jeanlisa au where they live in a hisfic victorian era. An era where knights and witches are in a war against one another. An era where knights are supposed to be men only until of course, Jean Gunnhildr became a knight. An era where witches are supposed to live thousands of years, except for Lisa Minci.
Two people who were the exceptions. Two people who were meant to be foes. Two people who are meant to be enemies, only enemies, and yet something between them has bloomed.
The Witch of the Purple Rose and the Dandelion Knight simply needs to discover what feeling has bloomed amongst the supposed hatred.
will die on this hill. the dad best friend fanfics that go into detail about how they have known you since your were 4 are disgusting and borderline disturbing. like your talking about having sex with a girl you literally watched grow up. ew. it’s creepy. like… no.
while my mom was pregnant with me, she was delivering chinese food on bike in new orleans. i like to think that the music she heard in the streets made me the way i am now.
summary: bucky's first time smoking 🍃 since the 40s. bucky finds you smoking alone one night, leading to two of you growing much closer.
warnings/tags: use of marijuana, language, brief use of alcohol, nightmares, ptsd, anxiety, pining and tension, heated kissing, friends to lovers, pretty fucking fluffy, no use of y/n, fem reader, 18+ only
author's note: no smut? gasp! everything else i've written for bucky has contained smut so bare with me, i just wanted to take a break for some fun and fluffy (but still tension-filled) toking.
a/n 2: bucky and reader smoke in this, but i wouldn't say that's the main focus of this fic, just something that brings them closer together. i tried not to focus too much on that aspect, and also tried not to give too vivid of descriptions of being stoned so hopefully readers who don't smoke 🍃 can still enjoy this fic for the fluff and feels. however, if this is a triggering topic for you in any way, please be careful and read at your own discretion 🖤
The Avenger's compound truly has everything you could ever need. A state of the art gymnasium and training center, indoor and outdoor pools, beautifully maintained grounds with walking trails and lake access.
And, one of your favorite things, no shortage of secluded smoking spots.
Tonight's choice? The roof directly above the living quarters. This is likely the spot that you frequent the most, out of sheer convenience.
You keep a couple of extra folding chairs stashed in the stairwell, for the rare occasions that you can convince Natasha or Wanda to relax enough to join you.
Tonight, like most nights, you're by yourself. You don't mind - you enjoy this alone time. You usually come up here after missions to unwind before passing out in your bed.
It’s a chilly night, with temperatures finally dropping down into the low fifties as the early days of fall approach. You're bundled up in an oversized hoodie, sipping on oolong tea to warm you from the inside. In your left hand you clutch the warm mug, and with your right you pinch the tail-end of a burning joint between your thumb and index finger.
You've been up here long enough to have already burnt through one joint, and you now take slow, heady hits of a second as you wait for the meteor shower that's expected to begin over the northeastern United States any minute.
The creaking of the large metal door that leads to the roof startles you, causing you to break your gaze away from the stars littered above you in the New York sky. All the times you've come up here to watch the sunsets over the lake, no one has stumbled upon you. You're surprised by who emerges from the doorway a second later.
Bucky freezes in his tracks when he notices you sitting just a few yards in front of him.
“Oh, sorry,” he pauses, seemingly glancing around the roof to see if there's anyone else here with you. “I didn't expect - I didn't think anyone would be up here right now,” he stutters out.
“You're good,” you smile at him over your shoulder before turning your attention back to the sky. “Trying to get a good view of the meteors?”
“Yes, actually,” he says, surprised. You hear his boots scratching the pavement of the roof as he walks closer to you. You look up at him when he comes to a stop right next to where you're sitting.
“Well, you've come to the right place.” You gesture towards the scenery in front of you - the endless inky sky overlooking the lake next to the compound. “There's some extra chairs stashed in the stairwell, if you'd like one.”
“I didn't know that you smoke,” he says curiously, eyeballing the blazing joint still clutched between your fingers. He visibly sniffs a couple times, as if to confirm that he is indeed smelling what he thinks he is. He doesn't acknowledge your offer of a chair, instead choosing to sit directly on the cement, criss-crossing his legs at the ankles.
“Are you going to tell on me?” You ask as if what you're doing isn't perfectly legal and your friends don't already know.
“Your secret is safe with me,” he smirks up at you, eyes flicking between you and the joint.
“Want a hit?” You offer, extending your hand towards him. He hesitates, uncertainty blooming across his features.
“I haven't smoked since the forties,” he starts with an awkward laugh. He reaches up, carefully taking the joint from you and pinching it between his own two fingers and inspecting it. “I still remember the last joint I smoked before finding out that I had been drafted. If I had known it was going to be my last, I would've appreciated it a lot more.” There's a hint of nostalgia in his words.
