#everything is very green and all the birds are full of fluff and eager to be fed!

[magistralucis]

@absolut--kurant!

#the garden flock roll call 🥰🥰🥰 #everything is very green and all the birds are full of fluff and eager to be fed! #ryzhik dove is well and healthy as you can see) i hadn't managed a video of him for a while #i'm filming through glass because these pidges actively try to come in and explore the conservatory if we leave the door open 😅 #i hope they delight you my dear! #happy saturday and i hope you have a good one 💖💖💖💖💖 #dove #pigeon #birds #cute #ryzhik dove

[minaturefics]

Grazes

Request: Greetings! I was wondering if you would mind writing a Faramir x femreader where Faramir tries to teach the reader how to use a bow and arrow, and she accidentally hits him with an arrow. Maybe some sort of romance or fluff? Thank you!

A/N: Hello hello! Thank you for waiting. This is probably a bit archery and medically inaccurate, but I hope you enjoy it all the same! 😊

Faramir x Reader

Fem reader

Content warnings: Mild descriptions of blood and wound cleaning

2.7k words

---

You stood in a beam of sunlight, turning your face up and relishing the afternoon rays. The small garden outside the Steward’s House was bathed in the yellow light. Lavender and lilies perfumed the air with their heady scents. It was quiet, save for the rustle of the short trees and the distant call of the birds. The sun warmed you through your thin tunic and trousers, and a thin sheen of sweat formed on your skin.

You paced the small green area, tugging at the hems of your clothes. Where was Faramir? Was arriving early a mistake? Perhaps it made you seem too eager to see him. You paused by the plain stone bench, took one last furtive look at the closed oak door, and sat down. The stone was cool and smooth under your fingers, and you stroked the bench, thinking of him.

It had only been a fortnight ago when you found yourself sitting next to him, on the same very bench, when he had suggested an archery lesson. You had been wandering through the Citadel, exploring the long hallways and peering through doors, when you had come across the tranquil garden. The grass was green and soft, and the smell of freshly shorn grass was in the air. You sat on the bench, admiring the vivid flowers, when a large door opened and Faramir stepped out.

You had seen him before, across candlelit dinner tables and in the dim of the reading alcoves in the library, but never like he had been in the evening light. His light brown hair had been touched with gold, his grey eyes bright and sharp. He smiled at you as he approached, his eyes crinking in the corners and head ducked a fraction in shyness, and your heart had lurched in your chest.

Faramir had always been a friend — an easy partner to converse with at stuffy celebrations, a spirited counterpart to debate books and poetry with — but it seemed everything had come undone in that moment.

For the past two weeks, you had stolen glances at him from above your books, had cajoled him into reading passages out to you.

You thought of his hands, large and steady, thumbing through the thin pages. Of his voice, warm and deep and gentle, echoing softly in the quiet of the library. Of his faint scent of soap and musk, mingling with the paper and leather of the books.

You sighed and leaned back, staring up at the blue sky. Did Faramir know your feelings towards him had changed? And if he did, was he disgusted or pleased? You glanced down at your hands. Perhaps you were too plain for him, too common for a Steward. How could you compare to the other nobles in court, most of them dressed in finer silks and had larger jewels.

Faramir never seemed to care about such things, but perhaps when it came to a partner he would be more concerned?

The groan of a heavy door drew you out of your thoughts, and you turned to see Faramir stepping out into the light with two bows slung on his shoulder. You traced the line of his figure, up his strong legs and to his broad shoulders. A smile played about his lips and you grinned at him.

“Faramir,” you called, and rose to your feet.

“Apologies for my tardiness, I was searching for these bows.” He shifted to show them to you.

“They look smaller than regular bows,” you muttered, running your hand over the curved wood.

He chuckled. “Yes, these were mine and Boromir’s when we were younger. They are not as powerful as a full bow, but they will be easier to draw.”

Your chest warmed at his words. How like Faramir to be considerate about such things. “Shall we go? You will have to lead I’m afraid. I am not familiar with the way to the training grounds.”

He lifted his arm, hesitating for a moment, and offered it to you. You threaded your arm though his, resting your hand on his forearm, and willed your heart to slow.

--

Faramir glanced back at you from where he stood on the open field. You were standing in the shade of a tree inspecting the bows. As though sensing his eyes, you looked up and smiled at him. His stomach clenched and he turned away, wondering why he thought it might have been a good idea to spend the afternoon with you.

It had been a moment of weakness in the garden, so enraptured by the way the sun looked in your hair and how the blue sky was reflected in your eyes, that the words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them. For a few terrible seconds, he had been worried you would turn him down but you had lit up and agreed.

What could have motivated him to suggest such a thing? Perhaps it was the way he would catch you looking at some of the guards, your eyes lingering on their well-built forms. Or maybe it was because he realised you only ever saw him when he was bent over a desk or curled up with a book, and had never seen him with a blade or bow.

But now that you were outside with him, dressed in a tunic and trousers that hinted at more of your figure than your usual clothes did, he felt as though he would hardly be able to contain his feelings. But who could fault him? There was no one more captivating than you in all of Middle-Earth.

Your eyes were always bright with mirth, your laughter melodic and joyful. You were incandescent in your finest silks at dinner, outshining even Queen Arwen in his eyes. Your mind was sharp, your tongue even more so, and none of his advisors could match the way you debated books with him.

He did not know when he started to view you in a different light; his heart was lost to you before he even realised what had happened.

But could you return his love, or did you prefer the more robust and lively soldiers and guards that he sometimes saw you sharing a laugh with? He was more of a scholar than a fighter, more thoughtful and ponderous than spirited and spontaneous.

He straightened the round, straw target and took a breath. It was his chance to show you his quality, that he was more than the books and parchments.

He strode up to you and picked up one of the bows. It had been Boromir’s and he traced the crude initial carved into the wood. How his brother would laugh if he saw Faramir now, doing his best to win the affection of the one who held his heart.

“I shall shoot first.” He smiled at you and you grinned back. “Just as a demonstration.”

Armed with an arrow, he steadied his stance. His heart thundered in his chest, his hands grew clammy on the bow. He took a breath and relaxed his shoulders. There was no need to be nervous. It was just a target some twenty paces away, and he had always been one of the best archers in his company.

He drew the arrow back, the string digging into the calloused pads of his fingers, and let it fly. It flew straight and true, and landed in the centre of the target. You let out a small exclamation and beamed at him.

“Very impressive.” You came up to his side and looked at the target. “I have always heard that you were a good archer, though to see it with my own eyes is certainly something else.”

His chest warmed and he felt a smile tugging at his lips. He fought down the boyish glee that rose in him and he kept his eyes fixed on the target. “Would you like to try?”

You glanced at him and looked down at the bow in your hands, running your fingers over the faded writing on the wood. “Was this yours?”

He nodded. “It’s a good bow, well made, and still well maintained after all these years.”

“Will I… I do not wish to damage it.”

“Do not worry yourself over such a thing.” He smiled and nudged your hand upwards. “Here. Keep your back straight and your legs slightly apart and your feet planted.” You raised your arm and tried to mirror his stance. “Draw the string back, and mind how close your arm and face are to the bow.”

He watched you as you tested the string. You pulled it back, nearly as far back as it should be, but your arms began to quiver. You dropped your arms to your sides. “That takes incredible strength. I cannot imagine what it would be like to shoot a full sized bow.”

“Would you like to try with an arrow?”

You glanced back at the quiver resting against the tree. “Would that be wise? Or safe?”

“It will be alright.” He went to retrieve an arrow and handed it to you. “You pull back on the fletching, just like that, between your fingers.”

You adjusted your fingers and knocked the arrow to the bow. Faramir stepped to the side, watching your form. You drew the string back, but as you did so, the arrow slipped off its resting place on your fist and slid sideways. You lurched, trying to recover it, fumbling with the bow and arrow.

There was the dull twang of the string, and he felt searing pain in his calf. He glanced down and found blood blooming on the side of his leg, his trousers ripped where the arrow had grazed him.

--

You rushed to Faramir’s side, kneeling by his leg, your hands hovering uselessly over the wound. The blood trickled sluggishly, and the flesh was red and raw. It did not look overly serious, but what would he think of you now? A fool who could not even handle something as simple as a training bow. He lowered himself to the ground, hissing, and peered at his leg.

“We need to get you to the Houses of Healing.” You stared at the wound, wondering if it would be better to put pressure on it or leave it as it was.

“It is only a small graze,” he muttered. “There is no need for that.”

You blinked at him. “You cannot be serious. It may not be deep or large but it can still get infected.”

“I have some healing salves and bandages in my rooms. Those will suffice for something like this. There is no need to trouble the matrons.”

You opened your mouth then snapped it shut. Would it do any good arguing with him? Faramir was not an unreasonable man, and had probably seen more battle wounds than you had. If he believed it was not worthy of a trip to the Houses of Healing, then perhaps it would be best to trust and aid him, instead of opposing.

“Then let me help you back to your rooms.” He nodded, his lips pulled back in a grimace. You retried the bows and arrows, and slung them over your shoulder. You crouched by him and offered your other shoulder. “Here, I’ll help you stand.”

You felt him hesitate, his arm lingering just above your back, before it came to rest across it. You tucked him into your side, your arm wrapping around his waist. He was warm, so warm, pressed up against you. Even his fingers, curled around your shoulder, felt like fire through your thin tunic. You felt your cheeks reddening, and hoped that Faramir would not pay too close attention to your face.

The walk back to his rooms was not long, and thankfully, there were few people around. Most of their concerned queries were waved away by Faramir with an easy smile. He led to the spacious sitting room in the Steward’s House, and dropped into a cushioned chair.

“I can attend to myself if you would be so good as to retrieve the medical supplies for me.” He gave you a rueful smile, his grey eyes soft. “I am sorry today has turned out so.”

You knelt by him. “Faramir, if there is anyone to apologise it is me. And I am not leaving you to tend to yourself when I am the one who has caused you such hurt.”

He blinked at you and glanced away, pink dusting his cheeks. “I suppose it would be foolish to turn down the offer of having such a beautiful lady tend to me.”

Beautiful? He thought you were beautiful? Your eyes dropped to your hands resting on the chair. You suddenly became aware of how close you were to him. You could feel the heat coming off him, hear his quiet breaths. You inhaled his scent of musk and faint soap. Faramir shifted in his seat and you glanced up at him. A small line appeared between his brows, hesitation in his eyes, as though he was concerned he had said the wrong thing.

“Where are the supplies?” you asked, feigning a bright tone.

“The bandages and salves are over in the box on the shelf. There is a wash basin and a pitcher of water in the next room.”

You gathered the items and returned to his side. Faramir had rolled the hem of his trousers up, and was inspecting the wound. He leaned his leg over the small basin, and hissed as you poured the cool water over it. With a clean cloth, you dabbed away the more stubborn lines of dried blood and dirt. While you changed the water, Faramir unravelled the bandages and laid them out for you. You curled a hand around his calf, and began to apply the pungent salve.

“Your hands are certainly much more gentle than the healers,” he muttered.

“You flatter me. My hands are untrained.” You smoothed out the salve and wiped your hands on a cloth. “Watch as I struggle to tie this bandage well.”

You wrapped the bandage, adjusting it to make it tight enough, and tied it off with a crude knot. You washed your hands and peered up at Faramir. His grey eyes were gentle, his lips creeping up into a smile. “How can I thank you for such tender care?”

“Forgive me, for hurting you. I was careless.”

His fingers tentatively ghosted your cheek. “There is nothing to forgive.” You leaned into his touch, and felt him let out a breath. “If anything, it was of my doing.”

“How so?” You rested a hand on his arm, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin.

“I will admit to wishing to impress you.”

“Impress me? Whatever for?”

He stiffened. “Is it not already plain?”

Your heart drummed in your chest and a grin broke out on your face. “Faramir, there is no need for such things. I am taken in by you enough as it is.”

“I was afraid you found me too bookish, too boring.” He stroked the line of your cheekbone with his thumb.

“And I was afraid you would find me lacking compared to the other nobility.”

“No,” he whispered and drew you towards him. “You are everything I could hope for, everything I could want.”

He ducked his head and pressed his lips to yours. His lips were soft and gentle. You breathed him in, filling your lungs with his familiar scent. You felt him smile against your lips, and laughter bubbled in your chest. He drew back, his grey eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Perhaps,” you murmured. “No more archery lessons.”

He chuckled, bright and merry. “I would be willing to try again if you are.”

“I am more willing to spend an afternoon with you in the library. Though, I will happily watch you shoot whenever you wish.”

“Perhaps the next time I am practising with my company you should come watch us. But I will admit to some jealously. My men are fit, and most of them pleasing to the eye.”

You laughed and kissed his cheek. “Even so, you are the only one who can draw my gaze. Has no one ever told you how handsome you are?”

“Perhaps a few,” he mused. “But Boromir was always more popular than I was.”

“Then I shall tell you again and again, every day you are by my side.”

He arched an eyebrow, grinning. “Every day?”

You rested your forehead against his, returning his smile. “Every day.”

#faramir #lotr #faramir x you #faramir x reader #faramir x y/n #lotr fic #lotr fanfic #request

[ssscentral]

One More Time

Summary: Your touch was addictive, your scent intoxicating. He wants that back so badly, but he needs another chance. Just one more time.

pairing: Seokjin x female reader

rating: GA

genre: angst, mild fluff

warnings: pining, heartbreak, only mentions of sex, but everything very sfw

wc: 3k

member: Rid || @taegularities​

a/n: Hello! Back with the second fic in the Bouquet Collab series. Each one of us chose a flower and wrote a fanfic around the meaning of it! These were just 2 out of 6, so please look forward to many more awesome stories! I also want to thank my amazing betas @biaswreckme and @missgeniality, and further @birbdae for this wonderful banner!!!! 💕 And now let’s dive into the angst!

A single ray of sunshine illuminates the room.

Conveniently, it shines directly onto that one particular plant that stands in this whole apartment, still healthy and green as it refuses to die. Seokjin is fond of it, given the fact that it was you who had gifted him it many weeks ago.

You always used to say that his place is gloomy, grey, in urgent need of redecoration, so he could actually invite someone over and make them feel somewhat homely. After he’d declined all your offers due to laziness, you’d given up - except for the little present that you’d brought him that one significant day.

He remembers it so vividly, the memory still so painfully clear.

At that time, spring was just approaching, birds returning and beautiful flowers blooming. You were a sucker for nature and all its aspects - which was probably the exact reason for the distaste that you felt whenever you entered your friend’s apartment. His way of handling his place was dull, tasteless.

So, when you decided to surprise him with the odd choice of giving him an aloe plant as decoration and present, you weren’t expecting more than a pleasant evening that you’d spend together.

What you didn’t know was that he’d been a nervous wreck for days now, ripping out several strands of his hair before he’d finally decided to tell you the truth about what he caged in his mind. But when he saw you that day, wearing this beautiful sunflower dress, your hair in a bun with only two strands framing your angelic face, words failed him immediately.

Instead, he froze, eyebrows furrowing in fear of what you’d say or do if he confessed to you. And it didn’t take a lot from your side, no - one brush of your finger along his arm, an intense and loving gaze addressing only him, and a beautiful, mesmerizing smile were enough for him to snap before he pulled you in.

When you first felt his full lips on yours, you stared at the way his eyes closed, relishing in and welcoming the moment right away. You needed a second to comprehend what was happening, but once you understood, you felt yourself give in fast, the world becoming blurred and silent.

All you heard were the sweet words he uttered, all you saw was his glistening skin, and all you knew was that you wanted to bathe in this euphoria forever without ever having to let go.

But when you both found yourselves in each other’s arms, covered by nothing but his blanket, you still hadn’t addressed why this had happened and what it meant for you now.

Seokjin didn’t regret this - how could he, if it was with you? But the same old insecurity that plagued his heart and made his chest burn had eventually come back now. Despite having no real evidence or reason, he assumed that you didn’t want what he wanted - you’d never see him as more than a friend that you’d slept with in the heat of the moment.

In that sense, you’d woken up to a pressing awkwardness, him offering breakfast and coffee, but portraying distant nonchalance otherwise. And when you felt like none of this was going to go anywhere, you told him you had to go, finding some kind of excuse to leave.

