maybe tbc

Klangst - Don’t Keep it Bottled Up, part 2

Soooo, I said that the fluff would come in the next part, and that was what I had intended, but since I wanted to post something today and I’m too tired to write up the rest right now, I’m splitting up the second part of the headcanon into two parts. Sorry!

Click here for part one of the headcanon, or check out my headcanon masterpost for more of my headcanons.

Don’t worry I promise there’s some fluff coming up in part 3! Sorry for any mistakes (I’m falling asleep rn)! 

To say that Lance felt bad the rest of the day would be a severe understatement. If he had thought that the exhaustion and frustration from before was bad, the guilt and uncertainty that now weighed upon his mind was thousands of times worse.

He couldn’t bear to look anyone in the eye for the rest of the day, scared of what he’d say, what his expression might show. He knew he should’ve tried harder to hide it, because of /course/ the others would notice. He never tried to show any of his darker emotions. He had always tried to have a smile on his face, just so he could see another person smile too.

Lance’s mother had taught him about the power of expressions when he was little. She had told him about how, even if he was feeling bad, if he could still smile, that smile would brighten someone’s day, and that maybe that knowledge alone could make him feel better too. And so Lance had grown up laughing over the sound of his embarrassment, smiling through the harder times. He wanted to make others laugh. He wanted to make them smile. He took their negativity and kept it buried away, never letting anyone feel just how dark and heavy his heart felt under the burden. He had planned to keep it that way.

That had gone out the window from his and Keith’s first meeting. He found someone around whom he felt no need to fake smiles. He would scowl and glare whenever the mood hit him. It was weird, new, and Lance didn’t know what to do with it. Rationally he knew he didn’t hate Keith, though he had believed this in the beginning, but it was frustrating how hard it was to put up fronts around him. Today he had snapped, unleashing all those years of frustration, anger and hurt, on the one person from whom he’d never taken any negativity.

He felt sick, awful in the knowledge of what he’d said. He knew he could have a sharp tongue, but in the moment he hadn’t been thinking. He’d just been so stupid, proving just what everyone believed about him, and now he was making the others worry too. They all approached him and he sent them away as gently and swiftly as he could. He was fine. He /was/ fine…but now Keith wasn’t.

Hunk was the hardest to send away, for which Lance was grateful for him being such a good friend, and yet he couldn’t stand him being around. It wasn’t Lance that needed comforting. No. He wanted to be shouted at, because what he’d done was terrible. Eventually Hunk relented with a heavy sigh and soft words promising an ear if he should need one. Hunk was the best. Lance really didn’t deserve him.

Lance’s stomach grumbled, so he went to eat, but looking at the food made him nauseous. With nothing better to do, he headed to his room, wincing upon spying Keith’s door. Should he… Should he, what? He didn’t know what to do. He had never been in such a delicate situation before, and Lance was awful when it came to sensitivity. He knew an apology wouldn’t be enough. Maybe begging for forgiveness?

Ughhh. He felt dizzy and sick as he considered what he should do. Maybe he shouldn’t see him right now. He wasn’t in the right mind to talk. However, what if he left it too long?! In the end, as his stomach grumbled again, he went into his room, collapsing on the bed. He didn’t care that it was too early to sleep, he didn’t care he hadn’t changed, he didn’t care he hadn’t washed. He was exhausted.

Lance lay there, too tired to do anything. Including sleep.

Lance was a naturally active person. Now, this didn’t mean he was particularly keen on sports or exercise. However, when he had energy, he HAD to do something or else suffer the constant buzz beneath his skin. Unfortunately for him, despite his mental exhaustion and worsening hunger, as he lay on his bed, he could feel that itch to do something. It wasn’t long before his foot began to tap. Then, before he knew it, he was pacing the small room, head and arms hanging loosing as he let his feet carry him in circles.

As much as he wished to be able to sleep, Lance knew he would have to face Keith soon. The longer he left it, the harder it’d get. Yet this knowledge didn’t help ease the tightening of his heart at the thought of seeing Keith again. What kind of face would he have? Would he still have that cold expression? …would Lance even get to see him?

