Steve watches Tony break out into a smile and wonders if the heat he feels is a blush or the fact that looking at Tony when he’s grinning like that is like looking at the sun—bright and dangerous and so unbelievably warm. Steve takes another drink of champagne to calm himself.

“Well, since they know you and I are so stubborn we’d both rather show up for a pre-arranged blind date at one of the most-booked restaurants in the city than flake, I’d say the bet’s based on whether or not we appear in the communal kitchen tomorrow morning together or separately.” 

Steve chokes on bubbles. Tony laughs again. 

“Hickies optional, obviously,” he says gamely, winking at Steve, whose shoulders are creeping up toward his ears. “We could just muss ourselves up before we get home and they’d never know the difference.” 

“Tony, they’re literally professional spies. Of course they’d know.” 

“I have my ways, Cap. Do not doubt my ways.”

“I don’t doubt your ways, Tony,” Steve manages from behind the sudden tightness in his throat, “But we’re talking about Natasha Romanoff.”

“You mean the woman who almost gave you a hard-on when she kissed you on an escalator in D.C.?” 

Tony is still laughing gleefully (while Steve’s burning face is still buried in his hands) when Duncan arrives with two oversized menus. Steve waves at Tony when he offers to order for them, too embarrassed at having learned that Tony knows about the D.C. incident to speak for himself, at least for the moment. Besides, Tony knows everything he likes. (Well, almost everything.) 

They breeze past awkward and straight into comfortable after that. Tony apologizes for being late again and Steve shuts him up with bread. 

“Eat this and you can work it off with me later.” 

Tony waggles his eyebrows at him and says, “Promise, Cap?” with a gleam in his eye that Steve resolutely does not read into.

“In the gym, Tony.”

The food is delicious and borderline excessive, coming in wave after wave along with wine and bread and cheese and free courses compliments of the chef, and by the second hour of their meal even Steve’s increased metabolism is starting to feel sluggish. Of course, that’s when Duncan places a massive, beautiful, steaming bowl of rigatoni alla vodka on their table. The smell of it alone is enough to rouse him. 

“Holy shit,” Steve whispers as he ducks his head over the bowl to catch a bigger whiff of the red pepper-and-cream sauce, just loud enough he knows Tony will hear him. The other man giggles. It’s too fucking cute. Steve has to remind himself for the millionth time that this is not actually a date, because the words are right on the tip of his tongue.

“I told you!”

“Yeah, you did,” Steve answers, smiling at Tony as warmly and happily as he feels. This isn’t a real date, but he’s still having a fantastic dinner with his best friend and crush, so it’s a fun, memorable night for him either way. Steve dishes a heaping spoonful of rich, glossy pasta onto Tony’s plate first, too preoccupied to notice Tony glancing at his mouth before he takes another drink of light red wine (the price of which Duncan didn’t mention and at this point Steve doesn’t want to know). 

“I like the look you’ve got going on, by the way. Very devil-may-care. How long did it take you to decide against the jacket and tie?” Tony asks once Steve’s finished doling out pasta for himself. God, it’s so easy to laugh with Tony. The man is hilarious, sure, but little things like that—things that only Tony would think to ask Steve because they know each other so well and he likes making fun of Steve’s idiosyncrasies, likes making Steve loosen up and laugh at himself—make Steve feel like the champagne he drank earlier: bubbly, light, happy. 

He could spend five, six, ten more hours at this table. He could spend all of his time with Tony Stark and it still wouldn’t be enough. But there is only so much of himself and his time Tony seems willing to give, romantically or otherwise, and Steve’s made his peace with that. Mostly. 

It does help that Tony seems willing to give Steve a lot of his time anyways.

And no one—not even Tony—will know if Steve indulges himself by pretending, if only for a minute or two, that actually is a date.

“Only a few seconds. Natasha did the lion’s share of the work picking the shirt out for me,” Steve replies, blowing gently on his forkful of pasta, saliva pooling in the back of his mouth as he watches the steam trail off it before taking a bite. “Why, do you think I should have kept th—oh my god,” he groans mid-sentence, eyes rolling up into his head. Chewing slowly, Steve claps a hand over his mouth to muffle the lewd moan that threatens to escape him as bold, decadent flavors burst on his tongue. Tony was right—this stuff is sinful. 

Steve’s so wrapped up in the food he’s eating that he almost, almost misses Tony muttering Jesus under his breath. It doesn’t sound embarrassed or insulted. When he opens his eyes, Steve finds Tony watching him so avidly, it’s hard to notice anything else other than the way the man’s pupils have dilated considerably and is leaning forward, almost over the bowl. 

Tony licks his lips. Steve tries hard not to stare. 

“Sorry,” he says with a chuckle in an attempt to diffuse tension, “but that stuff is ridiculously good.” Steve’s really glad he didn’t wear the tie now, given how hot under the collar he feels all of a sudden. Tony’s looked at him a lot of ways, but never like that—like the only thing stopping him from launching himself across the table at Steve is the table, itself. “I can see why you’re always raving about it.” 

“Steve,” Tony says. He hasn’t touched his pasta. The fork is just kind of there in his hand, like he’s forgotten he’s even holding it. Steve looks at him again. 

“What? Did I get some on my face?” he asks, retrieving his napkin and wiping his mouth with it. Tony makes a rough, strangled sound in the back of his throat and, when drowning it with wine doesn’t help, puts his fork all the way down on the table and buries his face in his hands. 

“I can’t do this,” Tony whines. The conversations happening around them are loud, but not so loud Steve doesn’t hear him say it. The words cut him like a cold knife sharply through the middle. His head feels woozy, and not in the airy fun way it should be after drinking good wine for two and a half hours. How did things end up here so quickly? A minute ago Steve was having a religious experience and now Tony face is ashen and drawn. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Oh god,” Tony groans, “please, do not apologize. It’s me. It’s very much me.” 

This seems like a fork-down conversation. Steve places his on the table and tries not to glance longingly at the pasta on his plate. Steve knows when Tony is gathering himself to speak, which is exactly what’s happening now, so he waits  and doesn’t eat. He does take a drink, though. That much feels appropriate.

“Just so I’ve got it right,” Tony finally says after an unbearably quiet moment, a palm pressed against his own forehead, “you definitely had zero input vis à vis this whole blind date setup?” 

He’s deliberately not looking at Steve when he asks it. If Steve could put a word to his expression, he’d say Tony looks downright despondent at the idea, even if they’d already established earlier that yes, this thing was entirely Nat’s idea because she’s an unrepentant troll. 

The dissonance doesn’t make sense. But it does put hope in Steve’s heart where there wasn’t any before. 