Since then, an uncomfortable radio silence had found its way between you, and the only thing he had these days to remember you was the pink-orange flower that slowly bloomed on top of his desk.

Lying across the bed, Seokjin opens his eyes with a smile on his face, remembering how he’d looked at you in confusion when he’d first seen you standing at the threshold of his entry, smiling wide with Ally in your hands. Yes, you’d named the plant Ally - always one to give non-living things names.

Wrong.

Ally is very much alive. You’d made that clear that day. Plants take in carbon dioxide and release oxygen - yes, that’s what you’d lectured him with when he’d joked around. His apartment needs some freshness, you’d told him.

Now that he’s inhaling the air around him, it almost feels like he can smell Ally, which is total nonsense of course. He has honestly grown to love this small, spiky thing, especially after finding out the meaning behind it.

Affection.

Something he has felt for a long time now. Affection for the way you scrunch up your nose when you’re annoyed. Affection for the concentrated gaze you adopt when you’re reading a good book. Affection for your words, for the sound of your voice; he loves the sweet, honey-coated, soft tone that he swims in every time you speak.

Seokjin gets up, stretching his limbs and getting dressed when he looks at the clock, noticing that it’s time to go. There’s this boring gathering this evening, organized by some of your colleagues who thought it might be a good idea to come together and strengthen your bond as a student body or whatever.

The only reason he’s going is because he knows you’ll be there. He doesn’t care about getting himself drunk or talking about philosophical theories today - all he wants is to make right what he ruined back then. He just needs to tell you what words float inside his heart, hoping for you to reciprocate his feelings the way you’d responded to his kiss that night.

Gathering all this ardor for you, with only your name on his tongue, he closes his door behind him, summoning all the energy his body can deliver.

You’re easy to find in the small crowd. The room isn’t too filled, the atmosphere peaceful and pleasant when he steps in, running his hand through his soft, brown hair when he sees you. Breathing in and out in a steady rhythm, he approaches you, trying to mask his eagerness, hands pocketed to exude a relaxed demeanor.

When you finally notice the tall figure come closer, recognizing him as none other than the man you’re so in love with, your heart beats just a little faster and you tilt your head in wonder. After barely sparing you a glance in your classes, he has apparently finally decided to give you some attention.

Memories come crashing back; images of your last encounter flooding your mind as you press your tinted lips together, still feeling the phantom touch of his mouth on yours. He still looks the same, but his hair has gotten a little longer, almost covering his eyes entirely before he brushes the bangs away.

“Hey,” he greets, breathing in deep as he sits down in front of you, “long time no talk.”

You nearly counter with a sarcastic remark, but then contain yourself, only shooting him a breathtaking smile. “You’re right. Busy lives. How have you been doing, Jin?”

“Good!” he answers way too fast, clearing his voice before he continues. “I’m doing good. And you?”

“All good. Been writing some more lately.”

Seokjin nods as his eyes widen and his mouth forms an ‘O’, glad to hear that you’ve picked up your hobby of creating beautiful poetry again. He’s even read some of your poems, and you’re truly talented, working around words so easily as if they were his own heart.

“Oh, wow! I- um… I took care of Ally. Do you remember her?” he stumbles over his words, ears growing increasingly red. He’s such a dork and you can’t help but smile a little.

“That’s nice to hear. I bought one of these myself a few days ago. Reminded me of you.”

“That’s great! T-that’s…” What is he trying to say? There must be something that he had prepared, but for the life of his, he can’t remember anymore. All he knows at the sight of you is that he wants to grab you by your waist again, pull you in to press you against him. He wants to feel your lips, move against them in soft, then needy motions.

He just wants you as a whole, if not forever, then once.

Just one more time.

And when he sees you wait for him to speak, fumbling with your fingers with your eyes far away from his, he whispers the word “courage” to himself once before his hand reaches out to grab yours and settle on your palm.

Your gaze shifts to him immediately, his abrupt action causing confusion in you as your heart rate spikes up. But when you see the expression on his face, you feel like you know.

“Y/N, I- we… we need to talk,” he finally declares, his thumb gently ghosting over the skin of your hand, such a simple gesture sending shivers down your spine.

Yes, he doesn’t have to say much. You know what he wants to talk about; after all, there aren’t that many possibilities of what he could want at your first encounter after being somewhat estranged all this time.

“I’m not sure I want-”

“No, please,” he interrupts, squeezing your hand tighter in his. A few weeks ago, his warmth would’ve felt like a safe haven for you, pulling you out from the dark grounds of an ocean if it needed to - but right now, you feel like you’re drowning, like you’re sinking instead of swimming up. “There’s so much I’ve been wanting to tell you and there were so little opportunities to do so.”

Half-fearing, half-anticipating what he’s going to say, you search for the walls you’ve managed to pull up, accepting that Seokjin will never want you in that way. You think you’ve moved on, but now that he’s so close, on the brink of either confessing or rejecting you, you feel tense - and both options aren’t ideal for you right now.

You wait until he’s ready to talk, watch his chest rise and then fall, his eyes meeting yours, but looking like they’d rather not before-

“I’m in love with you,” he finally breathes - and as he mutters his last word, the air around you becomes suffocating, the sounds muffled and his touch heavy.

Is that better than being rejected? You don’t know. You really do not know; and the shake of your head and furrow of your eyebrows show him that something is plaguing you that he might not want to hear.

“Y/N.” His tone is calm, steady, different from your hazardous heart that’s breaking right in front of him, and he doesn’t even see it.

“Why did you not tell me that back then, Jin?” you inquire, pulling your hand away and settling it on your lap. “We slept together. Why did you let me go?”

This… this is awkward. It’s ridiculous. Seokjin shouldn’t have decided to talk about this in a crowd, surrounded by people who know nothing about what’s going on between you two. But now that he did, his heart sinks, his mind in a painful fog, and he puffs out some air, calming himself.

“Let’s leave,” he suddenly suggests, and you think you can see the faintest glint of panic in his dark eyes, “clear it out somewhere else. At my place?”

Again, you shake your head, chuckling lightly but not decently. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t. There’s someone…”

Jin is quick to cut you once again, his breathing suddenly erratic. He’s been in love with you for years - no, he can’t take the thought of you having a boyfriend now, choosing someone over him. “Someone else? This fast? Y/N, why did I never-”

He stops mid-sentence, and it happens just timely as you were going to hold out a hand to silence him anyway.

“Jin. Listen,” you start, leaning in closer, “there’s someone who offered to guide me through a scholarship. Not here - in a different city. And as much as I’ve always wanted you, I can’t do long-distance relationships.”

Your words ease the pain inside him, his mind suddenly relaxing as he takes in your confession. You want him. You’ve always wanted him. Is all of this real?

“Where- where are you going?”

“It’s too far away. I wouldn’t see you more than a handful of times a year. I can’t do this,” you admit, your eyes stinging as you swallow the lump in your throat.

You see him tilt his head with a sigh, and you’re on the verge of breaking when you see his mouth twitch, that familiar movement that mostly means despair. This always happens when his grades are worse than he expects. It happens when he talks to his little brother who lives miles away. Mostly, you see it when you watch - or used to watch - movies together, especially Pixar and Ghibli ones tearing him up in no time.

And now, it’s happening because of you.

“Is there no way for you to stay?”

You bite your lip, chewing on it until you taste your lipstick. “I don’t think so. And it’s… a big chance for me.”

Seokjin’s jaw clenches and he nods, relief turning into sorrow as his expression shows understanding on the surface while his blood is boiling with pain on the inside. He’s angry with himself - he truly is. But he’s also sad about the fact that you never approached him.

And while waiting for the other in silence, phones in your hands, but the courage to message each other so far away, you missed it. You both missed it and he hates it.

“Then I hope you’ll get everything you want, Y/N,” he finally says, standing up as he grabs his thin jacket. It’s probably not that fresh outside yet, he can carry it - maybe hide his fumbling hands that clearly show his nervosity and distaste to this whole situation.

All he can think of is to get away before he breaks.

Yet, he comes closer to you, hovering above you before he leans down. Not caring about your surroundings, only seeing you, his heart only beating for you, he presses his lips onto your forehead first, wanders to your nose, both your cheeks and your earlobes as he says in between each kiss, “whenever… you decide… to come back… I’ll be here…”

Then, he cups your face, looking at your beautiful, full lips, missing how they feel on his before he kisses you gently. His mouth moves delicately, sweetly against yours, bittersweet memories and feelings streaming back as you internally forbid yourself to cry.

“Waiting for you,” he finally whispers, lips brushing yours, and every fiber in you tries hard to hold back. To not pull him into another room, kiss him more fiercely and bring back the fervent heat that you’d indulged in the last time.

His thumb brushes your cheeks softly, his eyes registering you gulping hard as he says his goodbyes, so he can leave. There’s just no way he can stay here any longer. “Don’t cry. I’ll be here, sweetheart.”

And then, his warmth is gone.

Fighting the urge to follow him, you watch him walk away, mind going crazy as you see him face the ground. You can’t falter. You need to focus on your studies before anything else - you don’t want to regret your choices; and if what he says holds true, you might just be able to wrap him into you forever when you come back in a year or two.

Maybe it’s not over yet.

The sun has set by the time Seokjin arrives home. All the sunshine from today morning has vanished, warming someone else, somewhere else now, leaving him in the dark as he lets himself fall on his bed.

An absolute disaster, all of this. And what an idiot he is. Why did he not insist on inviting you over? Ask you if there was any way you’d spend this one last night with him? The lingering feelings of your soft lips strengthen his despair tenfold, and he hates himself for not fighting for a night or a day with you. After all, you’re not going away just yet.

But deep down he knows why he did what he did: being together again would just hurt you both further, the small flame that both of your pain is becoming a searing wildfire. At least he knows for sure that this is what would happen to him. He knows it’d be near impossible to let you go if he woke up beside you.

What if Seokjin searches for scholarships, too? Your grades are similar - if you can get one, why not him? The picture of having you around, falling asleep next to you, studying together and bantering over food and movies - it’s so intriguing that he knows what he’ll search up tomorrow. 

Then again, you have your people; he doesn’t know anyone who can guide him through this, give him a fast opportunity to study somewhere else, be near you.

He doesn’t know. Not how to get you back, not how to feel you again; his brain comes up with nothing helpful, no plan he can actually execute successfully.

Slipping out of his pants, he lingers at the corner of the bed, his arms leaning on his thighs as his fingers tangle between them. Seokjin shakes his head as he physically feels his heart break, each broken piece fighting the other and torturing him, no matter how much he tells them to calm down.

And despite not knowing what to do, what to feel, how to erase the image of you and your face from his mind for the time being, he remembers something else.

When he’d looked for the meaning of the aloe plant, he had found many sources, some beautiful descriptions, and some poetic definitions that connected it to an emotional feeling. While the flower holds the meaning of affection, the memory of another word comes flooding in, ironic to the fact that aloe is supposed to heal, used to mend injuries and pain.

And thinking of this particular word, all he does know at this agonizing moment is that he identifies with your plant’s meaning.

He knows that all he feels is grief.

If you enjoyed the fic, consider liking, reblogging or sending an ask! We love to hear from you! 💕

#seokjin angst #bts fanfics #bts fic #bts imagine #seokjin #kim seokjin #jin #jin x reader #seokjin fanfiction #bts angst #bangtaninn #btscreatorscorner #thebtswritersclub #blackswannet #ssscentral #taegularities #bouquetcollab #seokjin fanfic

[malucy31]

Time is On Our Side

Pairing - Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood

Raiting - Teen and Up

Tags - Time Travel AU, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Reunion, Married Malec, Alec Misses Magnus, Happy Ending, Malec Love Each Other A Lot

6599 words - COMPLETED

Summary - Alec is stuck on a mission in India in the 18th century and he misses Magnus. One day, he wakes up somewhere that feels and smells like home.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Home, at last

There is a whole ritual every time Alec comes back from time traveling. Magnus is always there at the Institute, wearing a mix of worry and eagerness on his features.

The anchoring spell is performed quickly, just a way to make sure that no traveler’s history gets lost when the timelines merge a couple of hours from now. But Alec stays out, always. He refuses to be anchored to anyone but Magnus. They do it in the quiet and intimacy of their loft.

They don’t talk much. Even when they are in their kitchen, Magnus watches in silence as Alec eats like he hasn’t in days, which in this case is accurate. In the two days between meeting Magnus and the new moon, Alec has been so scared of having divulged too much that he hasn’t come out of his room, using nourishment runes, one after the other.

As usual, Magnus doesn’t eat a thing. It has only been a few minutes for him anyway; they had dinner before Alec left. The dinner before a time travel is always a heavy moment. It’s weird for them both. Not sharing time, knowing the next minutes of Magnus’s life could feel like weeks, a month…a decade to Alec.

A decade never happened, but the fear is always there. So, to remind each other that no matter what, Alec will always come back, they keep a third plate for Alec’s return, leaving everything on the table as it was. Alec will always come home, and their home will always be ready to welcome him back.

They don’t really have a lot of time after that. They need to prepare the protecting circle for the anchoring spell, but Alec can see that worry hasn’t left Magnus’s face. As Magnus is tracing the circle on the ground, Alec puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, calling his name as softly as he can.

They still don’t exchange a word. Alec can’t, knowing that if he starts, he could talk for days, shower Magnus with every promise of eternal love flaring up in his lungs with each intake of breath, with every moment of longing that peppered his last month and a half.

But it will have to wait. In the meantime, fear and worry start evaporating with a soft kiss, then a second one which turns into a hungrier one. That’s all it takes. The reminder that they share time again, they never stopped sharing it in some way.

Clothes are being discarded. They don’t have to feel each other’s skin for the spell, but their hearts do.

Alec finds the ingredients Magnus needs without having to ask. His hands are full of jars, and there is an apple tree twig between his teeth. He feels Magnus’s stare on him when he re-enters the living room where a circle of candles has been set up around a mattress.

What? he asks wordlessly with raised eyebrows.

Magnus sniggers, his voice finally filling the silence. “This never gets old.” He unburdens Alec’s arms by taking the jars one by one and setting them on the nearest table. “You, finding your way through my apothecary…” Alec doesn’t move, chuckling when Magnus finally takes the twig from his mouth and kisses his lips. “On your own…” Fingers trail up along his sides, and he can’t hold back a giggle, “in your underwear.”

“Feels good to be home,” Alec whispers into their kiss.

“It does.”

*

Once the spell starts, everything goes quickly. Time adjusting itself around them is intoxicating. It feels like those life showers Magnus likes to take with him sometimes. Running from portal to portal, hand in hand, hopping from a green and sunny hill to a rainy seashore, from hard concrete ground to silky sheets. Remaining there for a few breathless kisses before disappearing into the mattress with laughter when they hear a door opening. Landing on a trampoline, then more streets, more mountains, more kisses and the sweetest of all exhaustions. Watching the first minutes of a play before falling back, trapped between something fluffy and the comforting weight of Magnus. More laughter, always more laughter…then running again. Running around the world and taking everything in as the Earth keeps on spinning.

*

A draft wakes them at the same time. Alec feels Magnus stir, his arm and head leaving his chest before returning there with a sigh.

Around the mattress and the protecting circle, it’s havoc. The windows to the balcony are wide open, curtains billowing out in the breeze, birds exploring the living room and eating crumbs the wind scattered from their forgotten dinner.

There are even a few plants here and there, growing from the ground. It happens sometimes. It’s Magnus’s magic going a little crazy when it comes to protecting what they have. They are used to it. The flowers that grow don’t even always exist outside their own little world.

Alec plants a kiss in Magnus’s hair, inhaling a scent he has been missing for the last month and a half. Already grinning with delight about what’s to come, Alec eventually speaks. “Go ahead, ask…”

It doesn’t take long for Magnus to react. It’s endearing. Magnus always waits for Alec to start this conversation, making it another ritual with its codes and rules.

“Which stranger were you this time?”

There’s joy in his voice, one that Alec usually doesn’t link with Magnus thinking about his past.