Given the circumstances, the last thing Keith probably wanted to do was see Lance, but it was inevitable. They were stuck together on the Castle, and they’d have to work with each other sooner or later when they next needed to form Voltron. Plus, Lance didn’t know how long he could cope with even more tension between him and Keith. The problem was Lance’s record of riling Keith up. Outside of pickup lines, Lance was not the most eloquent when it came to words, and despite first impressions, Lance had learnt that Keith was quite sensitive. Which meant that Lance would have to be careful when apologising.

Their situation was unstable enough as it was, he couldn’t afford letting his loose mouth cost him any chance of reconciliation. Which meant that Lance needed to decide his words before they next met. Finally coming up with a plan, Lance stopped pacing his room to sit heavily on the edge of his bed. Now the only problem was what to say.

It turned out to be quite a big problem as Lance sat on his bed, mulling over how to begin the conversation, only for him to change his mind each time. It never sounded right; too casual or too stiff. He wanted Keith to know he was being sincere, but Lance didn’t have much experience when it came to sincerity. Of course, he was honest to people about what he thought, but he felt like he needed to do more than just state what was on his mind. Besides, it was just so embarrassing to actually admit how he felt, and since old habits die hard, Lance knew he’d end up quipping at Keith to hide the embarrassment. Since when was having a conversation so difficult?!

Wait…that’s it! The way to start his apology! It would mean that he wouldn’t have to catch Keith alone and risk any slips of his tongue. Lance nodded his head, decision made. He now knew what to do.

He didn’t know how much time had passed since then, but as Lance woke up suddenly, from a nap he didn’t remember taking, Lance heard the distinct swoosh of Keith’s door opening and closing. Finishing the last bit of writing, Lance waited a couple of minutes to make sure the coast was clear. Then, he snuck into the corridor, still having the need to slowly poke his head out first. As quietly as possible he slunk to Keith’s door. Now the only question that remained was whether Keith had just entered or left. Thankfully, there was a sure-fire way of checking. Keith had a reputation for always locking his door when he was inside, ever since Coran apparently ran into his room without notice.

If he was in his room, Lance’s passcode would not work and Lance would have to call out to Keith to let him in, though that was not the plan this time. He needed Keith to be out, and as the door opened immediately, Lance let out a small breath of relief. He backed slowly into the room, his head still checking down both ends of the corridor for signs of Keith’s return. He kept the lights off as he slinked inside, knowing there wouldn’t be any obstacles in Keith’s room. All he had to do was place the note and leave before Keith came back. Lance had brought tape, not wanting to risk the note falling off or getting lost in the bedding.

He needed Keith to see this note. It was the start of his apology that would hopefully be enough to convince Keith to at least hear the rest out in person. So, with the taped note in hand, he made his way over to Keith’s bed in the dark, thankful for the lack of personal effects Keith kept in his room to have to worry stepping around (though a part of Lance hated the lack of belongings they had in the Castle, after all, this was to be their home for however long it took for it to all be over, and as everyone loved to remind Lance, who knew when that would be). Lance leaned over the bed, reaching to stick the tape to the wall next to Keith’s pillow. That should be a good spot.

A throat clearing made Lance jump, almost falling into the bed in his shock. Then, as Lance looked down, his eyes struggling to see anything in the dim room, he made out the shape of something on the pillow. Or, more specifically, someone.

Oh, quiznak…

Well, I hoped you enjoyed this small part! Please check out part 3 (and the epilogue)! As usual, I’m happy to chat/discuss theories/headcanons if you ever fancy, so just drop me a message if you do.

anonymous asked:

Akashi is jealous so he "punishes" Furi?

Akashi would never! But, since the “punishes” is in quotes, I can think of something he might do…

Furihata knew something was bothering his husband. He’d known the other man long enough to pick up on certain things: the slight clench of his jaw between words, the way his left eyebrow twitched just a little bit, and how he was very much doing everything in his power to avoid eye contact.

“Sei-”

“Did you have a good time tonight, Kouki?” he interrupted, removing his coat and handing it to a member of their staff.