“I didn’t,” he says, watching Tony’s face intently. He knows it so well at this point, he can tell when Tony’s smile is fake or real, when he’s wounded and won’t admit it, when he’s tired but can’t sleep. So Steve notices all too easily when the corner of Tony’s mouth dips down, a fraction of an inch of a frown, before he recovers with a laugh and claps his hands. 

“All good then,” Tony chuckles, but he won’t look Steve in the eye anymore. He picks up his fork and starts to tuck in, chewing so fast it’s like he’s racing toward a finish line Steve can’t see and doesn’t know how to keep from approaching, except—

“Why,” Steve blurts out, stopping Tony mid-chew, “were you hoping I did?” 

Tony’s eyes fly open but are heavily guarded when he looks back at Steve from across the table. No take-backs, Steve tells himself. 

Tony puts down his fork again. 

“What if I did?” he counters. 

“You can’t answer my question with a question, Tony,” Steve says, smirking when Tony’s expression flickers. 

“Watch me.”

“I am.” 

“Steve.”

“Tony.”

Tony huffs. Before he can cross his arms defensively, before either of them can think another thought, Steve reaches out with both hands, pulls Tony forward by the front of his too-nice shirt and kisses him, fast and firm and warm. The kiss is a point being made more than anything else, but a point nonetheless. 

Tony’s lips are yielding and taste faintly of wine and carpaccio piemontese. Kissing him feels more right than Steve could have imagined (and he’d imagined a lot, elaborately and often). One peck and he knows without a doubt he could kiss Tony for hours. But that’s all besides the point. The point is now, Tony knows. 

Before he can pull away and apologize (again) for his behavior, Steve feels more than hears Tony sigh against his lips. Then Tony tilts his head a fraction and suddenly Steve’s the one being kissed. Thoughts of anything alla vodka fly out of his head in a rush as Tony licks the closed seam of his lips and tongues him deep and slow when they open. Steve’s fingers are still grasping the front of the Tony’s shirt; he knows he should release him and stop this while things are still relatively PG. Instead Tony nibbles on his bottom lip and Steve releases that lewd moan he’d held back a few minutes ago right into Tony’s mouth. 

Steve has just enough brainpower left to remember that 1) they’re surrounded by onlookers, and 2) if they keep going like this, Duncan’s going to have to throw them out. Would that really be such a bad thing, his lizard brain supplies, unhelpfully. 

Decided, Steve lets go of Tony’s shirt with a gasp. They both fall back into their chairs with a whoosh. Between them, the steam rising off the rigatoni alla vodka swirls, disturbed by the sudden breeze, then continues curling lightly upwards like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Like Steve’s entire life wasn’t just irrevocably changed, upended, by a single kiss. 

Picking up his fork, Steve licks the taste of Tony from his lips as he looks across the table at his date and takes another bite of pasta. Tony looks back. He looks hungry. 

“What did I tell you,” Tony says when Steve moans softly again. This time, he doesn’t miss the way Tony stares lingeringly at his mouth like he wants another taste. “Sinful.”

- - -

Send me an AU prompt! 

[wolfye]

Mysticon Reboot Ref Sheet

Hey Mysticon fandom, I know you're starved for content, so take my notes on what I think the reboot should look like. Well not what it would look like, just kinda my ideas and rewrites for the rewrite I'm doing. And don't steal these desgins/ repost, thanks. This is my own perosnal thing I'm putting on my tumblr because I can search for it later. So, uh, Enjoy!

Arkanya Goodfey

Age: 16

Appearance:

She is tall and fit female with chestnut brown eyes with flecks of gold, porcelain skin, and deep ruby fusion hair. Her face is almost always in frown, but it is often treated with anti aging cream.Her face is pristen, and so is her skin. She has incredible posture, and quite skinny. Her casual clothes is a short dress up to her thighs with a long sleeve shirt with no shoulders underneath.She wears fancy jewelry as a reminder to others that she is royalty, as well as white tights. Her mysticon emblem is worn as a hair pin.

Personality:

Although she does have a sharp sense of duty and is incredibly clever, she is also very self absorbed and snobby. She believes that because she is royal, she is better than everyone else. She is also quite snobby, insisting that she only get the best in things. However, she would throw all of that away for the safe return of her family and friends.

Alter Ego: Mysticon Dragon Mage

Mysticon of: Dragons

Weapon: Staff of Dragonfire

Costume description: Arkanya wears a deep green A-Line dress. Long sleeves connect to fingerless gloves. She wears white tights and slip on shoes. Her Mysticon pin appears on her hair. She now wears a green mask, grows two demon horns, small wings, and a tail.

Powers: Able to shoot fire and communicate through her staff. She has incredible agility and telekinesis powers. Her ultimate is shooting a green dragon off her wrist, and in a very rare case, ultimately powered up, is able to transform into a dragon.

Zarya Moonwolf

Age:16

Appearance:

Skinny and boney from being on the streets for almost her entire life, Zarya is quite lean and underweight. She has a female figure with goldish eyes like a wolf, in an almond shape. She has short dark chocolate brown hair that is folded over one side. Her skin is porcelain. She wears a long black tank top and blue jeans. She also wears a choker necklace with a crescent moon. Her Mysticon emblem is underneath her shirt on her belt.

Personality:

As short tempered and untrusting as she may be, she is extremely smart and tough. She’s extremely street smart and tomboyish, as well as protective of those she likes. This is seen with Pyper, who she considers a little sister. Although considered one of the smarter team members, she’s an act first, asking questions later type of gal. She definitely holds grudges, and is not trusting of anyone. The only person she remotely trusts is Pyper. She is also a quick thinker on her feet and sarcastic.

Alter Ego: Mysticon Ranger

Mysticon of: Wolves

Weapon: Bow of Lightning

Costume description: She wears a short dress in a bright denim blue, with an overcoat jacket without sleeves in another deep blue. She also wears a thin cape that wraps around her body at the scarf. A hood covers her head, but blue wolf ears stick out. Her hair becomes a dark blue color. She also has a blue tail and a blue mask. Photo of what the costume resembles:

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/475129829438256451/ or https://www.pinterest.com/pin/271623421260862992/

Powers:

Able to hit people with her lightning arrows and shoot nets out of them. She communicates through her bow on rare occasions. She has incredible agility and an interesting ability to shapeshift. It is very hard for her to do however, so she refrains from using that power too often. Her ultimate is a Wolf Bracer, and very rarely when superpowered, she may transform into a spirit wolf.