You picture it - baby-faced Bucky, in his early twenties, with glossy blue eyes and a lazy, content smile. The thought makes your cheeks warm, and a small, sad smile spreads across your own face. That was a literal lifetime ago, and you didn't know if he had felt as carefree since then.
“Well,” you begin after a sip of your tea. “You're no longer property of the United States Army, or HYDRA, or any organization. So if you want to smoke, then smoke. And if not, that's okay, too, but give me my joint back because you're burning perfectly good weed right now.”
He chuckles at your scolding before bringing the joint up to his own lips and taking a slow, long puff. There's a sharp inhale before he erupts into a coughing fit, smoke billowing out in a cloud in front of him. You give him a few awkward pats on the back while he works through the burn that he is undoubtedly feeling in his esophagus.
“Damn, I've missed that,” he sighs once he has regained his composure. He holds the dwindling joint back up to you.
You shake your head. “Finish it off,” you insist. “I've already had one tonight. It’s all yours.”
You expect him to argue but to your surprise, he takes a second hit. And a third, and fourth, while you sit next to him in an amicable, comfortable silence. Soon, there's nothing left but a small roach that he stubs out against the cement next to where he sits.
“How're you feeling?” You ask, knowing that his tolerance has to be in the negatives if he hasn't smoked in over seventy years.
“If twenty-two year old Bucky knew that I was this stoned off half a joint, he'd never let me hear the end of it,” he says with an amused smile, propping back on the palms of his hands to stare up at you.
“Well, I think one-hundred and six year old Bucky is doing just fine for himself,” you muse. “Twenty-first century weed has got to be more potent than whatever dirt weed you were smoking in the forties, so cut yourself some sla–”
“I did not smoke dirt–”
“Look!” you exclaim, cutting him off as you point up at the sky. He goes quiet, following your gaze.
You both watch in awed silence as flashes of bright white-blues and purples begin to dash across the sky above you. At first, there's a bolt here and a bolt there - but before you know it, there's dozens - too many meteors to count, here and then gone in the blink of an eye. Where one disappears, another takes its place.
You lose track of how long the two you sit there, on the roof, under the shower of the shooting stars - and it has nothing to do with being stoned. They are just that mesmerizing.
“I think we’re supposed to make a wish,” you murmur after a long while, remembering the old legend about shooting stars. You watch the last few meteors as they burn out, and then the sky goes dark once more. When he doesn't respond, you glance down at where he sits to find that his eyes are closed.
You smile to yourself - you didn't actually plan on making a wish, and you definitely didn't expect him to. You figure that he is just humoring you, but you can't help but think how adorable it is nonetheless. You can't stop yourself from snorting a laugh, causing his eyes to snap open and up at you.
“What? Did you make your wish?” he demands, his tone serious.
You hum. A familiar, glowing warmth grows from your lips and down to your toes despite the chilly night air as you stare at him. You tell yourself it’s a physical effect of the marijuana.
“I think I’m good, actually.”
••••••
Every year, a different member of the Avengers chooses a charity to hold a gala in honor of.
Sam's choice last year, Homes For Our Troops, build specially adapted, custom homes for severely injured veterans. Natasha's choice the year before that, Children of the Night, is a non-profit organization dedicated to rescuing and rehabilitating children who have been victims of prostitution.
Always funded by the Stark Relief Foundation, always held in the most high-profile and illustrious venues that money can buy, and always filled to the brim with every philanthropist and major news reporter in the state of New York.
This year, for the first time, it was your turn to select a charity. You decided on Women For Women International - a noble and worthy cause that you are proud to raise awareness and donations for. However, now that three hours into the gala, you are fucking burnt out. From the moment that you and your teammates arrived at the venue, guests and reporters began forming lines for their chance at interviewing you or getting their picture taken with you. You feel like you’ve talked to every person in the building, except for the one person that you truly wanted to. Add in a ten minute long speech addressing five hundred plus guests, you are drained. Physically, mentally, and socially drained.
“You did incredible with your speech,” a soft voice says from behind you. “All that worrying for nothing.”
You're exhaling a sigh of relief at the familiar voice before you've finished turning around to meet his dimpled grin and deep blue eyes. You think he might just be as ready as you are to get out of here with the way he's already loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his tux. His hair is tousled - though you haven't had a free moment to speak with him since the car ride over here with Sam and Steve, you have no doubt that he's ran his fingers through the short locks a few dozens times throughout the evening - a habit that flares up every time he's out of his element. With this being the first gala he's attended as an Avenger, and possibly the first gala he's ever attended, you're surprised he has any hair left.