They’d just gotten home after a rather exuberant party thrown by Akashi’s father. It was a usual occurrence, but there was something different about tonight. Typically, Akashi was the one surrounded by fans and admirers, hangers on and socialites hoping for a bit of his wealth and good fortune to rub off on them.

But tonight there was another man drawing attention. And Furihata couldn’t blame the others for gathering around him. He was the son of one of the Akashi Corporation’s business partners. He was tall, kind, witty, tall. Like, really tall.

And that was saying something, considering the people with whom Furihata normally associated.

Alright, so maybe he wasn’t Murasakibara tall, but he was definitely up there. And it turned out, as Furihata found out later, that he and Akashi had attended primary school together.

He was nice and friendly. And very handsome. And Akashi was busy speaking with some of his employees, so Furihata didn’t see the harm in chatting with the man.

Of course, it turned out he was funny, too. And Furihata found himself laughing at the other’s jokes. So hard, in fact, that he didn’t notice Akashi trying to catch his eye. Or walking over toward them. Or calling his name.

“Oh, give him some space, Seijuurou,” the man had said, playfully nudging Akashi’s shoulder. “You’re smothering the poor guy.”

Furihata watched as several emotions washed over his husband’s face. First shock, then anger, then hurt, before they were all covered up behind a cold mask of indifference.

And that was the last Akashi had spoken to him until they arrived home. He’d even gone as far as to excuse himself and mingle with other guests at the party after the man mentioned how he was, “as stuffy as ever.”

But now they were home. Furihata struggled to get his jacket off before following Akashi up the stairs. His husband didn’t seem keen on waiting for him.

“Sei!” he called, nearly tripping when he missed a step. “Sei, wait.”

“Forgive me, Kouki,” he said, still facing away at the top of the stairs. “Socializing was particularly taxing this evening and I’d like to retire now.”

“Sei…”

“If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom tonight.” And with a curt nod, he turned left and made his way down the hallway.

Now, the old Furihata would have let him go and spent the rest of the night wondering what he could do to fix this. The old Furihata would have doubted himself. He would have crawled into their bed and cried himself to sleep.

But they’d been married almost three years now and he wasn’t the old Furihata anymore.

“Sei, stop!” he commanded, climbing the remaining stairs and clenching his fists at his sides. He strode over to Akashi, reaching him just as his husband faced his direction.

“Kouki-”

“No,” he said, drawing his brows down. “Don’t hide from me, Sei.”

Crimson eyes widened before softening. “Kouki…”

“Come to bed,” he ordered, turning on his heel and marching toward their bedroom. “Um…please,” he added and then opened the door.

Akashi obeyed, following him inside and clicking the door shut behind him. “Kouki-”

“Kiss me,” Furihata said, voice shaking a bit as he stepped further out of his comfort zone. Akashi wasn’t the type to be commanded. He was to be obeyed. He was absolute. 

A tingle of excitement made its way up Furihata’s spine as Akashi closed the distance between them and cupped his cheeks, leaning just close enough that their noses brushed.

Furihata closed his eyes and braced himself, but he melted at the warmth of his husband’s lips against his. But the kiss was short and his lids fluttered open when Akashi pulled away.

“Now,” he began, voice still a little shaky. “What’s wrong?”

Akashi sighed, a gentle smile curving his lips. “You know me too well, Kouki.”

“Sei, please.” Furihata ducked his head. “Anyone would have picked up on it.”

“Perhaps stating that I was going to sleep in the guest bedroom was a bit melodramatic and obvious on my part.” Akashi leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Furihata’s. “Kouki,” he began. “Am I stuffy?”

Furihata chuckled and shook his head, Akashi’s bangs tickling the bridge of his nose. “Not at all,” he promised. “You’re the least stuffy CEO in all of Japan.”

“You think so?” he breathed, one hand caressing Furihata’s jaw and the other moving lower to rest on his hip.

“I know so,” he swore.

“And I’m not…smothering you?” he asked and Furihata grinned, reaching down to place his hand over Akashi’s. Slyly, he moved it so his husband’s palm was flat against his backside.

“Not in a way I don’t like,” he teased, tilting his head to steal another quick kiss.