Pyper Willowbrooke

Age:116

Appearance:

A short and honey skinned elf with long thin ears. She has long garney red hair that is pull out of face by a half ponytail. Her long hair still remains out though, like Amity’s hair but longer. Her eyes are a bright parakeet green. She wears a white tank top cut above her stomach and red jean overalls with no legs. Her Mysticon emblem pin is on her hair, attached to her hairband keeping her ponytail in place.

Personality:

Pyper is extremely happy-go-lucky and naive. She is quite energetic, a morning person, cheerful, and hyperactive. She often can’t read a room, and is not good at keeping secrets or responsibilities. She is also a bit crazy, always talking to herself. She isn’t the brightest either, but makes up for it in dedication.

Alter Ego: Mysticon Striker

Mysticons of: The Phoenix

Weapon: Hoops of Fire

Costume description: A tea length dress in a gradient fire color as well as ribbons wrapped around her. She wears red ballet slippers and ribbons wrap her legs. Small golden wings appear on her back, and they can grow so Pyper can fly. Her mask is a reddish color.

Powers:

Able to throw fire hoops that can make things catch on fire and bring them together to make one big one. Her hoop has communication ability. She has agility and the ability to command fire and fly. Fire is really her main power, because she can throw it at will. Flying is more of a passive power because of her wings.

Emerald Goldenbraid

Age:15

Appearance:

Emerald is a beautiful dwarf who is a little taller than Pyper. She is a little on the chubby side, and does have a love for good food. She has long golden hair that is tied into a downwards ponytail and an undercut. Her eyes are mauve purple and she has small freckles dot her face. She is a light tan color. Em wears a green wooly sweater over a black tank top that shows one shoulder. She also wears ebony black jeans and steel toed boots. Her Mysticon emblem is attached to a black beanie.

Personality:

Em is very curious and clever, being book smart but not so good at making social decisions. She has a huge heart and a very big love of animals. She has a good sense of responsibility, and is quite gullible.She is also almost as naive as Pyper.She’s also a romantic, loving a good romance story. She’s very cheesy.

Alter Ego: Mysticon Knight

Mysticon of:Unicorns

Weapon: Sword and Shield

Costume Design:

Something like this but she has a unicorn horn, tail, and it’s in different shades of pink and purple:

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/199776933458247102/

Powers:

Able to summon a sword and shield.Her special power is the ability to summon shields and barriers. She has exceptional agility and a unicorn bracer ultimate.

[caiminnent]

catch me when I fall (from grace) [shaundes, rated T/M]

Prompt: reluctant caretaker (@badthingshappenbingo​, 6/25)

Summary:

Sometimes—at the worst of times—he thinks they had it easy, back then; the four of them playing house, trying to save the world without a thought to what comes after.

Congratulations, they did it—now there’s bills to pay.

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed

Tags: Alternate Universe - The Assassins Won, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Blood and Injury, Post-Break Up

Notes: Also written for @acmodernz​, which was a lot of fun to be a part of. Go check it out!

4k || Also on AO3

He doesn’t bother with questions anymore.

Before, he would insist on learning all that he humanly could about any situation he was to be tangentially involved in and many he wouldn’t even skirt close to. His mind has always been like that, a terrain of whens and whos and whys, and being on the losing side of a war didn’t help his need to know, either—being on the listening side of countless deaths as he desperately tried to scramble up a connection through whichever line or feed he could get his hands on to direct whoever still remained—if anyone at all—into safety, the mission long aborted.

Nowadays, though, he only asks where, scribbles down the address on the corner of the nearest clean sheet of paper and gets up to throw on some street clothes.

Truth be told, he didn’t know there was a bar left in the city that Desmond had yet to get kicked out of.

------

Even with his back to the door—especially with his back to the door—Desmond is easy to spot on a low-backed stool by the far end of the counter, that hoodie giving him away like a beacon. He’s talking to the bartender—rather, the bartender is talking at him and he presumably responds, most of his face hidden behind the hand he’s tentatively touching on a thin line of white at his forehead.

The dread pooled in Shaun’s gut grows only heavier.

As the bartender moves to the short line that materialised on the other end of the counter, something round in hand, he charts a path through and follows it, doing his best not to touch any of the tables. Desmond is staring down at the half-full glass in front of him, one hand still at the butterfly bandage over his left brow, the other resting on the counter, the reds of his knuckles standing out brightly. Whatever trouble Desmond must have gotten himself into this time, it seems a tad more complicated than having had a little too much.

It would’ve been so easy, turning on his heel and walking straight out of this shithole before he’s spotted. He may have come this far—doesn’t owe it to Desmond to go the extra mile. He could just drive back home, switch off his phone, bury himself in his bed and let someone else save Desmond from himself for once—

Who, though?

“Lucky thing they let you in, looking like that,” he comments as he takes the empty seat next to Desmond. Smelling like that, too, he might add, now that he is close enough; not the sharp drowned in a bottle stench he had expected, but sweat and grime and something else that tickles his nose in all the worst ways.

Desmond’s shoulders tense up, for all he tries to hide it under turning in his stool. “Hello to you, too,” he grumbles, dropping his hand to send him a glare.

Shaun’s stomach slowly sinks to his feet, taking everything on its path with it.

Between the swollen right eye—almost shut, purpling around the edges—and the long scrape down his left cheek, disappearing into his scruff, there doesn’t seem to be anywhere on Desmond’s face left untouched. Even his nose looks wrong somehow—though that might also be the crappy overhead lights—and while his face is carefully cleaned, no trace of blood or anything, his clothes tell of a different story entirely.

He reaches out on instinct to touch where Desmond’s freshly busted his lip—Desmond pulls back before it makes contact, looking away.

Entirely too aware of his heartbeat, he latches his fingers together in his lap, taking a deep breath that does nothing to help the tightness in his chest. “Keep going like this and you won’t get to skate by your looks much longer,” he says, because if he doesn’t say something, he’s going to fucking burst.

Desmond glares at him through the one eye, scowl dragging deeper—then glances at a spot above Shaun’s head, straightening up. Shaun turns as well, to find the bartender approaching them with a—thankfully, clean-looking—rag full of ice, a purple pin that reads “THEY/THEM” shining over the black of the apron.

The bartender gives him only a passing glance, a quick size-up before turning and handing the bundle to Desmond, who takes it with a mumble of thanks and holds it on his eye. They reach over the counter to fix his grip, casual as you please.

The taste in his mouth turns sour.

“How’s the head?” they ask Desmond gently, open concern lining their face as they peer down at him.

Desmond winces, which seems to pass for a response. With the offending eye covered, he looks even more wretched somehow, the rest of his injuries on better display. Shaun hadn’t noticed how gaunt his cheeks have gotten, the fading spread of bruises on his face, in too many different shades to be all from today—or, possibly, even the same day.