Alec doesn’t answer, already shifting to retrieve the small pouch of sandalwood blend, eager to see his husband’s face light up when he figures it out on his own. But he should know better.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Magnus asks, his body suddenly weighing more heavily above his to make his point clearer. Alec isn’t going anywhere. It makes him laugh softly.

“I have a clue, but it’s in my jacket.”

“Which one?”

“The one I had yesterday? The one you took off with so little regard…”

“Well, there were other important things that demanded my attention,” he punctuates with a kiss, not letting his lips leave Alec’s, “and it’s a black leather jacket. You have thousands of them.”

He could tease him back, maybe tickle him, hear him giggle, feel the laughter and joy spread through his body. With Magnus so close, he would feel everything. But he is overwhelmed.

“I missed you so much, Magnus.”

“I know, darling. But I’m here now, we both are…and I’ve missed you just as much. Whoever you were this time, you can be sure that even though I barely knew you, I missed you the second you were gone. That I missed us without really knowing what us meant.”

Neither of them moves, not even for a kiss. Magnus swallows thicky, and Alec is struck by the emotions on his face. Years of being together and Magnus still feels self-conscious when he confesses things like that. But it never stops him, and even after all these years, Alec still feels like the luckiest man alive.

Magnus continues, his collected tone and loving smile trying to bring Alec back to him. “Do you see it?”

“Huh?”

“Your jacket, Alexander, can you tell me where it is so I can summon it?”

“Sure, it’s…” Alec cranes his neck. Their place is a mess, but he spots his jacket on the floor, somewhere between what seems to be an orchid and a cat napping in a morning sunbeam. “There.”

They laugh as Magnus follows Alec’s pointed finger, apparently realizing for the first time the state of their living room.

He snaps his fingers, and the jacket is there. In one of its pockets, Alec finds the small pouch. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Magnus to recognize it.

“It’s one of mine! Where did you get this?”

“You gave it to me.”

“I gave it to you? You must have made a big impression on me.”

“I think I did,” Alec smirks, still a little worried that he told too much to that past version of Magnus. “Especially when I told you about my husband.”

He sees Magnus’s eyes widen, just like they did all those centuries ago.

“The married traveler, of course… Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you? For a long time, I was obsessed with that place in the world where it seemed possible for people like us to exist.” His voice breaks a little on those words.

Alec can’t resist the urge to hug him, take him in his arms and secure his head in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry. It broke my heart to leave you this way.”

“Don’t. Don’t be sorry. I kept a very fond memory of that encounter. And who knows, maybe you’ll have to go back, and we’ll realize we met again in the morning.”

“Maybe we never really stopped meeting.”

“What a lovely thought…”

They bask in the silence for a little while, Magnus’s body relaxing against Alec’s.

“Can you remind me what happened? What we said?”

It’s still so fresh in Alec’s mind that he tells him every detail.

The anchoring spell protects those moments, frozen in time. They have so many memories like this one now, not really knowing if it really happened, if this is part of their story or some sort of alternate reality. It doesn’t matter. They are still here, together in the end, with dozens of memories of a life that maybe was. None of them affecting their life, only adding to it.

Somewhere during the story, Magnus rolled on his side to face Alec.

“When did we see each other after that?” Magnus asks.

It gets complicated to answer that question, Alec doesn’t time travel every day, but he has done it a few times already. It’s not always easy to keep track.

“The pirate ship!” They exclaim at the same time, laughing at the memory.

Alec reaches out, grazing Magnus’s cheekbone, outlining his jaw and diving into his eyes. They sparkle with joy, gold shining proudly in the morning light.

“It feels good,” Alec eventually utters. “Seeing you talking about your past with such lightness, laughing.”

Magnus whispers his answer into the crook of Alec’s neck. “It’s easier now that I know you could be anywhere in it.”

The words turn into soft kisses, each of them reminding Alec why those time travels are always worth it, no matter how long they can feel. Each of them is a chance to give Magnus back what life took from him. Hope, happiness, laughter, cheerfulness…

“You really are a man of your word, aren’t you?” Magnus continues.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re taking our wedding vows further than I would ever dare ask you to, Alexander… As if your love in our present wasn’t enough, you give it to past versions of myself too, do you realize how extraordinary this is? How extraordinary you are?”

“‘m not. Loving you is easy.”

“Stop selling yourself short, my heart, and accept to be worshipped like you deserve to be.”

“Only if you accept it too.” Alec tastes the giggle on Magnus’s lips, letting it infuse in him. He doesn’t need to see him to notice the sudden stiffness in Magnus. “What is it?” he asks, his fingers rubbing soothing circles at the back of Magnus’s hair.

His answer comes in a murmur. “I know it’s selfish, but I’ll never have enough of your lifetime. Whether it’s to repay you or to love you. It will never be enough.” He sighs, his next words barely audible. But it doesn’t matter. Alec would hear those words even in a storm. “I need you for more than your lifetime.”

Magnus has never said it like this, never so directly. It makes Alec’s reply so much easier. “Then, maybe we should find a way to extend it?” Any tentativeness dies when Alec is met by two golden irises and a smile that has rarely been so big. “I never want to leave you alone. I mean, if you’re being selfish, I may just as well be too, right?”

“Yes, yes you may be, darling… You can be whatever you want.”

“I love you.” It’s impossible to stop beaming at Magnus in this moment, so he doesn’t. They will have forever, no matter how long it takes to find it. “Who you are, who you were, and who you will be. I’ll love every version of you as long as you’ll have me.”

“Oh Alexander… An eternity or two is a bare minimum.”

#malec #malec fic #malec fanfiction #magnus bane #alec lightwood #shadowhunters #time travel fic #time travel au #malec reunion #malec fluff #immortal husbands #my writing #malec fanfic

[hearts-hunger]

together wing to wing || chapter five

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four

Series Summary: He’s offered his protection before, on the Green. In the hospital, Cee wonders if he’ll offer it again, and Ezra wonders if she’ll even want him to.

Chapter Summary: Ezra makes a promise.

Pairings: Ezra & Cee (platonic!)

Genre: Fluff, hurt/comfort, angst, whump | Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: hospitals, injury, mentions of canon-typical violence

A/N: We’ve reached the end of this fic! I’m pretty proud of how it turned out, and I’m so thankful for everyone that has taken the time to read it. Thank you for letting me share my thoughts on this little space family with you! ♡

Ezra’s eyes flew open in a panic.

He couldn’t breathe - something had his lungs in a vise grip, some heavy weight in the direct center of his chest that pressed so hard he thought his ribs would crack. He wheezed and coughed and gasped like a drowning thing, like he had on the Green.

The Green. Wherever he was now, it was too damn bright to be the Green. He screwed his eyes shut and heard the ragged, clawing sound of his breath as he sucked in greedy inhales. 

Where was he? He’d followed Cee into the Green. He’d promised he would. He needed to get to her, to find her - she was lost, the little thing, out there on her own - 

He felt something press against his face, hot and unwelcome; he twisted to get away from it, but he was so tired. 

“Stop fighting me, you idiot - breathe.” 

Well, that was certainly one way to talk to a man on death’s door. He trusted that voice, though, without having to think - he tried and failed to remember a time trust had come to him so easily, so implicitly.

The weight on his chest left as quickly as it came, and his lungs gusted full with clean, warm air. It was muggy, like the inside of an environment suit worn too long - maybe he was in the Green. He didn’t care. He kept his eyes closed and breathed as deeply as he could manage, fearing the ability would be lost to him again if he didn’t.

His hand was the thing being crushed now - a shaky, fearful grip that bruised his knuckles. It didn’t hurt like everything else. His surgical scar burned, his lungs were tired, the skin of his chest felt burned, of all things. His lost arm pulsed with a loud sort of pain, clamoring for his attention. His head, too, in a way it hadn’t before, as far as he could remember. But that tremulous squeezing of his hand - he’d felt that before, somewhere, as if from a dream he couldn’t quite recall. It reminded him of home, of long fields of tall-grass and glittering stars. He squeezed back, weakly, and hoped whoever it was would keep a hold of him while he got his breath back.

“Don’t do that to me again.”

The same voice that had rebuked him a moment ago, much softer this time. A little bird’s voice, weak and scared out of her wits.

He swallowed. “Cee.” His voice was cracked and hoarse, not at all up to his usual verbosity. He hoped the use of her name sufficed.

Another touch was given in response, like a hand laid on top of their joined ones. She held his only hand in both of hers, and then his knuckles were wet, like the first raindrops of a summer storm.

He opened his eyes, wincing against the brightness. His breath fogged into a mask over his nose and mouth - not an environment suit - and the hospital came into focus. He sighed so deeply with relief that his breath caught again, hitching until he eased it with another round of coughing. 

“Stop doing that.”

She looked at him with fire in her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks, the lines of her face set in a determinedly unhappy expression. He wondered how often he’d be on the receiving end of that look, how many more times he’d fan that spark of anger and hurt that seemed to live like a trapped thing inside her rib cage.

He coughed again. “Doing what?”

“That,” she said. “Coughing. Dying.”

He took a slow breath. “Nobody’s dying, birdie.”

She shot to her feet, mad as a pit viper who’d met an unwitting, unfortunate boot tread. He took off the mask to see her better; his breaths came less easily, and he coughed to compensate. She flinched.

“Quit that,” he snapped. His head hurt, and somehow he was hurting her, and he couldn’t figure his way around both of those things together. “I’m not dying. My lungs are just shit.”

She stamped her foot in frustration, and it was such a childlike thing that it reminded him how young she really was. 

“Birdie - ”

“No!” she spat. “I don’t want to hear how you’re fine, how you’re not dying.” Her chin wobbled, and absolute anguish filled every inch of her expression.

“You were dead, Ezra,” she said. “Your heart stopped. You left me, and I hate you, you miserable bastard!”

He sucked in a sharp breath, and it made him cough again. He held up a conciliatory hand before she directed her fury his way again.

“Hold on,” he managed. He caught his breath again and tried to keep steady as a wave of dizziness compounded the pain in his head. He couldn’t think with her so tightly wound, looking ready to bolt should he show any sign of leaving her again - looking ready to leave him first. He weakly patted the side of the bed.

“Sit down, birdie.”

She did as he said, but it was a hesitating thing. She worried her lip again, and he knew it would bleed again soon.

“Say it again,” he told her. “Don’t yell at me. My head hurts.”

Her breath caught on the edge of a sob. “The doctors said your heart stopped.”

He felt a prickly, icy feeling in his chest that had little to do with his lungs. 

“No, that can’t be right,” he said. “I’m here, aren’t I? Wouldn’t Kevva be welcoming me into the hereafter if that had happened?”

She pressed her hands over her face, like she had when her nightmare frightened her so badly.

“They brought you back,” she said. “I...”

She dropped her hands to her lap; a smear of blood on the heel of her hand matched the bright red on her bottom lip.

“You fell when you passed out on the roof,” she said. Then, her expression twisted with guilt,  “I didn’t catch you in time, and you hit your head.”

That explained the pain there. He hoped she didn’t blame herself - she couldn’t have broken his fall, not with her tiny frame and his unconscious dead weight.

She took a shaky breath and continued. “I ran inside to get help, and when they brought you back inside, they said the dust infection had come back. They said that happens sometimes.”

He nodded. “It does.” He’d seen it happen before. Not in the hospital, of course, but on the Green, where there was nothing to be done for it. A body wasted away like that, drowned with dust until the lungs simply couldn’t draw another breath. The dust grew and festered and filled every corner; it was slow until it wasn’t, and in retrospect, he should have known that’s what was happening on the roof.

But, on the Green, if your heart stopped - it just stopped. There was nothing for it but to honor the dead as best you could in that murky wet soil and hope to Kevva they were some place better. That’s how he should have gone. That’s how he would have gone, were it not for the reckless, too-caring hands that flexed uncomfortably near his now, wanting to cling to him but thinking better of it.

“They said they couldn’t believe you survived it,” she said, almost in a whisper. Her face had taken on a deathly pallor, worse than he’d seen it in cycles. She looked like she had on the Green, half-starved, half-grown.

Her eyes lighted on the monitor that measured each heartbeat. “You weren’t breathing. Your heart stopped. They had to inject you with something, shock you with something - you were dead, and you jerked up like - like - ”

She shook her head, and her eyes glazed with tears.

“Alright,” he said, hoping to soothe; his rough, weary voice did little to help. “That’s alright, birdie. You don’t have to tell me. I believe I can untangle what happened from there.”

He wished to spare himself the image as much as he wanted to spare her the telling of it. The thought of his own body, wrenched lifelessly like a marionette whose stings had been pulled - he knew that’s where the burns on his chest had come from, electricity crackling though him, trying to wake something very nearly gone.

Cee looked back to him. “I thought you left me.”

Never in his life had he seen a more pitiful-looking thing, this little girl with too much grief and too few hands to hold. He took her hand in his and held on tightly.

He took a deep breath, tried to gather his strength. The thought of his heart failing again left him restless, eager to rise and prove he wasn’t going to make it out of the jaws of the Green just to drop dead in a hospital on Central. He shook with nervousness and pain, feared for his own body and feared for the little bird perched beside it.

He thought of what he could say to ease her, to bring her back from the terrifying edge of almost having been truly alone in the universe. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. More than his fear for himself, his fear for her was unconquerable by any method. She was alone, save for him, and it was a sorry excuse for good fortune; but it did not alter the fact that he was no more willing to let her venture off into the world without him now than he had been on the Green.

Even then, when all he knew of her was a venomous bite and an uncommon bravery - bravery her father had not had, bravery he had not enjoyed in a long while - he could not stomach the thought of her alone. In the pod, he knew the moment she decided to go after the mercs by herself, and a panic that had long lay dormant suddenly reared its unforgiving head. Panic like that was for those you loved and children and stray dogs, not someone with a thrower whose bite he’d already tasted. But she was a child and a bit like a stray thing, if not someone he loved. Those mercs would take everything from her, not just in the way she feared. He knew too much of being a lost, used thing to let her go alone and become one herself.

And so he’d offered protection. Useful, still, even with his wound; he was big, and strong enough to let her get away, at least, if it came to it. Even now, if he ever got the use of his lungs back, he would be a formidable guard against the things that preyed on little birds like her. Did she want him to be?

I thought you left me. Her words hung between them, stretched across the thread of fate and circumstance and dependence that kept them together despite how thinly it had been worn down. That panic stirred again, and he wondered if it hadn’t been right all along - it was for someone he loved, a child, a stray thing. His little bird.

“You said you would help me,” she said. “On the Green. Remember?”

“I do,” he said. He wondered if her thoughts had tended in a similar direction to his.

She looked like she wanted to say more, but her father’s taste for silence and a learned dislike of vulnerability held her tongue. He searched her face.

“I won’t leave you again,” he said. Simple, by his standards, but more meaningful and meant than anything else he’d said. He raised their joined hands and nudged a knuckle against her jaw, a clumsy attempt at affection; he’d had so little cause to hone the skill that it seemed crooked and broken-down, like he was.

But, oh. The tears she’d kept back with valiant effort finally would not be stopped, and her shoulders shook with sobs. He opened his palm and cradled her face; she pressed his hand to her cheek and cried until she couldn’t any more.

“Shh, little bird,” he said after a while, brushing his thumb over her cheek. She was feverish, exhausted; he wondered how long it had been since she had really cried, for as long as she needed to. He couldn’t imagine her father enduring it, and knew with certainty he had not comforted her even if he had.

“Sorry,” she said, though she made no move away from him.

“No, birdie, it’s alright,” he told her. His thumb continued to trace over the freckles on her flushed cheek. “I don’t mean to rush you. I only mean to offer some consolation, if I can. I’m afraid I’m not very well versed in it.”

She drew a choppy breath, but her tears were winding down and she looked very tired as she started to settle. She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes.

“You’re not too bad at it,” she said. He allowed himself a smile.

She raised her sleeve to her face to dry her tears, and he let his hand fall beside him. He was tired, and hurting, but he wanted to make his promise clear.

“Cee,” he said. She looked puzzled at his use of her given name, like it had become unfamiliar to her, or perhaps just sounded odd in his voice. 

“Birdie,” he tried again, and she softened. He felt his chest tighten in the way of feeling a swell of pride and love long denied.