“Kouki…” Akashi’s voice was low, the tone sending a delicious shiver up Furihata’s spine. 

“Your friend was interesting,” he mused, feeling as though he could push just a little bit further. “I think he was flirting with me.”

“Kouki…” This time it was a warning.

“Oh, don’t worry, Sei.” He pressed forward, enjoying the way his husband gave his behind a little squeeze. “I only have eyes for you.”

And before Furihata realized what was happening, he was thrown over Akashi’s shoulder, carried across the room, and then flung onto the bed.

“Sei…!” he gasped between giggles. “What are you doing?”

Akashi climbed onto the bed, slinking like a predator stalking its prey. He caged Furihata with his arms and then smirked, his crimson eyes flashing. “Making sure those eyes of yours keep looking only at me.”

Dun dun dun~ TBC? Maybe? Does anyone want to read more?

Thanks for the ask, Anon! It’s been a while since I’ve written AkaFuri~♥

The “Big Brother” Affair

Part 2

The biggest complication was the names. The shared space wasn’t too new. They had often shared safe houses or apartments and were used to working close together. They were both wary of the moment that would change though. They had a spacey double bed, so the first night wasn’t too disastrous either. Napoleon had tried to hog the blanket but Illya had an iron like grip even in his sleep so the fight didn’t escalate.

In the morning, Illya had gone for a jog subtlety checking out the neighbourhood while Napoleon had taken his time to wake up and make breakfast. After they had finished, Illya was studying the newspapers and Napoleon went to get ready for the day. He will be selling artworks for a living and play the unsuspecting fiancée while Illya had gotten an in to the organisation they were after. Officially, he was working as an author. So he had to pretend to pretend to be an author. This mission was truly a challenge. A 24/7 job. This was, of course, why the best of UNCLE were doing this job.

Napoleon vanished soon after buttoning his cufflinks and wishing his fiancée a lot of inspiration for the day. Somehow they had stayed with the nicknames. It was easier than going with their aliases.
“I hope you finally manage that chapter that is giving you so much trouble, darling,” Napoleon says and adjusts his tie. “And don’t end up writing poetry about me again.”
“You only say it is about you. I never said that.” Illya complains. “You make everything about you.”
“And you love me anyway,” Napoleon sighs. “I’ll be back for dinner. Don’t burn the house down.” They are too caught up in their roles, which isn’t surprising so Napoleon leans down and kisses Illya on the forehead.
Thankfully the Russian doesn’t break his hand but instead replies, “Whatever you say, kitten.”

They had quickly fallen into a routine. Too quickly maybe?

TBC

C̵̤̲͓̠̩̟̥̳͉̾̑̂̓̔̃ͅȍ̸̰͇̩̗̿͑̃̃̐͐̚͝f̷̢̫̠͈͎̼͍̼͓̪̀͛̄̂̈̓́͑̏́̈́̊͘͠f̷̧̳͓͚̦̪̜̪̺̓́̈́͒͗́ͅͅe̷̢̢̱̖̟͎̳̲̦̞͓̾̇̃̚͜ę̵̧̛͔͙̳͙̠̰͕̯͆͊͂̈́͆̀͊͜͝ ̵̥͙̫͇͙̳̟͋̔̾̊͂̂̾́ͅS̴̛̳͕̙̪̹̜̣̻̘͎̼̹̞̗͎̈͑͌͊͂́̄̐͌͘̚h̴̗̅̉o̵̡͇̘̜̝̍̏̆̂̿̂̑͛p̷̧̳͔̿̎̔́͒͜ ̸̧͔͔̑̈̄̿͜Ǎ̷̗̂̆̓̿̔̔̇̋͌͠Ư̷̝͇͉̼͈͌̑̋̋́̕
̶̬͕̜͊̌̄͛̌̀͋̔̉̾̒̈͒͆̚

You order a tall macchiato with whip. You try to catch the cute barista’s eye—the one with the crown tattoo on his shoulder and some sort of art nouveau bird creeping over his collarbone. But it’s 8:32am during the morning rush, and he’s just dropped the fourth latte he’d been trying to juggle so you’d rather not bother him and his perfect scruff.