What in the world has the bloody idiot been up to all this time?

Leaving Desmond with the bundle, the bartender turns to finally look at Shaun—through him, more accurately, as if they could get his background check and an X-ray with one glance. He firmly believes that he should be the one to dish out the suspicious glares, given the circumstances, but he’s not particularly adamant on arguing the point.

“Shaun, was it,” they say without extending their hand, not quite a question.

This tone he recognises, at least. “It was,” he confirms, making no move to extend his, either. “And you’re the mysterious voice on the phone, I take it.” Not what he was expecting to find on this side, admittedly.

“MJ,” they say with a single nod. “Mighty nice to finally put a face to the name, I’ll say.” They tilt their chin to Desmond, who has that glare fixed in MJ’s direction now, drumming his fingers on the countertop. “Dessie here told me all about you.”

Did he now. Dessie sure as hell didn’t breathe a word to him about MJ. “All good things, I’m sure.”

“Good enough that I’ll let you take him home and fix him up,” they say, sweeping a hand widely as if they’re making a generous concession on his behalf.

Right. That’s why he’s here—because he was chosen.

“And I’ll thank you for the privilege,” he says with an overplayed nod of thanks, not bothering to keep the resentment out of his tone. This whole exchange—it’s nothing more than an elaborate hand-over.

MJ leans over the counter on their hands and looks at him squarely, all hard eyes on too soft a face. Desmond always did have a type. “If you’d rather leave him here and walk away, be my guest,” they offer, grinning with too many teeth. “Your number wasn’t the only one on his phone.”

As if.

He slowly straightens up on his stool, resting his forearms on the edge of the counter. At this angle, they’re about eye to eye, he and MJ. “Probably not,” he agrees, cordial enough even as his face tingles at the jab, all his blood rushing north. “But it was the only one that would answer a call from him at this hour.”

Too harsh? Perhaps, but that doesn’t make it any less true. He knows better than to fool himself; Desmond didn’t pick him for his gentle touch and stellar company.

Ignoring the hollowing of his gut, he half-turns to Desmond. “Ready when you are.”

“’m ready now,” Desmond mutters to the counter. Shaun nods, reaching for his pocket.

“All taken care of,” MJ says before he can pull out his wallet, waving him off. They’re still watching him with that careful look, though this time it feels less like being sized up, more like he has been—and found thoroughly lacking. Oh well, he’s used to being a disappointment. “Just take him home.”

That much he can manage.

------

Desmond’s most recent rat hole is another forty minutes from the bar, on the far side of a neighbourhood considered to be within the city borders merely because no one cared enough to exclude it.

“Like fuck,” Shaun mutters and punches in the address of his own flat into the navigation system, steeling himself for the argument or the irritated sigh or whatever else Desmond might be in the mood for tonight.

Desmond turns back to the window without a word. Small mercies.

------

Soon, though, he finds himself wishing for that argument after all. Without anything to distract it, it’s all too easy for his mind to stray to other times like this: escaping towns in the dead of the night, taking turns driving and keeping an eye on the road, the radio on low so as not to disturb those sleeping in the back. Sometimes—at the worst of times—he thinks they had it easy, back then; the four of them playing house, trying to save the world without a thought to what comes after.

Congratulations, they did it—now there’s bills to pay.

Desmond has his gaze fixed on the windshield as if he can even see anything, his bag under his crossed arms, running an idle thumb over his new split. If he keeps at it, he’ll have a matching set soon enough.

“I don’t think I’ve got any ice at home,” Shaun says instead of pointing that out. Desmond drops his hand as if burned anyway. “You might have to make do with frozen peas.”

“’s fine,” Desmond sighs. “Too late anyway.”

That it is.

------

On the bright side, under the decent lighting of the flat, Desmond’s nose doesn’t seem to be broken.

The flip side he stubbornly chooses to ignore as he works down the buttons of his coat; Desmond's already stripped down to his thin shirt in his periphery, tugging at his shoelaces. Not even in long sleeves—of course not. Leave it to Desmond to strut about in threadbare clothing when it’s fuck degrees out there.

“I trust you remember where the shower is,” he says as he hangs his coat and puts away their shoes, Desmond’s bag on top of them. Desmond only grunts in answer before slinking down the hallway, likely because he’d needed to go that way anyway.

Dragging himself to the bedroom, he exchanges his trousers for a clean pair of joggers and digs around until he finds one that might fit Desmond—something that would’ve been practically impossible the last time they saw each other. Picking out a sweatshirt as well—that doesn’t seem to be his own in the first place, come to think of it—he walks back out and drops them at the bathroom door, knocking twice.

“Left you some clothes,” he calls out and waits until he gets a muffled response back. That’s one thing done.

Up next, kitchen—god, oh god, the kitchen. He had completely forgotten the state he’d left it in. The dinner table is covered with papers—in an every-fucking-where way instead of the neat, systematic thing he had imagined the sight to be. The coffee cups he truly did mean to put in the sink are still sitting next to his laptop, as the sink is already overfilled with dishes and the semi-burned pot he’d left to soak overnight three days ago, more littering about the rest of the counter. All right, things may have gotten out of hand a bit, in hindsight; but he can’t be blamed for it. Between school and his research, he’s barely had time to remember to feed himself, let alone keeping things clean and tidy. Not as if he was expecting guests.

He really shouldn’t have answered the phone.

He starts tidying up in haste—which is to say, all papers go on top of the closed laptop in a messy, uneven pile and all dishes in the sink now filled with water, including the two cups of coffee that went cold long before he could even touch them. Taking a moment to listen out for the water—still running, fortunately—he peers into his fridge, his stomach sinking at the sight once again. It’s not barren, as such; but he didn’t have the time for grocery shopping, either, which shows. He’s never had his mother’s skill of concocting something out of practically nothing, but digging deeper, he can spot just enough to prepare an early—very early—breakfast.

It is AM hours, after all. It should count.

He grabs the egg carton and piles up whatever else he can find onto the table. While at it, he dips into his—rather impressive, if he may say so himself—tea selection as well. By the time the bathroom door opens, he has what he can call a modest spread on the table, teabag steeping in the mug.

When it opens for the second time, he flips the omelette.

He’s gotten too used to the almost uniform quiet of the flat; Desmond’s footsteps stand out as he approaches, a light shuffle on the carpet right up until they stop in the doorway. Switching the stove off, Shaun wets a cloth and grabs the pan, taking them both to the table.