“I’ll stay with you as long as you’ll have me,” he said. “My protection, my help, whatever you need from me - you have it. You need only take it.”

Every word felt like a stone dragged up from underwater, weighty with physical pain and vulnerability, a thing of heavy, hard work - but he’d do hard work for her, if she’d let him. Please, Birdie, let me. I cannot bear the loss of you. 

She swallowed. He watched her face for some sign of response, some indication of her thoughts towards his proposition; she looked unsteady, uncertain.

“You mean it?” she finally asked.

He let out a breath, a gusting sigh of relief.

“I mean it,” he said, more sincere than he’d been in his whole life. “Candid discourse, remember? I won’t ever lie to you.”

He wanted to hold her gaze, to communicate his willingness to talk more, if she was so inclined; but he was so tired. Of a sudden, his pains caught up with him, unhindered by his worry for her now that their relationship seemed so comfortingly sure. He leaned back on the pillow and closed his eyes against the gamut of pain his body seemed so keen to run. 

“Forgive my malaise, birdie,” he said, wheezing a little. “Takes a bit out of a body to die and come back, I’ve found.”

She huffed a laugh, and he took it as a good sign.

“You should have been sleeping,” she said, a tinge of guilt to her voice. “I shouldn’t have kept you up. I’m sorry.”

He waved his hand, a weak dismissal he hoped she saw. “No need to apologize. Your company is better medicine than most.”

She drew a congested breath, drying the last of her tears. “If someone crying all over you is your definition of good medicine, maybe you’re not as smart as I thought.”

He cracked a smile then; he could imagine the wry expression on her face, flushed and tear-streaked though it was. 

“You should get some rest, birdie,” he said. “I’m sure you’re worn out.” He doubted she had slept at all while he’d been unconscious, keeping vigil by his bed. He felt guilty for it, for frightening her so, and tempered it with the warmth that her care for him brought when he thought of it.

They shared the silence for a few moments, his breathing labored.

“Ezra,” she said quietly, like she was afraid he’d fallen asleep.

He hummed a response, saving words for when they were needed. He’d never been so sparing with them before, and couldn’t decide if he liked the change. He waited for her answer; when none was forthcoming, he wasn’t surprised when he felt her start to fidget beside him in a telltale bout of nervousness.

“Birdie,” he chided gently, hoping to ease her embarrassment, if that’s what it was. “You don’t have to mind your words so much around me. What is it?”

She sighed, perhaps at being caught out, but it seemed a touch relieved.

“You’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?” she asked.

He frowned and opened his eyes, wincing a little against the brightness of the lights. She reached behind him and turned them off.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “I’m just sore, little bird. Nothing to fuss over. The pain medication will ease that quickly enough.”

That wasn’t completely true - really, he hurt something awful - but she didn’t need to know that. Like he’d said, it was nothing the high-grade painkillers wouldn't solve with time.

She considered that. “You probably want to rest.”

He raised a brow. “Probably,” he agreed, puzzled at this line of questioning. Surely it was a roundabout way of asking something else, something she wanted but didn’t quite know how to ask for; he was determined to be patient with her, to try and ease her hesitation.

“You need to rest too,” he said again. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

She shook her head, suddenly earnest, stubborn. “No.”

He sighed. “It won’t do either of us any good for you to be bone-tired. You’ll only make yourself ill.”

“I don’t want to,” she snapped defensively, but he knew better. He’d used frustration to mask fear, too, and knew she was worried about something.

“Birdie,” he said kindly. Getting things out of her was like pulling teeth, sometimes, and he wondered if anyone had been patient enough to do it before.

She looked almost surprised at his gentleness, like she’d expected a rebuke for snapping at him like that. Her shoulders slumped.

“I can’t,” she amended miserably, tired and defeated. “I can’t sleep.”

Ah. So, that’s what it was. Not her stubbornness, nor a need to spite him - she was frightened, too wound up to even try.

She gave him a miserably pleading look. “What if something happens?” He heard the unasked question: What if you die again?

He shook his head.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he soothed. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you. Trust me.” He hoped to Kevva he could keep that promise, and he’d do his utmost to ensure he would.

“Please try, for me,” he said gently.

She didn’t say anything; then, in a desperate kind of voice, she said what she’d been meaning to all along.

“I don’t want to be alone,” she said softly. “Can I... can I stay with you?”

He softened. “Oh, birdie. Of course.”

He’d never felt this kind of responsibility towards anyone before, this easy, heart-rending concern that welled up in him whenever he looked at her. She needed caring for, and he’d do it as long as she’d let him. He knew that admission had been a vulnerable thing, and he knew its worth; he was keen to value it and her with patience and tenderness. 

He moved over to make more room for her, biting back a groan as his body protested to the movement. She curled up against him almost instantly, warm and so little, desperate for the kindness of a caring touch. He let her set the boundaries between them, giving her all the agency he could; he wanted nothing less than for her to be uncomfortable, to feel unsafe. No such worries seemed to cross her mind, though, and she pressed against his arm and buried her face against his shoulder like a child seeking comfort.

He was surprised at how much he was comforted by it, how her breathing steadied his, how her warmth soothed the pain to a dull racket. They needed each other, he thought - two lost things in need of companionship. He breathed a prayer of thanks for her, for this little bird who’d made a home in his heart.

“Ezra?” she mumbled, halfway to sleep already.

“Hm?”

She breathed a sleepy sigh. “Thanks for not leaving me.”

He smiled. “My pleasure, birdie.”

He listened as she fell asleep, her breathing evening out, finally resting after so much fear and worry. He wanted that for both of them, and was determined to find it for them and settle somewhere peace grew in abundance; for now, he rested with her, and it was a more tender kindness than any he’d known before.

pedro pascal character taglist: @punkgeekcryptid​, @tv-saved-the-teenage-girl​, @stardust-galaxies​, @theorganasolo​, @qhbr2013​, @willowtheewisp​​ ♡

series taglist: @insomniamamma​​, @motherofallthesmallthings​​ ♡

#ezra prospect #ezra prospect fanfiction #cee prospect #prospect 2018 #prospect 2018 fanfiction #maddie writes stuff! #i hope you guys like it! i'm happy with how it turned out :)

[imhereforbvcky]

Team Re-Building - Part 2 (end)

Summary: (Sam Wilson x reader, FalconCap humor/fluff) After the events of EndGame, the remaining Avengers head out on a mandatory team building exercise at your cattle ranch. The week turns out as unexpected for you as the idea was for them. (Part 1)

Prompt/Request: “Is that a horse?! Do I look like a cowboy to you?” For mine and @justsomebucky’s Cap² Challenge. I separated the prompt a little for flow, but I think I kept the spirit of it.

Warnings: None. Probably swearing. I’ve got a mouth and I can’t control it.

Word Count: 2471

“Alright,” you smiled up at Sam slowing to a stop on a ridge. Your herd of hearty western cattle stood below, dark specks still as stone in the sea of pale green and soft brown winter prairie.

Sam took a deep sigh and let it out in a quick puff through pursed lips. “So this is the job, huh?”

“Not so bad, right?”

“Definitely seen worse.” He grinned as he said it, turning to you in the bright mid-day sun.

That damn smile again. It had the heat creeping up your cheeks. You turned your head, pretending to check a strap on your saddle to hide it.

You heard his laugh, more of a soft chuckle. Apparently, you weren’t very discrete after all. It seemed, though, that Sam enjoyed this little game even more than you did. The little glances, the smiles, moving a little closer every now and again. You’d bet the barn he was doing it on purpose: making you squirm like that.

“You’re calling the shots, I take it?”

He nodded, looking over the valley as the others circled the area, pushing the cattle into a tighter herd at your staff’s encouragement.

“Well, before the real work begins…”

Sam raised his eyebrows with a slow grin as you pulled a bottle of whiskey out of your saddlebag.

“Don’t judge me,” you defended. “I know I’ve earned it. Getting you comfortable in a saddle, city-Sam.”

He laughed, rich and sweet. The sound tangled in your ears with the creaking of leather as you leaned in your saddle to pass the bottle. You and your horse moved as one most of the time and she took it as a cue to side-step.

The movement pushed your hand into Sam’s and god, just that simple brush of skin was enough to light a fire somewhere deep in the center of your spine. The flames licked up your neck while the smile on your face froze at the unexpected contact and turned to something soft, nervous and brimming with anticipation.

You felt Sam’s eyes skim over your face, deep and burning like a canyon at sunset. The air clung to your skin, like even it dared not move.

The sharp pop of a whip down below finally cracked through the moment and it was gone as unexpectedly as it had come.

Sam looked alarmed, eyes darting around the perimeter of the clearing, while yours simply scanned the loose corner of the herd where one of the ranch hands was urging an eager bull back into the fold.

“It’s just a whip, Sam.” Your voice was soft and he was glad.

“I thought it was…” he shook his head, half a smile on his lips, and half a frown in his eyes. “It sounded like a handgun.”

“Not that kind of job.” You tipped the bottle toward him again, a small sympathetic smile on your lips. While gunfire was far from a rarity here, it didn’t carry the same meaning it did for Sam. It didn’t mean a fight or a mission. It was a part of life for you both, but yours, you realized, was far more sedate thanks to Sam and the others riding out over your land that day.

This time he took the bottle and scowled at the label.

“Thought I was calling the shots.”

You laughed, reaching into your pocket for a tiny flask. “Fine. You want the good stuff; you gotta earn it out there.”

“Alright, let’s do this.” The words were a damp growl after the stiff sip of locally distilled bourbon.

Together you talked through the positions and the skills of his teammates.

“I’d set your best rider behind, someone to chase down stragglers—“

“Clint,” Sam decided without hesitation. “He’s got a good eye. He’ll take the high ground.”

“Good,” you nodded your agreement.

The others fell into positions easily, and you began driving the cattle up toward fresh pasture. With a signal from Sam, Bruce opened the hatch of the pick-up truck and 3 speckled cattle dogs lept out, barking and racing. They would do the leg-work, circling the herd and keeping a tight migration up to the cooler edge of the peaks, just breaking with green spring grass.

Sam ranged up and down the side of the group, watching, calling orders, drawing the group and the job into a cohesive unit. They moved as one, cutting across the fields like the shadow of a cloud.

Soon enough the team settled into the work, into their roles and their familiarity with each other. Sam was a natural leader and there was comfort in that. It allowed the others the freedom to do what they needed to do. He made it easy and it wasn’t long before they’d begun shouting jabs at each other.

“Rhodes that calf’s gonna make a run for it!” Bruce called over the roar of the diesel engine in which he rode. He pointed over the cab of the truck. “Ah it’s too late,” he laughed, waving a dismissive hand through the air as James tried to encourage his horse into a faster pace to head off the little cow. “It’s too late, man.”

Clint, slightly bored bringing up the rear on his own, had stopped to fashion himself a slingshot and had taken to firing pebbles at the back of Bucky’s neck. Wanda couldn’t stop giggling at the irritation rising pink in his cheeks, along with a smirk and a shake of his head. Clint knew he was going to wake up with his boots full of manure or his clothes in the creek. Worth the risk, he’d decided.

“That your cousin?” Bucky called, looking over his shoulder at Sam with a wicked grin. He pointed a glimmering metal hand up into the sky at the large bird circling the top of the hill.

“Hilarious,” Sam rolled his eyes. You, however, pulled the binoculars hanging at your chest up to your eyes.

“Sorry, soldier,” you hollered with a wink toward Sam, “Falcons stick to the canyon around here. That’s a Cooper’s Hawk.”

“Clint, that’s you!” Wanda shouted happily; turning almost completely around, hand on the back of her saddle.

Just as Clint looked over, the raptor soared for only a moment longer before pitching downward. It dove for a prairie dog at a shocking pace. Unsuccessful.

“Faceplant out of a tree,” Rhodes chuckled. “Yeah, that’s a Clint move.”

The ribbing continued until you’d urged the cattle up the hills under the slender, bone-white trunks of an aspen grove. Green shimmering leaves had just begun to sprout and the river bubbled its soft laugh nearby. It was a perfect spot to set up camp for the night. The Avengers had done well, but unused to full days riding; they’d need to find their sea-legs again.

“Oh damn,” Sam complained, half groan, half sigh. He waddled toward the warmth of the fire. “Now I know why everybody in those old westerns walked like they just got their asses beat. Literally.”

You laughed, hard. “You a little saddle sore?”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Bucky interjected, handing over a sleeve of re-hydrated rice and beef. Dinner on the trail.

“I don’t have the energy to explain how the birds and the bees work right now, Bucky. Use your imagination.”

You enjoyed Sam’s company a lot. You also really enjoyed the way he interacted with each of his team members. He was a chameleon. He seemed to sense what everyone needed and adapt accordingly. Bucky needed to not be handled with kid gloves, to be treated normally. Their unending banter was as much a defining feature of their friendship, as it was a credit to Sam’s perceptiveness and ability to meet his friends where they needed it.

A natural leader even when he wasn’t trying.

The full days ride in the long summer sun had thoroughly worn out your guests and your staff alike. They had retired into the safety of their tents, tucked into warm synthetic down sleeping bags rolled out over top of the line sleeping pads.

You, however, were never one for tents. This land was your home and you felt no need to hide from it.

When you heard the soft shuffle of feet on the packed grass and dirt, you turned your head from its place on your bent forearm.

“Mind if I join you?” Sam asked quietly, hovering at the edge of the fading firelight.

“Is everything alright with your sleeping arrangements?” you asked, pushing up onto your elbows and preparing to accommodate your guest. This was a business, after all. “Can I get you somethi—“

“No! No.” He was quick to dispel your worries. “You’ve been—Everything’s great.”

You nodded and waited, stretching back out onto your deep green wool blanket. It had been in your family for generations, had spread under these stars for countless nights.

“I just uh,” he paused, scratching the back of his neck and stepping closer. “I did two tours, and then all this. The Avengers thing.  You get used to sleeping with your head on a rock and it’s hard to go back. Sometimes you start to think you shouldn’t get too comfortable, you know?”

You chewed on the inside of your lip and nodded. You didn’t know. His experience was unique, certainly a world away from your own. But a life spent out here, with just the sound of the wind in the grass and the crash of thunder off the mountains, you’d become a good listener.

“Well,” you answered slowly, patting the clay-hardened earth beside you. “There are plenty of rocks around here.”

He grinned. It was a new one for you, and it warmed you from the inside out. Just a simple tip of his lips to one side, a brightening of the glint in his eyes and you were closing your own, memorizing it and willing yourself to breathe.

He settled himself next to you, mimicking your posture and hooking a thickly chiseled arm behind his head. The heat of his skin burned warmer than the fire as his free arm pressed against yours from shoulder to fingertip. Well your fingertips, anyway.

“What are you doin’ out here?” he asked, turning up onto his side to fix you with a steady gaze.

It took you a moment to figure out how words worked again.

“I uh,” You shrugged. “I like it.”

His laugh was full and soft at the same time. You continued to marvel at the depth of mirth that spilled out of this man. He was a well of warmth and kindness, like that old familiar blanket that you always want to wrap around your shoulders and fall asleep under, safe and content.

“You pretty much do exactly what you want, don’t you?” he asked, smile pulling his full lips wide and tight. His eyes, though, were serious, slightly narrowed while he studied you in the dying firelight.

“Pretty much,” you chuckled, repeating his words back, hardly able to hold a conversation under that look.

Your entire body was drawn to it. You turned onto your side to face him full on, curling your knees to steady yourself. It was all in the eyes for you. God you could watch them all day, but here, in the firelight, it was like staring at a beach just after sunset: warm and dark and shimmering with something golden. He was like the familiar comfort of soft worn leather, and he smelled of it after a day’s ride. What you wouldn’t give to have his arms around you.

“You know you have that power now too, right?” you asked quietly. “You’re giving the orders now, Captain.” You smiled because it wasn’t really your place. Your job here was to help people see their own potential, find their role among their group. Be it a family, a business, or, in the oddest of cases, the Avengers. But lying side by side under the stars wasn’t exactly in the list of services either. This wasn’t business, this was personal.

“I know.” Sam took in a slow deep breath and let it out between pursed lips. “Doesn’t quite feel like it yet.”