You don’t know him, after all: you sit at the corner table every day to work on your novel, your notes spread around you like picturesque hurricane debris, and you still don’t know him. You are too impenetrably Shy, in the way all novelists in coffeeshops must be Shy.

You do not suspect anything is wrong, at first. The door bangs open and shut behind you all morning. The bell chimes. The regular in the business suit says, “Happy Monday.”

Not until the fourth time the barista drops the fourth latte at exactly 8:32am during the morning rush as the regular says “Happy Monday”–as the door bangs open and shut, as the door chimes—do you understand that you do not belong here. You belong a universe away: somewhere where bad things happen, and the world needs saving, and people are weak and they are powerful and days happen and things happen

The barista watches you when you look away. The bird has something sharp in its mouth—a sword, or a razor-edged vine.  The barista’s eyes are dark behind a barrier of ice-shining blue.


̷̡̧̢̛̛̥̭̜̗̲̤̩̘̰͕̦̻̺̘̗͓̩͂̍̀̉͋̈́̃̎̎͗́̾̐̔̇

huffelpuff  asked:

ahhh, so could you please do draco x harry headcanons? i'm a sucker for epilogue-compliant, middle-aged, "we had a thing right after the war, but then we got married and had kids but i never forgot about you" type of situations..i know it's not a rare pair, but i'm so curious how you'd write this. thank you :)

the angst oh my god k i l l m e now

  • so
  • it all starts when harry’s still sleepless nine nights out of ten; the nightmares aren’t as awful as the insomnia, but that’s only because the nightmares aren’t as real. he doesn’t just see thestrals anymore. he sees blood where it isn’t, and ghosts where they aren’t, and when it’s especially vivid–especially violent–he wonders why he ever bothered waking up again. making that choice.
  • hermione tells him to go back to hogwarts. watching everything be rebuilt will help you, harry. 
  • it doesn’t help, but it also isn’t a stale pillowcase at grimmauld place, or a stagnant mess of further responsibility at the ministry, or ginny’s thoughtful, achingly somber smile when he’d flinched at the press of her lips against his. hogwarts is home, even when it’s broken. 
  • and a few months pass without incident, late summer fading into fall, crystallizing into winter–until he notices, properly notices, draco malfoy again. 
  • harry waits for the familiar swell of anger, loathing, bitterness; except it doesn’t come, and there’s nothing to drown in, and he’s suddenly aware of a very different sort of emotion. understanding–recognition. there are lavender circles under malfoy’s eyes. thick swathes of guilt blanketing a placid, too-empty expression. unspoken blame, unwanted apologies, a patch of permanently pink, wax-blistered skin around the bones of his knuckles. 
  • malfoy’s not whole, either.
  • anyway.
  • that’s how it starts. a stilted conversation by the rubble of the quidditch pitch; a relief, unexpected and harrowing, that harry isn’t alone in searching, searching, searching for a reason. one day, it’s an all-encompassing hint of awareness around his spine, and the next, it’s a kiss, sloppy and awkward. there are bruises, splotches of red and dashes of violet, and there are memories–teeth clacking and hands roving and brief, scintillating flickers of heat when their fingers brush and their chests collide and it’s consuming, really, the most changed harry’s felt since he’d found magic. 
  • it ends, though.
  • it ends because it has to, sooner or later, and it ends because neither of them need it, not like they had before.
  • and years go by.
  • harry doesn’t like the phrase the one who got away–it reminds him of the chosen one, and he’s almost thirty-five before he stops reflexively clenching his jaw upon hearing that.
  • still, he thinks it, swiftly and surely, when he sees malfoy again at king’s cross.
Egobang - Pathos

Pairing: Egobang - Dan/Arin
Rating: G
Words: 1500

- The street magician AU no prompted, but that I got into my head and wrote pretty quickly. (Heads up @i-am-avacado and everyone else who might need something a little silly and cheerful.) -

Arin was on his way to the bus having ventured into the city on his day off. He had been scouting book shops and record stores for most of it, but was still empty handed as he left. He didn’t mind though, sometimes it was more about the feeling of a book store than actually buying anything from it.