“All my flat plates are at the bottom of the sink,” he—unnecessarily—explains as he sets the cloth on the table, the pan on top of it. “You’ll just have to deal.”

Desmond is lingering in the doorway, glancing between Shaun and the table with this odd, almost tender look. The weight that has been dancing in his stomach seats itself in the middle of his chest, right under his heart.

“You didn’t have to,” Desmond rasps, just enough of a question mark in the tone. Shaun doesn’t know the question leading to it—isn’t sure he wants to, either.

“Damn right I didn’t,” he throws back, because the alternative is blurting out what the fuck else was I supposed to do and that’s plain embarrassing. The clothes don’t hang off Desmond’s frame as much as he feared, but he wasn’t terribly off in his estimation, either—certainly not enough to be relieved about it. He clears his throat. “But since it’s already done, you might as well sit down and eat before it gets cold.”

Desmond finally moves to the table, not without one last glance at him. Shaun keeps his glare on him until he picks up his fork and reaches for the olives just in case.

With that crossed off the list, he folds up his sleeves, unclips his watch and starts on the dishes. He hardly has a burning desire to get them out of the way, but it’s something to do, at least. Beats standing there and thinking himself into corners.

Right now, everything beats thinking.

The silence stretches between them, almost peaceful for once. It’s… interesting, the change of air that comes with having someone else in the room. He didn’t quite miss cramming into safe houses for weeks, sometimes months at a time, nothing but the same bland walls and each other’s faces to stare at; but it would be a lie to say he never looks up from his laptop to an empty flat and wishes he had someone to share this shiny thing he’s just stumbled upon, the excitement of the discovery blending with the bitter disappointment.

Paper shuffles behind him, the unmistakeable sound of Desmond getting his grubby hands on his research. The instinct is to snap don’t touch my notes; he pushes it down. Not even on their emptiest days did his work keep Desmond interested for long; he just needs to wait out the three seconds before Desmond gets bored.

“You still researching the Pieces?”

Huh. Now that’s new.

“Without much success,” he admits, reaching into the water for another cup. “With the network down, my research ‘team’ boils down to me and the occasional student I manage to snatch from other projects. Not what you could call a concentrated effort.”

Desmond makes a sound that, under different conditions, could be considered amused. A strange warmth spreads through him. “Thought you must’ve had enough of ‘em for two lifetimes.”

He snorts, despite himself. “Hardly. This was my life’s discovery; it’ll be a cold day in hell before I give it up.”

Most of the time, he doesn’t blame Lucy for the choices she’d made. Couldn’t, really; not when the woman gave up her life for what she believed was right and brought down a war that spanned millennia with her. Just, the historian in him can’t help grieving all the knowledge the world has lost without even knowing that they had it in the first place.

He turns his head a little, just enough to get Desmond in his view. “What about you?” he asks, aiming for a conversational tone. Where have you been is the burning question, followed by who broke your face? He settles on: “How have you been?”

Desmond gives him a long, considering look—uncomfortably reminiscent of MJ. Shrugs a shoulder, too stiff to be casual. “Been better, been worse. You know how it is.”

Disappointment curls in his gut, too heavy to push away. Right. Whatever made him think he might get a real answer for once anyway.

Wash, rinse, put away, repeat. The last of the dishes on the drying rack, he unplugs the sink and grabs the pot, emptying it into the water draining down. It’s probably unsalvageable, realistically, but it’s not in his nature to let go without a fight. His to-do list is long enough without adding shopping for kitchenware on it.

The chair creaks, dragging against the tiles. It’s entirely unwelcome, the tension that creeps up his spine, the sound alone enough to shift all his awareness to the movement behind him.

Desmond drops his dishes next to the sink one by one, including the mostly-full cup of tea that he puts down with an apologetic half-smile. “Thanks.”

He nods in response, scrubbing the pot harder.

Instead of stepping away like anyone with some respect for personal space would, Desmond keeps standing right there, resting a hand on the edge of the counter, seemingly watching the side of Shaun’s head. This close, Shaun can smell his own shampoo on him if he tries, the sweeter scent of his fabric softener underneath.

Desmond sighs. “I’ve missed you,” he whispers and—

And his heart still responds, the traitor.

They’ve been here before. They’ve been here so many times before that it shouldn’t even matter, now, that Desmond can still find it in himself to say the words. He’d said other words before; where did that get them?

“Well, you obviously still have my number,” he bites out, the words like ash on his tongue. “You’ve never had to get yourself kicked out of bars or—or—beaten up to use it.”

Desmond shifts away. The bastard doesn’t even care to look at him, staring at some spot on the far wall instead, the tip of his tongue back on the split as if he wants it to scar. Started something he can’t see through; how typical.

Dropping the sponge into the pot—not as if he was getting anywhere—he runs his hands under the water and grabs a towel. “Where have you been, Desmond?” he asks without looking at him, busying himself with dying his hands thoroughly, too tired to keep beating around the bush. There isn’t enough space in the room even with Desmond backed away—not nearly enough air.

“Around.”

Around. “I see,” he says, nodding slowly. “Perhaps I should ask MJ instead, see if they know all about that, too.”

Desmond stiffens, his hand clenching on the edge. “Don’t bring them into this,” he says tightly—not a threat, not quite, but a warning through and through.

So that’s how it is.

“As far as I’m concerned, you brought them into this,” he points out. “I didn’t even know they existed until tonight, now did I.” He rests a hip against the counter, folding his arms across his chest, the towel still clutched tight in his fist. “Who are they, by the way?”

“The only one on my side when I needed someone to be the most,” Desmond responds with a pointed look, his lips pressed together—and oh, isn’t that rich.

So many responses he could give to that, so many biting remarks, the weight of them almost physical on the tip of his tongue. “I thought you didn’t need people anymore,” he says simply, leaning heavier on his hip. Desmond flinches. “Big boy Desmond, running away from his problems all by his lonesome, no help necessary—just be there to pick up the pieces afterwards.”

Something dark passes over Desmond’s face, blink-and-you-miss-it. “I’m trying to do better.”

He lets his eyes wander down Desmond’s face, the cut of his knuckles that are still flaring red with a hint of purple. Desmond’s hand twitches again. “Clearly.”

“Jesus Christ, I forgot you were this much of an asshole,” Desmond mutters under his breath. It’s not even in the general vicinity of the worst names they’ve called each other—it shouldn’t sting. Not as much as it does.

“Can you blame me? You ring me up from a bar after—what, seven, eight months of radio silence, looking like this—” He waves his free hand up and down Desmond’s body. “—and expect me to give you the benefit of the doubt. Don’t get me wrong, Desmond, but you don’t exactly have the sort of track record that inspires blind trust.”