“You know, this place was supposed to go to my older brother?” you asked. It was rhetorical of course, so Sam just listened, watching the bittersweet smile tug over your lips. “That’s how it goes out here. Traditions have a way of stickin’. Anyway. He went to the stock show in the city. Got one look at what could’ve been and knew that was what he wanted. He never looked back.”

Sam’s large hand smoothed over your arm before it came to rest curling through your fingers. “That must have been challenging.”

You shrugged. “Not everybody understands it. His decision,” you explained. “But it was his to make. And now this is mine. And I don’t carry his or anyone else’s decisions around on my back.”

You squeezed his hand when he nodded, letting his eyes fall.

“And that shield?” you urged. “That’s yours.”

“You’re damn right it is,” Sam grinned, curling your joined hands up to his chest. Your heart stuttered with the warmth and the intimacy of the act. It was like he’d pulled you closer body and soul. You barely knew him but you were hooked.

“So when you get home,” You ducked your head to kiss his knuckles and curl closer. “…you tell that Mission Coordinator of yours that as great this week has been, your team is never getting on horseback again!”

His laughter was a welcome sound, and a soft shudder in your own rib-cage.

Two weeks later, the team had been training together like a well-oiled machine at the compound and Maria couldn’t be more proud of herself for her obscure choice of team building exercise.

Like every other morning that summer, after a long run in the mid-summer heat, the east-coast humidity stuck to Sam like a second skin. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, fanning himself lightly with it as he jogged up the steps to his townhome.

He frowned down at the little package on the stoop, and picked it up. He hadn’t been expecting anything, but when he saw flying K brand stamped in heavy black ink over the seam, he grinned and took a seat right there in the sun.

Inside the box he found a small bottle of whiskey from a distillery nestled into the same valley as your ranch. He’d bet his wings it was the same as had been in your little pocket flask, and he laughed at the memory. The note tied to the neck of the bottle read:

“A shot for the guy calling all the shots. Give ‘em hell, Cap.”

Will reblog with tags when I get a minute today.

#sam wilson x reader #sam x reader #sam wilson fanfic #sam wilson imagine #avengers fanfic #falconcap #team rebuilding part 2 #team rebuilding 2 #team rebuilding

[rawbiredbest]

It’s All in Your Head

Contains: Fluff, Angst, Unconventional Relationships, Telepathy, Demons Fandom: Marvel (comics) Relationships: Stephen Strange/Victor von Doom Characters: Stephen Strange, Victor von Doom, Wong, Boris Word Count: 6103

Out of the blue, Stephen Strange and Victor von Doom find themselves telepathically connected.

No squealing, remember that......

Content warning for canon typical violence, profanity, implied sexual activity, and a single usage of homophobic language by a very bad individual.

Graciously commissioned by @osheets! Wanna do the same? Check my info!

Read here or on AO3!

- - -

The breakthrough comes with rapturous spontaneity. It’s like Victor von Doom has been standing on the shore of a Latverian loch, and in the blink of an eye, the grains of sand have become an orchestra, the surf their masterful conductor, and he the sole audience. He has captured their forms in glass and steel, multiplied ten million fold in the casings of complex machinery, and the entire laboratory sings the path to a bolder, brighter future. In all of his years of experimentation, innovation, desperation, he has never heard this music before. It pours from every screw and bolt, vibrates along every copper wire, thunders out of every piston and valve. The engineers below him, controlling and monitoring the device, are Gods of melody and time. Doom himself has transcended divinity, rising high on sublime notes of praise. He is Emperor, Encapsulated Universe, and his feet do not touch the floor as he glides to the heart of his machine, his veins coursing with silver beauty. Hydrogen atoms dance into the arms of their palladium partners, and their heat is love, love for each other, love for nature, love for him, and it is a primordial force unlocked from decades of ridicule and shame, and he has set it free. Genius. Monarch. Ultimate.

And then it goes. Slowly, a receding tide. It slides from his bones, leaving them aching. He braces himself against a panel, cold sweat sticking to his brow. His heart hammers in his chest, a lone drum holding a marching beat long after the band has departed into the moonless night. The engineers gape at him, oblivious to the miracle that has deafened their ruler.

Doom touches the shielding glass of the operating CMNS reactor, and its vibrations are an idiot hum. He blinks salt from his eyes, breath condensing on the machine.

Four thousand, five hundred and six miles away, a doctor and his best friend leave Madison Square Garden, wearing concert merch, beaming like loons.

- - -

To Stephen, it’s a tsunami.

He’s watching TV. The nightly news. He could tap into the Eye and view the entire world as it turns, but he doesn’t want to. It isn’t very often he feels human, let alone vegetable, so any opportunity to vegetate he takes with gusto. Stretched across his couch, he tugs down the hem of his shirt, leans his head on his hand, and waits to absorb the country’s woes.

He gets a sharp pain on the nape of his neck instead. He swats at the spot, looks at his palm. “Ow.”

Wong looks up from the email he’s writing. “Are you okay?”

Strange frowns, settles back down. “I think there’s a mosquito in here.” They’re talking about the Amazon fires. Stephen’s heart aches for the birds who will drop from the sky, their lungs full of smoke, voices forever silenced.

And then pain rips down his back, like his spine is torn out by an iron hand from his neck to his waist.

He can’t help but yell then, clutching the cushions. A heavy ache lingers in his vertebrae. Gingerly he sits up, breathing hard, eyes clenched shut. Something a bit like petrichor, a bit medicinal, a bit hot fills his nose.

Wong runs to him, but Strange raises a hand. “I’m fine,” he says, though he already braces against the thick lump rising next to his heart. As it crests, it dissipates throughout his body. He forces his eyes open, expecting to see the black trails of tiny spiders beneath his skin. Nothing but unmarked flesh.

“Should I call Doctor Carter?” Wong asks, thumbing toward the antique phone. It’s enchanted to call anywhere, anytime, any-plane.

“No, no.” Stephen leans on his knees, rubbing his temples. The pain is moving, changing. “This isn’t exactly her--”

--forte, he wants to say, but he is cut off by trees. Huge trees. Trees that consume the sky in fractal tangles of evergreen. Primordial, pristine trees, the definition of trees. The little things that crawl beneath and flit between, some carrying light, some with rigid jaws.

It’s a psychic attack. Strange has weathered them before. This one is weird. As he waves for Wong to get the Eye, he endures the spikes of pain that impale his senses to grab a closer look. This entity is lumbering, gigantic in scope yet wet around the edges.

It’s being born, he realizes. It’s waking up.

It hurts, it hurts but he’s curious. He sees New York now, its spires and streets lined up like so much circuitry. He feels the rough brush of concrete, hears the car horn concerto, smells the burn of rubber, and all throughout are rules, parameters, reasons. The thing is learning, feasting on information, and gathering more at an exponential rate. A tidal wave of green descends on the city, picking and plucking at this imaginary world.

And as it eats, thousands and thousands of hungry mouths devouring America, it hates. It hates the excess, the cruelty, the inefficiencies. It roars, barreling down the Sanctum, thousands upon thousands of tons of incomparable loathing.

Wong presses the Eye into Stephen’s hand.

“Pardon my French, dear friend,” Strange says.

The Eye bursts open, and the Sorcerer Supreme throws every ounce of his mystic might at the slavering invader. The living room cascades with dancing whorls of light as he raises his arms, funneling a solar flare, and cries a spell that every New Yorker knows by heart.

“FUCK OFF!”

Utter obliteration. When he opens his eyes, glittering motes trickle from the ceiling. The pain is gone. The TV has gone to commercial.

The phone is ringing.

Wong answers it as Stephen sinks to the couch. He slips the Eye around his neck, and its weight comforts. He thinks he’ll sleep with it tonight.

“It’s for you.”

Strange massages his ear. Vulgarity is embarrassing, but faced with an immaterial infant in the depths of an unholy tantrum doing everything in its power to cram a fork in a magic electrical socket, seemed like a good idea at the time. He takes the phone. “Hello?”

“Doctor! The master -- Victor -- something has happened, I do not know-- I--”

“Boris?” Stephen sits up. “Boris, it’s all right. Slow down. What’s going on?”

Behind the old retainer’s words, a siren wails. “The master--” He hesitates. “His newest Doombot. He turned it on for the first time. All was well, and then it exploded! And now Victor -- he is breathing this flame, this plasma! It burned through his mask! Doctor, what do I do!?”

Strange inhales deep. Counts to three. Lets it go. “He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I do not mean to doubt you, but--”

“It will pass. Give him an ice pack and put him somewhere dark and quiet for a few hours.”

“I trust you, doctor, but please, when you can, come and see him. The violence of it, it scares me.”

“I know. It’s fine. Just something he ate.”

Boris thanks him and hangs up.

Stephen wishes the couch would eat him as he heaves a sigh. “Wong,” he asks, “Is it too late to rescind discovering my bisexuality at the ripe age of however old I am now?”

“I don’t know,” Wong replies, “To both parts of your question. I lost count in the five hundreds.”

Strange curses again.

- - -

“So. We have a telepathic link. Any idea how it got there?”

He may as well be speaking to a wall of granite. Doom, arms folded, sneers at him across the table.

Stephen links his fingers together. “I have nothing. It’s rather disconcerting. I don’t believe it’s malevolent, which is always a plus, but it’s unremarkable, which isn’t. So I’d appreciate any insight, Victor. Whatever you’d like to...you know. Get off your chest.”

Doom’s eyes are cold.

“Anything at all. Need to vent? I know you can get heated.”

The table weighs over three hundred pounds, yet Doom flings it at him like a feather. Strange cuts it in half with a bolt of solid light as Crimson Bands constrict around his other arm. They serpentine and splinter into smaller tendrils, their tips unhinging into fanged blooms, and a thought comes to Stephen as the king charges him: he was born in a forest. It’s nature’s fury that fills his head, a cacophony of hellish noise, the wild hunt calling for his spilled blood. Doom’s rage in concentrated, psychic form, howling down their link.

The Daggers of Denak, blades spinning, do an admirable job trimming the vines, their severed heads still snapping, and Strange summons the Winds of Watoomb to push Doom away. The gale staggers him yet he presses forward, arcane runes flashing a ice blue aegis on his gauntlet. Step by step, forcing him back towards the wall.

He lunges. Strange is ready for it. Doom’s arm comes up, Stephen’s arms fan out. Before the king grasps his throat, he calls a pair of razors into his palms. Victor’s grip is suffocating. Strange holds his head between two guillotine blades. An impasse.

Doom’s voice rasps, thin and scorched. “That. Hurt.”

Stephen sips the tiny breaths he can. Something’s pressing into his belly. Sweat beads on his brow. It’s a gun. It’s the stupid gun Doom carries in the stupid pouch on his stupid belt. Why does he even have it? For shooting idiot sorcerers, he thinks. He swallows hard, knows Doom can feel it through the metal. Not so evenly matched as he thought.

And then he notices it. Hiding deep under the screams is a layer of fire. Reaching through the link, he touches it. Color rushes to his cheeks.

“Seriously?” he ekes out, “This is turning you on?”

Doom’s grip loosens. A minuscule amount, enough for Strange to squeeze a few more words. The fire leaps into his psychic palm, eager, aggressive.

“There’s no shame in it. You’re good at what you do, Victor. Very few people can put me in check. Look at you. You’ve pinned me to a wall like a butterfly. That’s impressive. I--”

The king leans closer. Stephen smells ashes on his breath.

“Hoary hosts.”

The gun is holstered. A steel thumb strokes his cheek.

“Reap what you sow,” Doom mutters.

- - -

The aches and bruises will last for days, but the coolness of Doom’s armor against the carpet burn on his back is soothing. He rests a hand in the king’s own. Anything else feels too strenuous. “Was that your first time having telepathic sex? It’s intense, isn’t it?”

Victor takes in the state of the room. Paintings smashed, furniture so much firewood, stone walls fractured and cratered. How much destruction is his? He has no idea. One or the other had to have held back. The castle is still standing, after all.

Neither man speaks. Stephen ventures a glimpse down their link and gets only an image of black curtains. Doom’s already set up defenses. Though some of his own are raised, he lets some satisfaction flow between them. An olive branch.

A quiet, amused huff. “At times, Strange,” Doom says, and already his voice sounds better, “Your physical merits outweigh the strenuous mental exertions you put me through.”

“I never much cared for the medieval aesthetic myself, yet here we are.” He grunts as he looks over his shoulder, thighs twinging. “How drunk were we that night?”

“Doom was sober.”

“Oh no, your golden goblet saw plenty of refills. You were, at the very least, tipsy.”

“You question Doom’s memory?”

Stephen cups his chin, looks deep into dark brown eyes. “I question, my lord, why you claim to remember, with crystal clarity, a night you could have easily decreed never happened at all.”

Nothing comes. No biting remark, no caustic humiliation. Doom only holds his gaze, and under the black curtains flashes something bright, something strong. It lasts for only half a second before the king gets up, using Strange’s shoulder for support. “This link shall be insufferable. Do your part to get rid of it.”

Stephen frowns, annoyed that his legs work. He wonders if Victor left any of his clothing intact. “Right. Ground rules. Stay out of my head, and I won’t make you cough up another star. Deal?”

“Stay out of Doom’s head, and you shall not know pain unending. You have a deal.”

- - -

This lasts for two months.

- - -

On Day 51, a current of malicious satisfaction slithers through Strange’s mind. Gooseflesh rises up his back. The half-chewed wad of pastrami and egg in his mouth goes sour. He spits it out, bracing himself on the dinner table, and without thinking of thinking, he thinks: what have you done now?

The smirk on Doom’s face reminds him of the crocodiles at the Bronx Zoo. The thing Victor is smiling at reminds him of shop class. He can’t begin to make heads or tails of it. Like many of the king’s devices, it could have come off the set of a sci-fi movie. Sleek and chrome, rigged with multicolored wires, pumps, and gauges, a porthole reveals the heart of the machine, a vile purple light. Stephen’s gut tells him that color would eat him alive if it could, tear into his flesh and drip his blood from its teeth. Stephen trusts his gut.

Strange, Doom replies, smile quickly fading into a scowl, We had an agreement.

You broke first. I felt you. My spidey sense tingled.

Victor’s gauntlets ball into fists, and he sends a wave of serrated anger barreling toward the magician. A chained wolf, barking and snarling. An executioner waiting for the condemned to dig his own grave deeper.

Stephen curses. He didn’t mean to think that out loud. Look. Just tell me what it is and I’ll leave you alone.

The black curtains rustle, then lift like a wing. Swimming in the purple light are mathematical equations, coiling around metal rods. It makes perfect sense to Doom, but to Strange it’s a form of gibberish undecipherable by any eldritch tome.

Then he hears it. It’s not coming from the machine. It’s from Doom. Subvocalized lyrics. A silent song. He could recognize the tune anywhere.

He bought its album at the concert.

This is cold fusion.

Stephen snaps back to attention. Cold fusion. Should I be worried?

Victor folds his arms. That I built a safe, eternal form of energy for myself and my people? Yes, Strange, cower and quake. Your country shall never have it so long as I draw breath.

There are many dangerous rebuttals to that he could say. Names he could drop. Yet Doom promised pain unending. Fifty-one days into their connection, Strange has no leads into its inner workings. Finding out if he could make good on his word is a risk Stephen is unwilling to take.

I don’t like this, the sorcerer thinks, but I have to believe you. Don’t misbehave.

His own mental defense is a never-ending subway express train, its doors and windows a veil of golden thorns. Sighing, he sits back down. What’s left of his sandwich has the appeal of wet newspaper.

Doom was right. The link is awful.

- - -

On Day 60, despite the blazing fire in the hearth, Victor’s feet send ripples through a puddle.

He regards it from his antique armchair throne with indifferent curiosity. Through the filters in his mask, he smells the green, pungent scent of foliage rot and seawater. In the puddle itself swim millions of plankton. A frenzy of eating, fucking, dying, and birthing unfolds beneath his alloy soles.

From the corner of his eye, he watches the puddle extend an arm of water across the floor. Sliding under a wall, a line of slithering damp turns the paint a moldy gray. Moisture fans across the entire side of the room in a pattern like falling stars, like skeletal hands trailing through a river. The scent grows stronger as the puddle expands. He rises before it consumes his chair. The leather sinks until it is a speck of mahogany in the brine. Gloom washes over it and it is gone.