As he rounded a corner, he heard the chatter of a large group before he walked right into it. One person, a brown haired man in a leather jacket, was speaking a little louder than the rest. Tour guide, Arin thought briefly, as he tried to crisscross along the edge of the crowd, toward the bus stop.

Keep reading

radvinesandheadbands-deactivate  asked:

Okay. Wolfstar prompt. I'm not good at em so. Yeah. Okay. An AU where Remus works at a coffee shop, Sirius comes in at 9:30 every morning and leaves at 10. (I would add more but it won't make any sense) do whatever you want with this heh

I’m so sorry it took me so long to get to this! I wanted to give you a proper response and I was away from my computer for nearly a week because me and the wife were gallivanting around Disney with some friends. 

ANYWAY. 

  • Remus thought he would hate working at a coffee house. 
  • Mostly because “Ew, Lils, how can you drink that black, bitter bile? Tea is where it’s at.” 
  • But the need for a job that would work around his busy schedule each semester won out over the hatred for arabica beans.
  • Eventually he had grown to like it. Not the coffee, but the job. 
  • Because despite popular belief, Remus John Lupin loved to talk and was an A fucking plus gossiper. 
  • Three months had gone by since he started his job at the campus coffee house, and he had to take the morning shift, much to his dismay.
  • There was no reason for him to be awake at such an ungodly hour. If the sun was asleep, then damn it all he should be too. 
  • But he absolutely needed to take an extra English class to make his credits for the semester and the only one with an seat available were at night, right when his shift would have normally started. Go figure. 
  • He soon learned that the morning shift wasn’t so bad, especially when a particularly handsome man around his age started to come around. 
  • Maybe he was being too modest. This boy was gorgeous. Long, black hair was always pulled back, and a leather jacket was fitted nicely to his chiseled frame. 
  • And those eyes. Remus was a goner every time he looked into those stormy gray eyes. Paired with that smooth, radiant smile, and he was good for nothing but stammering over his own words and too busy wiping his drool off his chin to pay any mind to it. 
  • However, drooling on the customers’ coffee was highly frowned upon, or so Lily informed him on a daily basis, so he just gawked at the gorgeous man every morning at precisely 9:30 AM when he arrived until he promptly left thirty minutes later. 
  • He ordered the same thing every morning: a caramel latte with skim milk and extra caramel. Occasionally, he would add a simple glazed donut, but always the same coffee. 
  • Until one day he didn’t. The gorgeous man stopped in front of Remus, who smiled nervously back as the man leaned against the counter. 
  • “I’m in the mood for something different. What would you recommend?” 
  • Remus felt the lump in his throat tighten and he forgot how to words. He opened his mouth several times, gaping like a fish out of water as his eyes darted to Lily for help.
  • Not that she was any help while she was doubled over the espresso machine laughing into her apron. Remus would remember this when she needed him. 
  • “Ch-chocolate. I like everything chocolate.” 
  • He inwardly groaned at his declaration. A winning performance, that was. 
  • But the handsome man, Sirius, if he recalled correctly, sniggered. 
  • “I like a man who gets to the point. Well then…” he paused to look at his name tag, “Remus, I happen to know that you get off at ten every morning and I’d like to buy you something chocolate.” 
  • Remus nearly dropped the cup he was writing on, and had to pry his jaw off the floor. 
  • “Me?” 
  • “Unless you have class? In which case you’ll just have to leave me your schedule so I can catch you at just the right time.” 
  • Sirius was smirking at him, and Remus, despite the butterflies that were flitting rapidly in his stomach, managed to smile in return. 
  • “Only if you take me to wherever you run off to every morning.” 
  • Lily looked between them, rather impressed that Remus said something intelligent in front of the gorgeous boy. 
  • Sirius laughed out right and grinned.
  • “It’s a date.” 

MAYBE TO BE CONTINUED IDK WHAT’S HAPPENING? 

kryka83  asked:

This is based off the Smithsonian sketchbook prompt written earlier. Can you do a series of one shots where someone wants to write a biography of Captain America and interviews Steve, but slowly realizes, thru interviews and interactions with Him, just how deceptive the War Propoganda version of Captain America is and see how awesome, humbling, damaged, yet funny Steve is as a person? Thanks!