“I’m not—” Desmond starts only to cut himself off on a long exhale, shaking his head. Making the three steps over to the table, he drops himself on a chair in an ungainly heap and rests his elbows on the bread crumb-covered surface.

“I don’t expect anything of you,” Desmond starts again slowly, exhaustion wrapped around his words. Anger doesn’t drain out of Shaun, but it’s that much harder to keep going when Desmond starts rubbing at his temples with enough force that Shaun’s head throbs just to watch. “I’m not here to—I dunno, to get back into your good graces or whatever scheme you think I’m halfway capable of thinkin’ up.”

“Then why are you here?” Shaun snaps—realises, with an odd cramping of his stomach, that this was the burning question after all. This was the one that haunted him all this time, whenever Desmond’s name popped up on his screen. Whenever it didn’t.

Desmond looks up from the table sideways, one hand still at his temple. “What do you mean?”

Part of him wants to take it back, to wave it off with a curt never mind and making a hasty exit to prepare Desmond’s bed. The stupider, impulsive part is already pushing on with: “You make friends faster than I can lose them; I’m sure you could find somewhere to crash even in the state you were, didn’t have to suffer my hospitality.” Why me, he’s smart enough to hold back, at least.

The curl of Desmond’s lips is odd—too sharp for a smile, too soft for anything else. “Why do you always come?”

Why indeed.

Releasing a breath that takes more than air out of him, he makes his fingers uncurl around the towel and folds it into a neat square, placing it on the counter. The pot is still sitting in the sink, the sponge in the middle of it like a sunken ship. It’s too late to deal with the dishes—for this conversation—it’s too late for bloody anything.

“There are sheets and a spare pillow in the closet,” he says, pointing in the general direction of the closet in the next room. “I believe you can make your bed yourself. I’m going to sleep.”

Desmond nods, a barely-there movement. Shaun only lingers in the kitchen long enough to bin the used teabag and line the rest of the dishes around the pot to deal with tomorrow. Later today. Whenever.

It must be the hour messing with his head, why he pauses in the doorway just before he leaves and says, “And don’t leave without a goodbye this time.”

“Okay,” Desmond lies.

And so it goes.

[yeojaa]

TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why.  Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds.  When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you.  "Yes."  Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic.  Always had been.  It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary.  You use your one brain cell for love.  It doesn’t always end well.

pairing.  who knows, honestly.  the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.  

tags.  blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy.

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  ~3500

chapter 3.  

하루의 시작이 너로 가득 차서 혼자 남겨졌을 땐 괜히 불안해져 yeah 흐릿한 내 맘에 들려와 너의 따뜻한 목소리가 Baby I'm falling for you

The melody fills your senses, a sweet lullaby that sits just beyond your comprehension.  You're too focused on the sandwich board in front of the till, the daily offerings catching your interest even while you hum to yourself.  There's the croissant sandwich you love - always with turkey - but then there's also a new brûlée French toast and it's so tempting with the little chalk drawing beside it.

"Good morning,"  you greet the girl at the cash register with a kind smile.  She returns it, following your gaze, and you almost blush at how easily she reads your mind.  

"You should try something new."  You were definitely here too often.

"I know buuuut..."  The petal of your bottom lip is caught between two teeth and you look like you've been tasked with an impossible choice.  "I'll get the French toast to stay and the croissant to go.  Oh, and a cappuccino, please."  There, compromise.  You could stay at the café for a while.  You weren't due into the studio until later and you wanted to get some writing done, anyway.  You'd felt inspired since yesterday's events.  

The girl is ringing you up as efficiently as she always does, nodding politely at you as you take the ceramic cup set and step aside. 

You make a beeline for your usual spot by the window.  You're glad it's not too busy - the last time you'd been there, some students had taken it first and you'd had to make due with the booth farther in.  It hadn't really been that big of a deal but you were a creature of habit.  You liked your sunshine and the way the potted plants hung over your head, vines occasionally tickling your ear if you leaned too far to one side.

Kim Namjoon says "turn around" with a smiley face.

The voice makes you almost jump out of your own skin.  Goddamn Siri.

You're grateful you'd set your drink down, though the spoon still clatters noisily when you whip around.  Where was he?  

Narrowed eyes survey the interior, drifting from head to head.  There's once or twice that you think you see him before realizing that shade of grey isn't quite right, the pretty purple tone missing.  You huff and focus harder, gaze flickering from the farthest corner of the bistro to the table that's only a few feet away.  

That's when you see him.  Or them, rather.  All six of them.

Yoongi is a familiar face, platinum blond sweeping over his feline stare as he offers a brief smirk.  He makes no other indication toward you, instead flicking his attention to the other men grouped at his table.  You follow his line of sight down the back row of chairs.  

Namjoon is beside him, his mouth pulled into that signature tight-lipped smile.  There are crinkles at the edges of his eyes and mirth playing in the depths.  You don't think you've ever seen him so coy.  It's different though, more child-like amusement than the unbridled passion he exudes in the studio.  It squares his jaw, working the muscle there as if he's holding back a laugh.  You're suddenly suspicious.

Someone you don't recognize is next to him.  Even though he's a stranger, you can't help but gawk.  It's like looking at the sun he's so bright.  His auburn hair falls in soft waves, parted over his forehead.  He's got a daintily-upturned nose and sharp cheekbones.  You can only describe him as pretty.

Opposite him sits another stranger, though he's craning his neck around to look at you.  You're immediately struck with how soft he looks, from the pillows of his lips to the way his cheeks bounce when he smiles.  You resist the strangest urge to smooth his dove grey hair back, if only to offer you a better view of his eyes and the way they crescent.  "I'm Park Jimin."  His voice is nothing like you would've expected.  It's honey that seeps past his lips, mellowed and enticing.  You think you could get lost in it - in him.

But then you're noticing the person in the center because he's staring at you and you'd find his eyes in any crowd.  

"Kim Taehyung?"  His name rolls off your tongue in surprise and you're a little embarrassed by how breathless it sounds, like you've just run a marathon or pressed a million kisses into the frame of his mouth.  

You're not sure whether it's your imagination but he seems hesitant, more reserved.  It's a good look on him.  Still, his smile is captivating.  He rakes a hand through his dark hair, pushing it away from his forehead as he tries to find his words.  He certainly hadn't expected to run into you so soon. 

Whatever moment he has is stolen by the figure closest to you, whose voice sparks recognition and the most all-encompassing smile possible.  "Hi, Jiyeon."  Your former classmate is greeting you with the loveliest hue dusting the tops of his ears, his little bunny grin growing wider with each passing second.  You remember, immediately, why you'd fallen so easily for him.  