Doom folds his arms. A breeze teases the tail of his cloak. Murmuring a quiet word, he puts out the fire with an arc of a finger, and turns around into another world.

It is eternal night. It has no sun, and what few stars can be seen are lucky glimpses through a lush canopy of branches and black, web-like leaves many hundreds of feet above. The grass under him has a sticky grip, but gentle. If grass could want for anything, it would like to give the king safe passage on his journey. He isn’t the sustenance it’s looking for. That comes on the wind, in the form of tiny shards of detritus falling from forest layers high overhead. It shimmers as it tumbles down, the only source of light in this hadal garden.

He doesn’t need to go far. Half-concealed behind a root far taller than he, Doom watches himself and Stephen Strange on the next mound over.

The magician talks with grand gestures, sweeping an arm over trees as dark as ink. Doom remembers himself speaking little, allowing Strange to tell him the highlights of the world. No recorded examples of predation. Negligible changes in evolution for millennia. A slow world. A place of peace.

Stephen steps into the water. Waist deep, he holds out his arm. His garb drips off him, revealing pale skin. He smiles, bare and inviting.

The other Victor undoes his belt.

“And you complain when I get you out of the house.”

Doom peers at the Stephen Strange sitting in lotus position beside him. “You drag me into your affairs with no concern for my well-being or sanity.”

“Please. The times you dig your heels in are cursory, at best. And then we end up doing things like this.”

Across the mound, the other king’s armor sits in a neat pile, and the two doctors stand in each other’s arms, their lips meeting and parting only to inhale.

Victor kneels on the grass. “Even you are capable of stumbling onto a good idea.”

Stephen’s lip curls upward. “I think about this often. This place is beautiful. This memory pleasant. I took effort not to broadcast this to you. My apologies if I disturbed you.”

Doom looks away. “You did not.”

“Oh? Your Royal Highness, we had an agreement.”

“Am I not allowed to reminisce myself?”

“Ssh. Meditate with me.”

He closes his eyes. Strange’s hand creeps into his own, and he lets it stay.

Perhaps he was wrong. The link isn’t so bad.

- - -

Wake up! Wake up, wake up, wake up!

Stephen rolls molasses slow toward awareness. The bedroom is pitch black, swimming in unholy hour of the morning disorientation.

Your wife is in trouble!

He cracks an eye open, shifting in the sheets. “Clea?”

No! Your big green wife! Get up, right now!

Those aren’t his thoughts. It’s a voice he’s never heard before, coming from inside his head. He holds very still and feels something slither over his brain.

He snaps wide awake.

I’m sorry we have to meet like this, the voice says, but we must hurry. The whole world is at stake!

In any other circumstance, Strange would interrogate the voice within an inch of its life, but its fear is genuine. Swinging out of bed, he yanks some pants on, startles the Cloak of Levitation from of its own sleep, and pulls open a portal to Latveria.

Curse me for a novice! the voice squeaks, That can’t be good!

Enormous rends in reality drape over the castle. Shimmering in the air, some bisect the stone in clean, monomolecular cuts. One vomits a steady stream of magma, causing a massive fire in the castle courtyard. Through each of them Stephen sees other dimensions. Another hole fans out from the keep itself and drops a mass of red crystals that crush an entire rampart.

Please! Hurry!

Stephen slams the portal shut, imagines his destination, and wrenches open a new one directly to Doom’s lab. The room is bathed in sunset colors and thick, acrid smoke. At its heart lies the fusion reactor, which is now anything but cold. The purple light pounds waves of energy, reverberating off its containment and magnifying a new tear in the world.

Victor stands in front of the machine. His motions are jerky, abrupt, a marionette controlled by a mob of children. He lifts a twitching hand and the tear throws itself through the castle to join the others outside.

Sister-Brother! the voice cries, Stop!

Doom’s arms drop, strings cut. The voice that comes from his mind is higher than the other.

No, I don’t think so, it says, I think I’m going to continue. You’re more than welcome to burn.

“You’re the link,” Strange says.

Just figured that out now? Sister-Brother asks, Wow, Brother-Sister. You sure drew the short straw. My host is incredible. I’ve mapped every gyri and sulci in here and it’s gorgeous. I’d stay forever if I could. It’s almost a shame he has to die.

Stephen glares, raising his hands, fingers glowing with magic. “As Sorcerer Supreme, I command you to release Doctor Doom!”

The laugh that echoes down the link is nails on a chalkboard. You have no idea what we are.

“You’re playing with fire. You’re threatening the dimensional stability of all of Doomstadt. And when I find you, you’ll have hell to pay.”

This host has already seen hell, Sister-Brother chides, What better place to grow up than in a body demon-touched? Have you considered that I’m doing him a favor? This is how it plays out. This is fate.

Doom turns around without his mask.

A bloodcurdling shriek ricochets across Strange’s mind, his hand thrusts forward with a will not his own, and a thunderbolt connects with the king’s head. Victor flies against a control panel, smashing it with the weight of his impact. Groaning and creaking, the reactor starts to power down, sprinklers in the ceiling damping the flames.

His face, Brother-Sister whispers, Gods, oh gods, what’s wrong with his face...

Stephen contains his screams until he kneels at Doom’s side, hefting his body into his arms. The scent of burning meat fills his nose. He howls for someone, anyone, to help him, royal blood seeping onto his chest.

- - -

He awakens to the beeping of the heart monitor.

Doom feels like mountainsides have taken residence on his eyelids. Slowly sliding them open, he takes inventory. The room is bright, sterile, no windows. He’s propped up in a bed. His hands are bare yet weigh like continents. He looks to his left.

“Hello,” Stephen says.

The sorcerer looks terrible. Ashen skin, reddened eyes, a frown threatening to rip his mouth off. The clothes he wears belong to any servant of the castle. The hands clasped together between his knees shake worse than Doom has ever seen.

“You’re on a morphine drip. You’ve been unconscious for the past twelve hours. You’re in the castle. We set up a makeshift triage room. For a while...” He takes a deep breath, steeling his voice. “We didn’t know if you would make it.”

Doom thinks, and his head is wonderfully quiet.

“Thank every deity you know that your skull is almost as hard as your armor. You’re going to be in a lot of pain for the next few days, but the alternative...I don’t want to think about. And I got rid of the link.” Strange picks up a jar from a nearby stand. “Meet Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother.”

Floating in cerebrospinal fluid are two worms. One is storm cloud gray bracketed by navy blue. The other is dark yellow-green with flecks of red. Flat as ribbons and only an inch long, they give each other a wide berth.

“Pineal parasites,” Stephen continues, “Stuck to the undercarriage of our minds, learning how to be through our eyes. They talked together through us. Saw magic through us. Deciphered grand machines through us. And now they’re ready to go home. That’s what yours was trying to do. They were looking for a place where nothing changes and nothing happens because all who go there are hijacked and killed. Not such a good idea after all, was it?”

Doom blinks.

Putting the worms down, Strange digs his wrists into his eyes. “Victor, I swear to you on everything I am I had no idea. I thought you’d like it. I thought you could forget being so angry, forget the Four if only for an hour, and be happy. Now you--”

He stares at the door, fist to his mouth. Swallowing his heart, he says, “I’m bringing them back. They’re not at fault. They’re just following their life cycle. Despite what they’ve done, they deserve to live.”

Birds that will choke on ashes, he thinks, Countless trees turned to dust. No more. No more death.

“The best doctors in your kingdom are here for you. I’ll be back.”

“Doom will go with you.”

Victor’s voice is quiet but steady. Stephen shakes his head. “No. You’re in no shape to get out of bed, let alone travel dimensions.”

The monarch shuts his eyes. Heavy footsteps pass through the door. A doppelganger in emerald and steel, the Doombot bows its head to its ruler.

“Doom will go with you,” Victor repeats.

Strange blows a ragged breath. By Doom’s creased brow, that wasn’t easy. “Okay. Rest now. Don’t do anything until I return.”

Victor says nothing. Stephen waits until he drifts to sleep, presses a kiss to rough lips, and departs, robot in tow.

- - -

Q-4301 is indistinguishable from the real deal, from its ramrod straight spine to its folded arms, yet there’s no look of wonder in its lenses, no human, if royally restrained, sense of adventure in its copper and silicon heart. It doesn’t care about the bits and pieces of gold falling from the alien canopy, the grass patting its boots. It stares at Strange, emotionless, and that very lack of feeling gnaws at the pit of the sorcerer’s stomach.

They’re on the same black water island mound as before. He can pick out the tree Victor pressed him against from all the rest. Had the microscopic eggs that birthed the parasite twins been attracted to their sex, or had it been sheer luck? He doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know.

In his hand is a candle made from the blood of priests. “Do you have them?” Stephen asks.

Q-4301 lifts a corner of its cloak. Sewn into the cloth is a glass vial. Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother are inside.

Strange nods. “I don’t know if Doom programmed you to feel fear. Either way, let me do the talking. If all goes well, you won’t have to do anything.”

The Doombot says nothing. Taking a deep breath, Stephen snaps a spark between his fingers and lights the candle.

The world goes silent. The wind ceases, and so does the steady fall of golden bits and bobs. The grass curls into tight nubs. The only indication that time has not stopped entirely is the gleam of flame like an undulating eel on the surface of the water. Stephen’s breath is deafening in his own ears.

The voice that speaks is low and obsidian slick. “Well, well, well. Look what the fags dragged in.”

The demon, descending from the trees, blends perfectly into the dark. Its teeth are yellowed and pitted from a diet of rot. It moves on long, soundless talons. Its eyes are cherry red, pupils like mouths.

“Doctor Strange,” the khat murmurs, “You honor me with your presence. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re a cautionary tale among khat-kind, you know. A warning about too much power in frail, mortal meat. Like stuffing a sun into a stomach, it’s only a matter of time till it bursts.”

Stephen purses his lips. “Cut the shit. I have something for you.”

The khat’s grin splits up to its ears. “A gift? Is it your heart? Your humanity? Your soul? Please tell me it’s your soul. I would so like your soul.”

“Come closer and I’ll show you.”

The demon pads on water, leaving no ripples in its path. “Is it the thing beside you?” Nostrils flaring, it sizes up the Doombot. “Not the usual breed of lost lambs you lead to slaughter. What sort of lies did you tell it to follow you? An offer of redemption, perhaps? Anything desperate enough to flaunt about in a green skirt would listen to you.”

“Desperation is for the weak,” Q-4301 snaps.

Strange swallows the ball of curses on his tongue and hopes it doesn’t show. Doombots fall for bait. Exactly like the original.

The khat stops. “Everything has weaknesses. You were once a babe in your mother’s arms, no? Look at your companion. The Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, can barely keep a friend around, let alone alive. No, no, no, there has to be a reason he wants you here.” It lies on all fours, rests its cheek on its fist. “What sort of gift was it again?”

Stephen starts to speak. Q-4301 beats him. “The only gift a demon like you deserves.”

Red eyes narrow in amusement. “Oh, it’s too much for a single khat to bear! Let me call my brothers. We shall find out together.” Rising into a crouch, it takes a deep breath.

There’s still time to salvage the plan. Strange shouts, “Do it!”

Q-4301 lunges into the water, tears the vial from its cloak, and thrusts its arm out. As predicted, the khat opens its toothy jaws and swallows the punch up to the Doombot’s shoulder. Payload delivered, they need to flee.

The portal spell is halfway done when Stephen spots Q-4301 motionless.

For a second, the khat too is still. Then, beaming around the steel in its mouth, it bites, and tears Q-4301′s arm off.

No robot could replicate the spray of blood and scream in agonized terror.

Strange doesn’t realize he’s also screaming. The khat snatches Q-4301′s shoulder and slams it beneath the surface. The water boils in the struggle. Shadows like hellish stalagmites reach for the leaf-choked sky as the sorcerer calls his magic. Black muck splatters the trees, the grass, Stephen’s legs as he gathers flame in his shaking palms.

The blast turns the water to steam as the garden sees more light than it has in billions of years. He looks for a target, finds nothing but the bare riverbed quickly flooding to fill the void.

The khat geysers up behind him, grabs his leg, and wrenches him into the water. The Cloak of Levitation has enough time to flip him face up before a heavy paw pins it down. Eyes stinging, heart hammering, Strange fends off the khat’s snapping jaws with novas in his palms. It takes all his training to anticipate where the teeth will be, vision obscured by plumes of bubbles, and not lose a limb.

Claws curl in his suit and drag him through the brine. His head connects with a tree root and all of reality goes sideways. His breath whooshes free, and sour liquid fills his throat.

The demon hauls him out, shoves him against a tree. Three blurry khats grin in Stephen’s eyes. Dozens of fangs.

“The gift is all three,” it says, “Your heart, humanity, and soul. Why were we ever warned about you? You’re nothing.”

It opens its mouth.

LEAVE HIM ALONE!

Stephen shakes water and blood from his eyes. The khat is frozen save its eyes, which widen in shock. Two voices erupt from its gullet. One, higher-pitched, screeches an incoherent string of profanity.

By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth, the other cries, I demand you let him go!

If he squints, Strange can see two ribbons in the khat’s belly. One yellow-green and red, the other gray and blue.

“What have you done,” the demon barks, “What have you done to me!?”

The claws pry open. Stephen beats a hasty retreat, flying to the unfinished portal. As he works to complete it, something moves at his feet. The grass scuttles bits and pieces of shattered human along pathways only it knows. He reaches down, grabs a fragment, and rage flows through him hot enough to make his skin glow, heat radiating from him in convection circles.

The khat breaks free of the parasites’ control, smashing its head against the tree for good measure. Screaming, it leaps for him. Strange sidesteps into another world -- home -- closes the portal, and waits until his ears stop ringing.

His anger he keeps. He storms through castle halls, eager to strike while the iron is hot.

- - -

Doom must really try this relaxation thing more often. It isn’t bad. Balcony doors open, letting in sunshine and a floral breeze, he reclines in his seat, sips his tea, and listens to the vinyl spinning on the antique phonograph.

I’m coming down, coming down like a monkey, but it’s all right Like a load on your back that you can’t see, oooh but it’s all right

The song has been in his head for months. It’s nice to hear it in the open. Doom smiles. Stephen has good taste in music.

“Bastard!”

The chair spins around and Doom is confronted by a feral magician. Strange notes the king’s simple garb: no steel in sight, just a cotton shirt and pants. He aims for Victor’s face but his quaking hands botch the throw. It bounces off his chest and lands in his teacup. “You’re not white!”

Doom looks at his tea. The blue eye in the tea looks back. “About time someone noticed,” he deadpans, extracting the orb by its optic nerve and setting it on a napkin.

The chair bucks like a bronco and Victor spills out. Stephen catches him with magic, hangs him in the air. The cup breaks into a thousand pieces and the king’s disappointed frown makes Strange want to throttle him. “Who was in the Doombot?”

“A nuclear engineer working on the CMNS reactor.” Doom sounds bored. “He tweeted about the parasite-induced euphoria I experienced. Called it an episode. Implications of weakness are illegal. Justice -- and the parasites -- were served. Two birds with one stone.”

“You killed a man for a tweet.”

“Whatever creature you encountered in the garden slew him, not I.”

Stephen drops him, relishing Victor’s grunt as a shard of teacup cuts his foot. It’s a slimy pleasure, and his face contracts. “Bastard. There isn’t an ounce of goodness in you.”

The king pulls the porcelain out of his flesh and points the bloodied end of it. “I have my ways just as you have yours. Until you grasp this concept, we shall always be at odds.”

“Be at odds? I saved your life!”

Doom brushes back his hair. Black stitches stretch from one ear across his head to the other. “You scarred me.”

They’re on thin ice. Strange dials back his fury, fists clenched. Monstrous tyrant or not, Victor is recovering from brain surgery. “You had a worm in your head.”

Tossing the shard aside, Doom sinks back in the chair in a position Stephen calls the regal slouch. “The sentence for weakness implications is community service. The engineer served his community. The sentence for injury to the royal person is death.” A scowl darkens his face. “I have half a mind to not let you leave this room alive.”

The sorcerer shuts his eyes.