“All right, if you just have a seat there, and I’m going to record this, if you don’t mind…“ A young man named Ryan Miller flashed his blue eyes up to meet Steve’s. He would turn the recorder off if Steve asked, but it would make his life so much easier if he didn’t have to.

“It’s fine,” Steve said, waving away the nervous concern he can see in the young man’s eyes. Ryan reached out to him months ago about the possibility of writing a biography on him. At first, Steve declined. There were plenty of books written about him, who needed another one?

“I’m not interested in writing another history book, Captain Rogers. I want to tell your story.”

Now, here they were. “What’s the best way to do this? Do you just want me to start talking, or…?”

“I’ll start with some questions, and then you can tell me however much or little you like.” The first day, they spent four hours talking about his childhood, about Sarah, about Bucky, and the back alley bar fights he always seemed to find himself in. When Steve seemed to be tired and a million miles away, they started talking about Ryan’s childhood and how he wanted to be an archaeologist until college turned him into a historian. They talked about his sister and his cat.

Three days later, they met in a coffee shop, and Ryan started right away with the war. “You were presented as the face of the war. I’ve watched all the old films… America really thought they couldn’t lose the war as long as you were leading them.”

“They thought that, yes, but it wasn’t like that. When those films were made, I wasn’t even on the front lines. I was created for propaganda.”

“What, like the Germans did?”

Steve nodded. “We were just as guilty of it. I just happened to believe in our side, and I wanted to make a difference. If people didn’t buy into the war- financially, emotionally, physically- the losses would have been far more devastating, and you and I would probably be having this discussion in German. The weird thing is… I bought into it, too. I was the propaganda, so I guess it was important that I believed what I was saying.”

“Did that change when you ended up on the front lines?”

Steve paused for a moment, taking a sip of coffee. “I never stopped believing that we were the good guys, fighting the good fight.”

Ryan looked up, assessing the way Steve had said this. “But…?”

“But,” Steve offered. “It wasn’t as storybook as those films would have you believe. The world isn’t as storybook as you think. How’s your sister doing now?”

Ryan took the cue that they were done for the day, but quoted Steve in his notebook and put an asterisk by it so he would remember to bring it up again.

so I was reading TBC…and Magnus’ outfit in The Last Stand of the New York Institute is described in a lot of detail. So I had to draw it. [society6]

#psl_everlark

(in honor of #NationalCoffeeDay :)

“Excuse me!!! Hey!”

She runs out of the coffee shop, annoyed that this blonde guy isn’t responding. “You, in the green sweater!”

He turns around just as he takes a sip of his coffee, and her heart drops.

“Dammit!” she yells.

“Hey, sorry, did you need something?” he asks.

She scowls at him. “Well, not anymore. That’s my latte you just took a sip of.”

He furrows his brow and looks at his cup. “No, this is mine. PSL – Pumpkin Spice Latte.”

“Take the coffee sleeve off,” she sighs. “I’m assuming you’re Peter?” she asks, holding up an identical cup with ‘Peter’ written on the top.

“Uh, no, actually,” he says as he checks his own cup. “But are you Katherine?”

She shakes her head and can’t help the chuckle that comes out. “No, I’m not ‘Katherine’. But I guess it doesn’t matter anyway, you already took a sip of my drink.”

He takes a closer look and laughs. “Ah, sorry. ‘Non-fat’. I knew it tasted different.”

“And you take whip on yours?” she asks, taking a sip. “Yeesh. Too sweet.”

“What can I say, I like sweet things,” he shrugs, smiling even as she rolls her eyes. “But hey, I really am sorry. Let’s go back in and I’ll get you another…”

“Unfortunately, I am now late for work,” she grumbles. “It’s okay, ‘Peter’. I’ll survive.”

He watches her walk away, her long braid bouncing off her shoulder and her orange scarf blowing in the wind. And just when he thinks he’ll never see this girl again, that this was just some fluke that he’ll forget about tomorrow, she turns around. And smiles.

And just like that, he’s a goner.