"Small world, huh?"  It's an understatement but you laugh anyway, meeting Namjoon's twinkling eyes.

You ignore the fact that you're still standing, hovering between your two tables.  You know your coffee is getting cold.  "Do all the good-looking guys in Seoul know each other?"  

You're rewarded by magenta sprouting like weeds across the faces of Jungkook and Jimin - you think that was his name - the colour draping over their cheeks adorably.  On the other hand, the stranger that hasn't yet introduced himself simply beams, flicking his bangs from his face in a devil may care motion.  Taehyung smiles, more to himself than you, shaking his head in the same instance.  Your two mentors don't react - they're used to your antics.

"Something like that,"  Namjoon answers, cool as a cucumber.  "You know everyone but Jimin and Hoseok then?"  He gestures to the two and you repeat both names in your head. 

"I introduced myself,"  the angelic one, Jimin, supplies with pride.  He sneaks a glance at you when he thinks you're not looking but your sights are on him.  He's so endearing you want to wrap him up and take him home.

"I'm Jung Hoseok."  The speaker salutes you from his spot because you're too far away for him to offer his hand and he was raised with manners.

"Nice to meet you both,"  you crow, waving sweetly. 

"What're you doing here?"  Ever the chameleon, Namjoon carries the conversation.

You're grateful, if not a little surprised.  While he was friendly enough - and an incredible teacher - your interactions with him had almost exclusively been limited to the studio.  You'd gone for dinner with he and Yoongi a handful of times, the three of you patting yourselves on the back with tasty braised ribs and lamb skewers when the notes came together just right.  He'd always been gracious, walking you to the bus or waiting for a cab with you, but you were hardly thick as thieves. 

"I thought I would get some work done before heading in."  You're about to continue, gesticulating toward your canvas bag, when you notice the waitress approaching.  You stifle your disappointment and take a step back, bowing ever so slightly.  "I should leave you alone, though.  Please eat well."

No one stops you when you scurry away and you can't blame them - they look ravenous.

"That's her, huh?"  Hoseok is the only one not stuffing his face because he, unlike the others, had indulged a full breakfast before his first class at six in the morning.  Still, he nibbles at his potatoes, pleased with the crisp edges before he shovels another one into his awaiting mouth.

Sounds of affirmation come from the two youngest, both of whom have been surprisingly quiet the entire time.  It's not enough that they'd been starving - there's something different about their silence.

"When are you seeing her next?"  It's Yoongi speaking, casually curious.  He prides himself on generally staying out of his friend's business unless they bring it to him but this situation is just so funny.  What a small world indeed.

"Don't know,"  Taehyung answers honestly, wiping at the side of his lips with his napkin.  He considers the question thoughtfully, shoveling another forkful of egg into his mouth.  It melts on his tongue.  So good.  "I hadn't really thought about it yet.  I still barely know her, so I don't know how to approach it."  

He hadn't expected this to elicit sudden advice from the men around the table, his head snapping up in disbelief.

"She couldn't stop staring at you.  I don't think you've got anything to worry about."  Easy for Hoseok to say, with his new adoring girlfriend.  It was always easier to dole out relationship advice when you felt you were still on cloud nine.

"You said she's a hopeless romantic, right?  Use that to your advantage."  Wise words from Jimin, because unlike the others, he and Taehyung had similar personalities.  They thrived on romance, found meaning in longing glances and butterfly kisses.  They wanted to present their adoration with a big white bow or on their sleeve for all to see. 

"Take it easy on her, though."  Yoongi, once again, but with an unexpected edge to his voice.  This catches everyone's attention.

It's obvious they're waiting for him to continue but he doesn't, instead turning his focus once more to his breakfast and cutting a small morsel to pop into his mouth.  They know he isn't going to say anything further when he does it again, staring straight ahead like he's in his own little world.  Typical.  Instead, they implore the only other person who seems nonplussed:  Namjoon.

The rapper's response isn't immediate.  In fact, it seems almost like he's not going to offer anything up either, just like a certain blond.  When he does, the table releases a collective breath.  "She went through a break up a few months ago."  Despite the din of the restaurant and the fact that you're very clearly caught up in your own world, large studio headphones pulled tight over your ears, Namjoon speaks carefully.  "She didn't talk about it but she asked us to help her with some songs."  He shrugs then, deeming that enough.

Yoongi doesn't mean his next words in any special way.  There's no pining in his voice or underlying emotion.  He's not the type.  "So don't hurt her."  Nonetheless, Taehyung gets the message loud and clear, nodding solemnly until the other's eyes have drifted off. 

The rest of breakfast carries on with little excitement, just the casual chatter of six men that have been best friends longer than they can remember.  Yoongi and Namjoon drift into their own little world, a laugh punctuating their interaction as the latter brightly claps the other's shoulder.  It draws a relaxed smile from the smaller man.  Hoseok is, surprisingly, buried in his phone.  A glance at the screen indicates a very active KaTalk window.  From the big goofy look on his face, it's easy to guess who he's messaging. 

It's only when he pushes away from his seat in a grand gesture that things refocus, everyone's attention trained on the dancer.  "I'm heading out.  It was nice seeing you."  With a cheerful wave, he's dragging his bucket hat over his tawny strands and making a beeline for the door.

This seems to spur everyone else into action.  

"I'm going to nap."  The statement is punctuated by a yawn, Jimin's gaze swiveling to his roommate.  "Are you coming home?"

Taehyung can feel all four pairs of eyes on him and he nods.  "Yeah, I'll come back with you."  It sounds halfhearted and a little wistful, especially when he hazards a glance in your direction.  You're still absorbed in whatever it is you're doing, pencil flying across paper in short bursts before being struck out with sharp lines. 

"We're heading to the studio,"  Namjoon speaks for two.

That leaves Jungkook, who has something of a grin on his face.  It's satisfied and a little bit indulgent, like the cat that ate the canary.  "I'll say bye to Jiyeon."  There are things he isn't saying, flickers of truth just beneath the surface as he offers a cheery wave to his friends.  "Later, hyungs." 

It's a dismissal as much as it is a goodbye.  

Both Jimin and Taehyung share a look - one that reads what the hell? - before they're being ushered out of their seats by their elders who, as always, are perfectly unbothered.  

You dimly acknowledge that their table has emptied but don't have enough time to consider it when you notice the looming figure to your left.  It blocks the light above you, throwing everything into faint shadow.  You almost say something but think better of it, figuring whoever it is will make themselves known or realize you're busy.