“However.” Doom thinks, picking his words. “The extraneous circumstances surrounding the crime cannot be ignored. A different punishment is called for. It shall be made at a later time.” He draws a holographic display before him. A tigress pants in her den, lozenges squirming at her belly. “Three cubs were born at the Latverian Zoo this morning.” He looks at Stephen. “I find myself preoccupied with some wildlife conservation of my own.”

The sigh comes from the bottom of his heart. One day Victor will come out and thank him. Today is not that day. It will have to do. Strange rubs his eyes. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Speak.”

“Exile. A break. Another two months, or two years, or two hundred years. I’m not picky. I just don’t want to see you for a while.”

Doom looks back at the panel. “Your suggestion carries weight. So be it. Begone.”

That’s that. Another story concluded. Feeling empty, feeling light, Stephen turns to go.

“Strange.”

Fuck, so close. The sorcerer looks over his shoulder. “What?”

“When next we sojourn, for Doom knows we shall--” Victor’s lip turns up, the smallest hint of a smirk. “--I shall pick our destination.”

#doomstrange #doctor doom #doctor strange #victor von doom #stephen strange #rawbi's writes #commission a small bird

[just-another-winchester]

Santa Hat

Pairings: Dean x reader

Warnings: Uh,.. fluff.

Word Count: 1,507

Requested:  @amanda-teaches  Hey hey! I would like to request a Dean x reader (shocker!). Could you do one where Dean goes to a bar or something on Christmas because he doesn't celebrate and he meets the reader, so after that he loves Christmas because it becomes their anniversary?

A/N: I had fun with this. Thank you Amanda!!! I hope you like it, :) This is unbeta’d so all the mistakes are mine, I will probably reread it and then adjust later but I was too eager to get this out. 

Summary: Reader and Dean met on Christmas one year ago, now she happily makes Christmas cookies while Dean plans a devious present.

FEEDBACK IS MY SUSTENANCE!!

You licked your lips as an evil grin crossed your face, pulling out another batch of Christmas cookies as Dean sat at the table, helping you decorate them.

Not long ago Christmas had left you both with somewhat of a sour taste in your mouth, it was hard on both of you.

But now here you two were, happily celebrating the holidays together.

“You think these are enough cookies?” You asked the man, who was icing the cookies with a soft bluish colored icing. You smiled as his green eyes moved to meet yours.

He leaned over to get a better look at the three batches of cookies you had already cooked, the side of his mouth tugged slightly, his lower lip stuck out a tad as he made an unsure face before looking back up at you.

“Might need a couple more, just to be safe.” He said softly before his famous Dean Winchester smirk spread across his face, warming you faster than a cup of hot chocolate.

“Dean I’ve literally made four dozen cookies, you steamed through the first batch two hours ago and now you’re halfway done with my second.” You informed him, walking over and taking his place of undecorated cookies, “If you would slow down I wouldn’t need to make so many.”

Dean gave you an innocent look, “Aw c’mon. You know you love it.” He grinned, “Besides, I’m making up for lost time.”

“What lost time? I’m sure you’ve eaten plenty of Christmas cookies over the years.”

“Yeah but not yours.” Dean snuck a cookie from the plate you held and took a bite,

“Yeah well this is the first time in a long time I’ve even made Christmas cookies.” You smiled warmly at the man, giving in and sitting down across from him as you grabbed a knife and began to decorate the cookie before just shoving it in your mouth, wiping the crums from your hands.

Only a year ago you and Dean had met, in a bar, on Christmas day.

It had been a hard time for you, you had left your boyfriend after you found him being unfaithful, it had been more than a month but it had been your first Christmas on your own.

Dean Winchester had been in the same bar, at the same time, he’d told you he didn’t celebrate Christmas. At first you just thought maybe he was a pagan or something, but no, it wasn’t that.

He just didn’t celebrate Christmas.

“Well lucky me then, I got you to give your Christmas cookies to the world.” Dean smirked, you gave him a semi confused expression before rolling your eyes.

“Drink your beer Winchester.” You muttered with a chuckle, pushing his bottle closer to him.

“Why didn’t you make Christmas cookies before?” Dean asked you curiously as you returned to the oven where you began checking the cookies you had placed on the cooling racks.

You shrugged, “Didn’t have anyone to bake them for. My parents were more health nuts. No one else wanted them, so the cookies I made I either ate myself or ended up throwing away or out to the birds or squirrels.”

“Lucky squirrels.” Dean muttered, causing you to chuckle.

“Too bad you didn’t make the cookies last year though, I would’ve eaten them.” He smiled,

“Well I’m so sorry I didn’t plan ahead, making cookies just in case I found a hot guy at a bar on Christmas.” You smirked right back, pulling out the ingredients.

Dean chuckled at you, “I’m just saying, it would’ve been a great opener.” He shrugged, “Instead I had to do all the work, talking to you and everything. I mean it wasn’t like you were very approachable.”

“What are you talking about!? I was wearing a glittery santa hat, that made me very approachable!” You defended as he cocked his head a tad.

“A glittery santa hat? No I don’t remember that.” He said,

You rolled your eyes and shook your head at the man before returning to your duties as Christmas cookie maker, beginning to mix up yet another batch as you thought of the day you met Dean…

_____

You sat in the far corner of the bar, seemingly inconspicuous as you drank your beer.

The building was relatively empty, not many noises other than a few carollers outside and the sound of snow falling softly to the ground.

The front door creaked and you looked up to see a young man walk in.

You took a moment to study the man, he was tall and well built, even from where you sat you could see his piercing green eyes and his chiseled jawline, a bit of dark scruff decorating his chin and cheeks.

The man walked straight up to the counter and took a seat, making an order.

You watched carefully, studying him. Damn.

It took you a few moments, you had to give yourself a pep talk. You wanted to go over there and say hi, but you weren’t one to make a move, you always second guessed yourself.

You were so lost in thought you didn’t notice the man had already gotten up before he plopped down into the seat across from you, knocking you from your daze as you turned to meet his green eyes, you gave him a somewhat look of surprise but smile at him.

“Hi.” You welcomed, holding your beer up to him.

The man gave you a smirk, lifting his beer to meet yours,

“Hey.” He said before you both took a drink.

You swallowed the drink of beer happily before holding out your hand to him.

“Y/N” you introduced yourself. Dean studied your hand for a second before reaching up and taking your hand in his, giving it a shake.

The contact made you grin, the sound of his voice made your heart flutter as he responded.

“Dean.” He said “Nice hat Y/N.”

“Thanks, I thought it really complimented my outfit.” You said sarcastically, as your outfit was a pair of dark colored jeans and a mahogany colored long sleeved shirt.

“Oh yeah, it certainly does, for a second I thought you were Mrs Claus.” He sat before taking a drink of his beer, you pursed your lips, but couldn’t help but chuckle at his words.

“Are you telling me you believe in Santa Claus, Dean?” You asked him, he simply shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.” He quoted to you, earning another laugh from you.

The two of you spent the rest of the evening drinking beer and making jokes, enjoying one another’s company.

At the end of the day once you both decided it was time to leave, you felt melancholy, even though it was a nice surprise that you didn’t have to spend Christmas alone after all.

Dean insisted he pay for the drinks and handed you some cash before saying he had to get going, you begrudgingly accepted before watching him walk away and out the door.

You took the money to the counter and paid the bill, getting ready to leave before the bartender called to you,

“Hey sweetie!” She said, “You forgot something.” You turned to see her wave a small piece of paper in the air, you walked towards her and she handed it to you.

It was just a folded piece of paper, you opened it to find a phone number with the words

‘Thanks for a great Christmas. Interested in a great New Years?’

You felt yourself bubble over with excitement, but left the bar with your head held high, already planning something for the New Year.

_____

Lost in your memories you hadn’t noticed Dean’s absence, he had gotten up and left the cookies on the plate as you finished with the mix and began to scoop out batter and roll in into balls.

Little did you realize, Dean was sneaking up beside you with that old Santa Hat… full of snow.

Suddenly Dean pushed it onto your head and you squealed as you felt the cold fluff on your head and fall down onto your face and shoulders, Dean’s arms immediately wrapped around you from behind and held your back flush against his chest.

Deans arms held your carefully, you could feel his chuckles reverberate in his chest as you grinned widely, still squealing from the cold snow as it melted on your heated skin.

You finally calmed down as you felt his fingers slide into your palms, causing you to curl your own fingers around his.

“I’m thinking you remember the hat.” You laughed as you felt Dean dip his head and kiss your cheek lovingly.

“Ya know I do think it’s coming back to me.” he said softly as you laughed, turning around in his arms.

“Hey, If I’m Mrs Claus, does that make you Santa?” You asked him with a smirk, Dean looked up before his emerald eyes met your gaze.

“Yes Virginia, I am Santa Claus.” He smiled.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

TAG LIST IS WIDE OPEN! 

Dream Team

@spn67-sister @queen-of-deans-booty @ria132love @winchestergeekfreak @maui137 @katymacsupernatural

Dean Team

@akshi8278

#dean x reader #supernatural #dean x reader christmas #dean fic #dean fanfic #fanfiction #dean fanfiction #spn fics #Santa Hat #dean winchester #reader x dean #dean winchester x reader #dean christmas fic #requested #holiday fluff #you x dean #dean x you #christmas cookies #supernatural fiction #winchesters #fluff

[namariea]

Hello, Neighbor | II

Since moving in you have compiled a comprehensive list on your mysterious neighbor across the way.

Do Kyungsoo, otherwise known as Asian Bobby Flay and apparently Bruno Mars’ protégé.

Pairing: Kyungsoo x Reader

Words: 1.6 k

Genre: Fluff

Previous:  I

Opening the door, you could not help the squeal that left your mouth in excitement.

“AHHHHH MIMI I’VE MISSED YOU SOOO MUCHH”

Without missing a beat, you grabbed them and held them to you, laughing with glee as they let out a startled cry and tried to wriggle free from your titan grasp.

Meow.

“I honestly don’t think you have ever shown another human being even a fraction of the affection that you show your cat.” You spared a glance at your brother standing in the hallway, almost forgetting his existence.

“We have an understanding and mutual hate for emotional contact, dear brother. Besides human interaction is so overrated, why go clubbing and be judged when I can be constantly judged in the comfort of my own home?”

Laughing at your response your brother simply handed you the carrier, shaking his head incredulously. You had left your cat in his care as you prepared to move, not wanting Mimi around until after you had properly unpacked. The sneaky thing would wiggle her way into one the boxes and get herself stuck most likely, and you didn’t need the extra stress of rescuing a distressed cat. Also working in the city, he was able to bring her by on his way to work so you didn’t have to make the trip, something you were very grateful for. Ah, the benefits of having older, more responsible siblings.

Closing the door behind you, you finally let your cat down much to her delight. Briefly shaking out her ruffled coat, you watched her trot down the hallway as if she had been there for years, her white body disappearing around the corner into the living room. Allowing her time to explore you returned to your bedroom and picked out an outfit for the day.

A little over a week has passed since you moved in and it was finally time for you to make the much-needed trip to Ikea. Finally having free time from work and unpacking, you were eager to get out of your apartment and actually start looking for little knick-knacks to spruce up the space.

Ikea was always full of weird, niche things that you never knew you needed until you saw them. Like that cactus painting you bought last Christmas. Or that whale shaped bowl you used to hold the stuffing on Thanksgiving that one time. Yes, that store was the gift that just kept on giving.

After dressing and putting on a light face of makeup in the bathroom, you walked into the living room and found Mimi sitting on the windowsill, pawing lightly at a bird perched outside. Laughing to yourself you made your way to the kitchen and pulled out the container of cat food. Dishing out a small portion along with a small bowl of water, you placed it on the floor.

“Ok meems, you have food, you have water, and you have Mr. Pidgeon there to keep you company. I’m going out; don’t burn down the apartment while I’m gone yeah?”

Meow.

Taking your keys and a jacket that was draped over the arm of your couch you set off with a slight skip in your step.

For the twentieth time that hour, you seriously asked yourself whether or not you really needed curtains.

Two hours have passed since you arrived, and so far in your cart you had a rainbow assortment of dish towels, an Andy Warhol-esque painting of a rubber duck, a large plushie that resembled a giant broccoli and a table lamp the shape of a pineapple.

But no curtains.

You could not remember the number of times you had walked up and down the section containing various styles of curtains and blinds, but with each pass, it was becoming harder and harder for you to decide.

There were just so many.

It came to your realization that this was probably the most adult thing you had ever done in your life, second to actually purchasing your apartment. You were almost as quickly concluding that you hated everything about it.

Did you want airy curtains to let some light in? But that would run the risk of people seeing you at night if you had the light on. Or heavy drapes to turn your apartment into your own personal cave. Blinds also allowed for a nice medium, but the thought of having to constantly dust each panel gave you sweaty palms.

And don’t even get started on the colour selection. That left you spiraling down a hole of insanity as the other day you had entertained the idea of painting your living room. Being the biggest room, you wanted to bring some life to the space, as the blank white walls were doing little to soothe you or inspire you in any way. Checking with the policies you found you were able to paint the apartment whatever you pleased, as long as it was returned back to its original colour once you left. With that ok, you threw yourself into a frenzy of colour schemes and pallets. However, you had yet to come to a consensus much less a top 5, so choosing a colour for your curtains was heavily dependent on the colour of your walls.

You almost wanted to let out a yell of frustration at your current predicament. You were stressing over curtains for Christ's sake, so much energy over something so trivial was making a pulsating sensation creep up to your temples.

I’m actually getting a migraine over curtains.

You almost considered leaving the store with your cart of goods, but you were stopped by your memory of the week prior, particularly to your mysterious neighbor across the way.

Since your first day, you were made aware of the fact that the man across from you was not a fan of living in complete darkness.

Oftentimes as you were pattering around the apartment in the morning, coffee in hand as you sifted through boxes, you would encounter a pair of eyes every now and then. You took notice how unlike the other units you could see around you, the man did not always close his blinds, usually opting to keep them open during the daylight hours. This had caused multiple occasions where you would accidentally catch his eye, or he catching yours, as the two of you carried out your daily tasks.

At first, you were horrified that he had caught you staring again, but it would seem he was not as startled as the first time, often offering you a kind, albeit sheepish smile and bow, mouthing a greeting even though you both knew you couldn’t hear it.

It was an odd little arrangement the two developed between each other. Granted, you never saw him often, as the initial days you spent unpacking he was away at what you presumed was work. There were times you caught each other when you were both home, you remembered the time where you were trying to reach a box above all the others and in all your grace you managed to tip it over and get hit in the face with a box full of house slippers.

Shortly stunned, not quite believing a lime green flip-flop had just backhanded you, you were taken from your stupor by a low chuckle, and snapping your head to the open window, you saw the dark haired man looking in your direction, probably startled by the sudden crash and your banshee scream. Eyebrows raised in surprise and fist pressed in front of his face to stifle his laugh, he waved his hands in front of him in apology once he caught your eyes, probably guilty from having laughed at your pain, and gave a deep bow. You saw his shoulders shaking slightly.

He was still laughing at you.

He had promptly left your vision after that, you saw his head shaking lightly as he disappeared into another room in his apartment.

You were neighbors with a sadist.

You had briefly wondered if he was something of an exhibitionist as well, after all with the orientation of the units being in almost direct alignment everyone had dark curtains and closed blinds almost at all times. However this man seemed to have his open constantly, it was odd. You then realized that he was probably also aware of the fact that everyone usually kept their blinds closed, and took advantage of the opportunity to keep them open. That would explain why he was so shocked to see you the first day, clearly not used to seeing another person with a lack of screens.

If anything, that was another incentive for you to pick out curtains today. As nice as the occasional greeting was, you really did enjoy your privacy, and having your windows bare made you feel like you were living in a fishbowl. It was high time to invest in some privacy.

If only it wasn’t so hard to decide.

Since you weren’t sure of the colour you were going to paint your walls, you came to the logical decision that white curtains would suffice. It would go with almost any colour and since you were in freaking Ikea everything was white so there was a larger selection for white curtains.

You chose not the dwell on the fact that you had just spent two hours to choose white curtains; if you thought too hard on that fact you feared you would have an aneurysm. Picking a simple design, you all but threw the fabric into your cart, flying out of the aisle finally and making your way to the checkout.