When the silence stretches on, you huff quietly and turn your attention skywards with as much sweetness as you can. 

You realize you're an idiot in the same instant.

Because it’s Jungkook standing there and his mouth is moving and he’s got that familiar smile on his face, nose wrinkled adorably.

“Sorry - I can’t hear you,”  you apologize as you’re tugging your headphones down around your neck.

He looks like he’d expected that, laughing as he indicates the chair opposite you.  “Do you mind some company?”  The question comes gently, like he’s genuinely unsure whether his presence is unwanted.  It makes you want to laugh, stirring a distant memory that slots, picture perfect, around his still standing frame.

“Only if you tell me something no one else knows about you.”  It’s the same thing you’d asked four years ago when he’d approached you and you watch, tickled pink, when recognition floods his expression.

He takes his seat immediately.  “I really like romantic comedies,” he parrots back at you once he’s settled, hands folding in his lap.  You notice the way the vines above him just barely tickle the top of his head, lost among the midnight strands that twist this way and that.  If he minds, he says nothing.  It's one of the things you'd always liked about him - he was so easygoing.

“Seen any good ones lately?”  You’re honestly curious, taking the time to mark your notebook and slide it closed before you turn your full attention to him. 

You’re heartened by what you see, because he looks happy.  Truly, genuinely happy.  His hair’s a little longer than when you’d last seen him, the ends curling around his ears and skimming across his cheeks.  His shoulders are a little broader, too, but still draped in varying shades of slightly darker black - something you’d come to expect from him.  The hollows beneath his eyes aren’t even that bad.  You’d even go so far as to say he looks well-rested.

It’s a far cry from the manic panic media student you’d spent long nights with, trading secrets through the glow of your screens.

You can practically hear his shriek from the time he’d accidentally jostled his power bar, his monitor descending into nothingness.  He’d really thought it was the end of the world and it was only when your voice had filtered through his headset that he’d realized he’d only dislodged the screen’s power cord, his semester-end project still safe. 

That had been an awful night but you’d gotten through it together.

“Love Simon is really good.”

A brow quirks, incredulous.  “That movie is two years old.  I said lately!”  Your tone is all crystallized sugar and citrus peels, saccharine sweet despite the teasing you lay on thick.

It’s nice how easily you fall into old routines.

“I’ve been busy!”  Comes Jungkook’s indignant response, though it only acts to spur your sarcasm on.

“With what?  I see you on Discord, Jeon Jungkook!  All you do is play Overwatch.”

“You check up on me?”  It’s not the point you’d meant to make and you feel embarrassment flooding your cheeks.  You’re sure they’re a vibrant pink, the same colour as the dumb little enamel pin stuck to the front of your tote bag - a one-of-a-kind find from a day of thrifting with a certain bunny-smiling boy.

You duck behind your cup instead of answering, grimacing when the now-cold combination of milk and coffee meets your tongue.  “I didn’t say that,”  you hum.

“You’re not denying it.”  Ever the pain in the ass, he tosses a grin your way and it's all teeth and crinkled eyes, equal parts endearing and endlessly frustrating.  For not the first time, you’re reminded of his absolutely insane duality.  You’d uncovered it in bits and pieces over your years of friendship but it still left you with whiplash. 

One moment, he'd be the pouty child you’d want to indulge and in the next, he’d be sharp-tongued and dangerous, the kind of person your mother warned you about.

That's why you'd learnt to pick your battles with him. 

"Whatever you say, Jungkook."  Whether your easy surrender is what he wanted, you're not sure.  He's staring at you with an unreadable expression, like you're the one who hung the stars in the sky and he can't really figure out why.  It's the same look he's levelled you with a million times before and it still makes you squirm.  "What?"  It comes out more guarded than you mean it to, all bark and no bite.

He doesn't even flinch, a picture of composure.  You'd give anything to get a peek into that pretty little head of his.  "You're just interesting."

"I bet you say that to everyone."  

"You know I don't."  

You:  Zero.  Jungkook:  One.

You scoff noiselessly and you practically feel the frustration bleeding out of his pores.  You're being difficult, you know, and now you've ruined a perfectly nice morning.  You can't help it.  You and Jungkook have a strange relationship, one that teeters strangely between more than friends and miles apart.  

He'd blame it on your poor communication skills;  you'd insist it was his refusal to open up.  Neither of you would be right.

"Can we start over?"  It's more fair than you deserve, paired with those big doe eyes.  Puppy dog eyes, you think, because you can't bring yourself to say anything but yes when they're on you like this.  He's so earnest, so eager.  You feel bad being the thing that keeps him down.

"Okay,"  you relent, huffing, like it's the hardest concession you've ever had to make.  You both know it isn't but it feels good nonetheless.  Feels more like your cheesy back and forth banter, the playful mockery that hooks syllables together and presents itself in every interaction.  A defense mechanism, without a doubt, but one the two of you heavily rely on to push past history you've never properly addressed.  A Band-aid for a wound that threatens to split open.

"I'm Jeon Jungkook."  He's trying hard and you can't help but smile, palm moving to cradle your chin as you wait for him to continue.  He really is better than you ever game him credit for.  "I like romantic comedies.  And you're Cho Jiyeon, which I know for a perfectly normal reason even though we've never met before." 

There's laughter threatening to burst out of your lunges but you stifle it as best you can.  It still escapes in squeaks.  "Nice to meet you, Jeon Jungkook.  Not weird at all that you know my name.  Very normal."

You're staring so hard at each other you're not sure whether you've initiated an unspoken contest.

He breaks first, entire facade crumbling beneath the weight of his glee.  You're rewarded by the blinding white of his teeth and dimples that cradle his grin - one of your favourite sights in the world, though you'd never admit it.  Not now.  "It's really nice to see you."  The words carry more weight than you expect, meaning laced into every lilt and turn.  It's very important to him that you know this. 

You're softening, like ice cream left out on a summer day.  It's impossible to keep your walls up around him.  You remind yourself that's why the two of you are the way you are now, foreigners in a half-built city of your own making.  

"It's nice to see you, too."  You've breached the distance before you can stop yourself, tips of fingers a hairsbreadth from his.  "I do miss you."  The admission is barely a whisper, made even more quiet by the cacophony of sound that exists within the busy bistro.  You're not quite sure if he's heard - it's hard to look him in the eyes - so you instead focus on the distance that barely exists between you and yet stretches like the Pacific. 

When his fingers curl around yours, knuckles knocking clumsily, you know he has.  You can't decide if that's good or bad.

notes.  the next chapter will deal with a bit of jiyeon and jungkook's history, so please bear with me!