Time to stop by the hardware store and get some color swatches.

Chapter III

#muse: kyungsoo #length: chaptered #kyungsoo imagine #kyungsoo fanfic #d.o kyungsoo #exo imagine #exo fanfiction #exo

[cchngkyuns]

Jimin Scenario: Love is Blind

«Based off this request...» 

• Type: Oneshot.

• Word counter: 3603

• Warnings: None I guess lmao

• Genre: Fluff and a dash of angst, but just a tiny bit, like the Yoongi one.

The green leaves on the trees. The flowers that bloomed gracefully every year in spring time. The colorful birds on the window at morning, the blue sky, the brown deep eyes of the one you loved the most in this world. Everything seemed like heaven. You weren’t insecure about if it was going to end soon anymore, you knew that, in his embrace, you’ll feel secure. There wasn’t anything to worry about. You moved from your natal city to Seoul a few years ago, leaving your family behind to carelessly chase your dreams the way you always wanted to. You wanted to travel, know every part of the world. You’d start in small cities, moving to big, famous ones. That was your biggest dream; seeing with your own eyes what the world had to show you. Maybe the life had to teach you a lesson. Maybe, it was a matter of time to bring the real happiness to your life. But you can’t lie to anyone. When it happened, when they gave you the news, you broke down. All your dreams falling apart in front of you, you couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. You could even hear how every piece of your heart fell to your feet.

“I’m sorry…” He whispered. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think I can do this.” But what am I going to do without you? How am I going to handle this?

And suddendly, you stopped hearing his voice. He didn’t cause the accident, you knew it, but you thought he was devoted to you. And now, he was gone, forever. He left you like this. Hurt, alone, and blind.

What would you do now? Alone in a city you barely know…

Please…

 Today, it was a new and wonderful day. The sun was rising, you could feel the heat in your skin, and you knew it was time to get up as soon as you feel it. 

The sheets on your bed were messily accomodated, since you and your guide dog moved a lot throughout the night. You couldn’t really help it, but it was one of the hardest things to do when you lived all by your own. This morning, like every other, was a hardworking one. Tiring, but worth it. You made breakfast for yourself; after three and a half years of slowly and painful process of going blind, you were practically a master on cooking and –most of the time- not ruining it completely. You pressed your fingers through every object in the table, carefully trying not to break anything again. You sat down and ate your delicious –maybe because you made it yourself- breakfast while your dog, Maya, ate her food loudly. She was, probably, the only real friend you had. It wasn’t like it bothered you, because you were a genuine person and you knew it. Your feelings were genuine and honest, but you just didn’t socialize that much. With time, you realized that the people who approached you were interested in harming you, believing that you were as stupid as blind you were; but that wasn’t the case. You couldn’t see at all, that was true, but you could feel things people couldn’t. You payed attention to how people broke their voices when they were lying, to recognize their true intentions by hearing and feeling the awkward atmosphere they caused. It was a matter of time to find out people’s dark intentions. You knew not everyone were like this, but you know for sure that you weren’t interested in being friends with anyone until you felt comfortable with someone, until “the one” arrived to your life, giving you a feeling of well being, open his or her heart to you. You’d wait, you were sure. But until this day, you still were waiting.

The sounds of the early morning were amazing. The fresh air, even though it wasn’t as fresh as your natal city, hit you gently in the face and made you feel alive. You could easily trust Maya, so you just walked through the city until you arrived to your art college. Since you where disabled and Maya was trained, the directives were completely fine in letting her in into the classroom. You didn’t care about other people’s glances, this was your second year of college. The first year, thinking about people’s judgemental stares chased you even in your sleep, but now, you didn’t care at all; you had all you needed to survive without problem, a guide dog, a house, enough money to eat and buy what you needed. What else did you need? Nothing.

That day you let Maya guide you to the right seat. She always did, it was difficult at first, but you could handle it. If you had any trouble, the teacher or someone could easily help you, it wasn’t a big deal. The class started normally; you were interested in the “drawing” part of the art subject itself, but you didn’t want to skip any class, so you just sat there waiting for the history class to end, taking out a voice recorder and typing in braille, just like you learned a few months ago. It was just like any other day, nothing new.

You knew you weren’t alone in the classroom, but you didn’t feel any stares right into your neck or your sides like you sometimes do, until that very moment. Suddendly, when you noticed you couldn’t concentrate on writing properly, realization hits you. Someone was staring, someone was looking at you right into your soul, but you didn’t feel a dark aura. Maybe it was someone with the purest intentions, just curious about you, or maybe about your dog, or maybe about your disability. You thought it was cute and just smiled to yourself.

The two following classes were over in a matter of time. Writing took time and concentration, so more than 3 hours weren’t that hard to take. Anyway, you’d be lying to yourself if you say that you could concentrate perfectly like every day. You were used to it, but when it happened, it wasn’t the most comfortable feeling. Feeling that someone was staring right into your eyes didn’t help in concentrating, so you knew you had a few typos or misspellings, but you had your voice recorder so you sighed in relief. You stood up and pat Maya in the head like you always do to tell her that it was time to get up from the floor, to help you get into the dining hall or whatever, because concentration and writing took all of your energy and you wanted at least a snack. As soon as you stood up, you felt that stare right into you again. You were sure that someone was about to talk to you, so you were kinda eager about it; walking slowly so “that” person had the chance to approach you. And you were right, he did. You felt Maya suddendly stopping, making you almost tripping when someone grabbed you by your shoulders. You gasped in surprise, laughing cockily afterwards and thanking the stranger who just saved you from an embarassing trip. — I’m sorry, the door was closed, that’s why your dog stopped so suddendly. — the masculine but gentle voice said, making you feel dumb. Of course it was closed, it always was, and Maya always stopped suddendly, but you just forgot because you were distracted. — Oh, I see. I’m sorry, I guess I was distracted, the door’s always closed. — Really? And why do they close the door? Don’t they have you in consideration?

You laughed at the kind words. He was kind of right, but it wasn’t like it bothered you since you never, in an entire year, complained about it, and maybe it was for the sake of students that they kept the door closed, since the noise out there was horribly loud. — It’s okay, I’m used to it. They always do, I guess it’s because they forget. Don’t make it a big deal. — You said, trying to sound convincing and “strong” to yourself and to the guy that was right in front of you. He laughed shyly. — I’m Jimin by the way. Park, Park Jimin. Jimin. Such a cute name, it definitely fit his voice and you were sure that it was the same with his appearance, even though you didn’t care that much since you couldn’t see. — Well, nice to meet you Jimin. — you said formally. — I’m Y/F/N.

That day at home was surprisingly easy to handle. You didn’t have to work hard, you were completely lost in your own thoughts. 

You gave Maya her food and had a relaxing shower, just like any other day. You spent a lot of more time since you were recapitulating everything that happened today, and why it made that day way more special than the rest. Today, for the first day in 3 and a half years, you had lunch with someone else. He offered to sit with you, maybe because he just greeted you and he felt bad when he saw you eating alone, maybe he thought you were the generic lonely girl in a lonely world. You weren’t, you had Maya and your thoughts of course, but you didn’t reject him since he seemed a good person and you didn’t feel any bad aura like you usually do as soon as you meet someone. It happened, though, that you had the exactly same feeling towards someone and then, you ended up noticing weeks later. But at that time, he seemed completely just like a gentleman, so he offered you to sit with him and three more friends of his; this wasn’t uncomfortable for you, since they were talking with each other, and Jimin was talking with you. He didn’t say much though, just asked about you and if you were near the college, basic things like that. He had told you that he just moved from his old college to this one, because he used to live in Busan but moved with his friends to Seoul to go after his dreams. It reminded you of your old self and it gave you a nostalgic feeling that fulfilled your soul for the rest of the morning.

 When the next day arrived, you were as ready as you could to begin the day as happy as it was allowed. You sleept very deeply, you didn’t have any nightmares and Maya didn’t lick your face with her tongue full of dog food. Your day was going great so far. You stepped in the first hour class, sitting in your designated seat as always. You were more alert this time; you weren’t going to fall miserably like yesterday. Suddendly, a soft voice broke your concentration. —Good morning. Did you sleep well? You smiled without turning to him. You couldn’t see, but you wanted to be polite and stare to his side, just to have some manners. So when you smiled, it was unexpected. You didn’t expect him to see it, but you knew he did. You could almost feel him smiling back, and you didn’t complain. — Yes, I’ve slept perfectly. Have you eaten? You heart this time, that he was giving you a wide smile. You felt it in the atmosphere, it was a comfortable company. If feel different, for the first time in years, you allowed someone to talk to you openly without doubting.

Days passed by faster than you thought. Every single day you thought about him, about your frienship, about his smile and anything else. There was a coffee shop next to the college, and both Jimin and you assisted there pretty often to help each other study. You could feel that he was amazed by how you managed to study and explain things so smoothly, and you didn’t need functional eyes to make it work. 

It has been already a month. Ever since both of you only meet in college and when you had an important exam, but things escalated pretty quickly for your taste. It was only a month and it was the first time that he was in your house, hanging out with you, and you didn’t stop him from visiting you. It was a pretty comfortable visit. Both of you shared laughs, stories, common thoughts, everything you could think of. Sooner or later, curiosity hit Jimin. You saw it coming, but you didn’t expect your words to get into his heart. When you told him about the accident, about your ex, about how he left you all alone and you had to manage to survive and get through everything all by yourself, you could feel his sadness. You didn’t see, but you felt it. Now, more than never, you wanted to see him, to be able to look into his eyes. You knew that the surgery was possible. You knew that the possibility existed, but you were just too afraid. Either you’ll recover your vision or you’ll get blind forever, without the chance of getting your corneas back again. It was a very high chance of loosing it forever, so you wanted to remain with a little bit of hope; but when you slowly started falling for Jimin, you questioned yourself.

Jimin was everything you wanted, you understood after exactly 4 months of being close friends. You never felt that he was a bad person nor he had bad intentions with you, he didn’t want to harm you, he just wanted to make you happy, that what he had told you days ago. You sat on your bed, all your insecurities slaming your face into reality without anticipation. Once again, for the third time in 1 hour, all of your words came into your mind. The words that made Jimin get out of your life. “I don’t know if we should make this.” “Maybe you should find someone better” “I’m not good enough for you” Jimin fought against all of these words, because it was a matter of insecurity. You were secure of yourself before you met him. You were sure that what hurt his heart the most was: “I don’t know your intentions just yet” Yes, you said it. Something that, even though you knew it wasn’t true, wandered on your mind day and night. But what could you do? You were deeply in love with him, you knew Jimin wasn’t your ex boyfriend who left you in the dark, but even knowing that you were scared. Scared that when Jimin found out that there’s a chance you won’t be able to see again, he’ll run away from you. Scared that he’ll change his intentions when your feelings have no turning back. You didn’t know if it was a good idea, you missed him, but it was for the best. Jimin would be sad a few weeks and then find another friend who he’ll fall in love with. You felt good about yourself, but not good enough to be with someone like him, you knew that.

Before you fell asleep, when you were in the verge of the world of dreams and reality, you heard the unmistakable sound of the door knocking. Maya, as always, came to your room and licked the soul out of you, grabbing your hand with her teeth. You surely didn’t expect him to be there. Jimin himself, right in front of you. You knew how he smelled, and you knew how the atmosphere felt when he was near you. “Can I come in?” he asked. You were in shock, you certainly didn’t expect him to be there right now with you, but you didn’t hesitate. You moved from the way and let him in, closing the door, walking carefully into the couch with Jimin’s help. “I’m sory to bother you…” his soft voice said, you felt the warmth of his voice in your heart. “I actually didn’t expect you to be here.” Jimin stood silent for a bit, you thought you made it more uncomfortable, but he got close to you, you felt his presence right in front of you, you thought that maybe he was on his knees and in the floor, and when he took your hands you confirmed your hypothesis. “I just can’t let you go like that. I know about your insecurities. I know that you have been hurt, but I’m not that kind of man” You didn’t know what to say, your heart beating faster and faster. You just wanted to pull him into a kiss and erase everything you’ve said, but your insecurities were still there. “I’m insecure about myself too, you know that.” You remembered when he let you touch his face after he talked about his insecurities. You knew he was attractive because you could feel it, but you certainly didn’t care much about looks, even when you could see, you never did. “I just want you to give me an opportunity. If you feel like I’m failing you… I’ll disappear. But I won’t leave you alone now. Not like this.” You felt tears rising from your chest, even if that wasn’t the place they came from, you felt your heart clenching and the tears starting to gently stroke your cheeks. “Jimin, you know that if I get the surgery there’s a high chance that I turn blind forever?” He instantly answered, “I know. I knew, I did researchs when you seemed so enthusiastic about it, I knew since I started falling for you. Please, Y/N, we can make this work.” You broke down into tears, his words hit you like concrete but he was right. You were pushed into the edge by your insecurities, but if Jimin wasn’t so sure about his feelings, then this might have never happened and you might have lost a chance to be with someone with genuine feelings. He sat right next to you and he hold you close. You knew he would never let you go. Not now, not like this, and judging by his words, never. “Maybe we can give this a try…” He stroked your hair. “But if you fail, Park, I’ll kick your ass.” He laughed as cute as ever, but you were sure he wouldn’t. 

“—Miss Y/L/N, I’ll remove the bandages now, okay?”

Jimin felt the heat on his body rising, he knew you love him, he was sure about that, but he wasn’t sure about himself. Maybe you didn’t like the way he was, his looks, his smile, everything. You’ve been dating for months when you received the call from the hospital you were waiting for, in the waiting list. You’ve been waiting for that call forever and when you received it, you bursted into tears. “There’s a chance that is doesn’t work” the doctor said. “but it’s not as high as we thought. If everything goes alright, and it certainly will, you’ll have your vision back.” Your vision was blurry, all you could see was blurry colors from the hospital room but it was a matter of time that you started recognizing everything. It would slowly come into place, but they had to left you alone for a few hours, so they let Jimin in, and you turned to look at him. Then you saw it and your heart was beating fast, the smile on your face as wide as ever. You knew Jimin was nervous, you had your vision back but you could still feel it. “Jagi…” You didn’t see him clearly just yet. “I still can’t see you, but I can recognize you’re taller than me.” You said, your eyes widening and getting smaller to try and focus your blurry vision, making Jimin laugh nervously. He held your hand lovingly, stroking your face. He sat there next to you, you told him about how the surgery felt, the experience, that you were nervous, afraid and curious at the same time about everything. You didn’t even know how your dog looked like. Slowly, hours passed by and your vision started to focus. When it fully did, you didn’t want Jimin to know just yet, but you stared at him stunned. In fact, he was the stunning one. He was gorgeus. He tould you about how he looked like, and you touched his face, but you never imagined that his skin looked as soft as it feelt like. His eyes, dark and deep. His blonde hair separated in the middle and his smile... It was just too much handsomeness to handle at once. You just stared at him, into your eyes, and you stopped trying to focus and your eyes came into their normal size. “Jagi! Are you listening? Are you in planet earth?” Jimin was telling you something important, but you didn’t listen to him. You were focused on his smile, on the way his mouth moved along with his words. “Ah, sorry Chim, you are so handsome I can’t handle it.” Jimin stared at you with wide eyes, covering his face. “Ah, why didn’t you tell me that you could see…” “Because it just happened, like, 10 seconds ago!” You weren’t plugged into anything anymore, but you knew that if you got up you’d probably fall, so you just cupped Jimin’s cheeks and kissed him lovingly, just like the way he first did when you told him not to fail you. He pulled into his embrace, and he would never let you go. He let go all of his insecurities, now knowing that you loved him by the way he was, and you knowing that he felt the same.

#bts #bangtan boys #bangtan sonyeondan #jimin scenario #bts scenario #bts fluff #bts smut #bts imagine #bts imagines #bts reactions #kpop scenarios #bts texts #bts fake texts #jimin #park jimin #jimin imagine #jimin texts #bts jimin #bts rap monster #bts hoseok #bts yoongi #bts seokjin #bts jin #bts suga #bts jungkook #bts taehyung #bts v