“I wouldn't say for nothing,” you turn back to the bar in front of you and wave a singular finger to the bartender, signaling your desire for another drink. “I stuttered at least eight times, and lost my place on the page twice. I felt like I was going to puke shrimp cocktail and espresso martini all over the podium.”
You can see him grimace from your peripheral vision. He pulls out the barstool next to where you stand, and then takes a seat. You're pinned between the chair on the opposite side of you and his thigh, the cool silk of his pants tickling the bare skin of your leg where your dress cuts off just above mid-thigh. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiate from him and smell the essence of his piney aftershave. Subconsciously, you relax for the first time all evening.
“You are your own worst critic,” he reminds you, repeating the sentiment that he’s been saying to you for the last few weeks, anytime the gala or your speech would come up in conversation. “No one else noticed if you stuttered. They’re all too full of liquor, or too concerned with getting their photo op with Iron Man or The Hulk..” he trails off, glancing over his shoulder at where Tony and Bruce are both striking signature poses for some selfies with guests.
“And what about you? Have any of your fangirls begged you to take a picture with them?” You smirk at him as the bartender slides your martini across the countertop. You angle your body so that you’re now turned to face him, leaving practically no space between the two of you.
“More than I can count,” he exhales, and you force a laugh to not roll your eyes - not that you were surprised or that you could blame them for wanting their picture taken with him.
“Well, I’m glad that we were able to raise so much money,” you sigh into your drink. “But I would be lying if I said I’m also not glad that it’s over with. I’m ready to get these shoes off, submerge myself in a hot bath, and then sleep until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Always the introvert,” he murmurs, a sly grin appearing on his face. He carefully tugs the lapel of his jacket to the side and reaches his flesh hand inside, pulling out a tin of wintergreen Altoids. You look at him curiously as he gives the small container a shake. It makes no sound, seemingly empty of mints. You cock an eyebrow at him, about to ask him what the deal is, when a familiar, earthy scent wafts towards you.
“What’s in the tin, Buck?” you ask rhetorically, as if the odor isn’t a dead giveaway.
“Just a little something I’ve been saving for when I could finally get you alone tonight,” he shrugs, slipping the tin back inside the interior pocket of his jacket. Your heart skips a beat at the possibility that maybe he’d been wanting to talk to you, see you, spend time with you as much as you had him.
“I’m just happy to see that you finally have your own weed,” you tease, trying to polish off the remnants of your drink so that you can get the fuck out of here. “Now you can stop smoking all of mine.”
You’re just giving him a hard time, of course. You’d lost count of how many times the two of you have smoked together since the night of the meteor shower just two months ago, and you were more than happy to share your supply with him - he gives you a lopsided grin that tells you he knows you don’t actually mind.
“Hence why I have pre-rolled three joints just for you,” he quips back. “One for how much time and effort you put into this event, one for conquering your fear of public speaking, and one for how much of your weed you have let me smoke.”
Your cheeks warm at the thoughtful gesture. You swallow the last swig of the brown liquid and slide the glass back across the bar.
“What are we waiting for, then? Let’s go get a cab.”
Half an hour later, you and Bucky are in the backseat of the taxi that drives you away from bustling downtown Brooklyn and towards a park that Bucky had instructed the driver to take you to. You didn’t object, trusting that he knows this area of New York better than you do.
The driver comes to a stop next to a nearly desolate sidewalk that appears to lead to a waterfront walkway. Bucky hands the driver a handful of cash, tells him to keep the change, and hops out of the cab before extending a hand to you as you scoot across the seat to follow his exit. You mumble a quick thanks to the driver as he helps you onto the sidewalk and shuts the door behind you.
You pull your coat tighter around you, attempting to shield yourself from the chill of the November air. Fall is now in full swing in New York, and the short cocktail dress that you wore to the gala does little to protect you from the night air.
“Me and Steve used to come to this park all the time,” he tells you as he pulls the Altoids tin and a BIC lighter from his jacket. “I vividly remember having to break up a fight he got into just past that fountain when we were teenagers,” he motions towards a large granite fountain ahead of you, “when some asshole stole a kid's frisbee.”
You laugh as he passes you a joint and the lighter, able to picture the memory he describes clear as day. It's far from the first time he's told you about a time that he had to get pre-serum Steve out of trouble.
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” you mumble as you pinch the tail of the joint between your lips, inhaling as you hold the flame up to the opposite end. A wave of smoke instantly fills your esophagus and lungs with a familiar, comforting burn and you pass the blazing joint back to him. “He’d still do the exact same thing, too,” you add as you exhale the thick cloud of smoke that mixes with the cold air. “Only difference now is that he can handle any fight that he gets himself into.”
“Some things never change,” he says before bringing the paper up to his own lips. You follow as he guides you across a small grassy area and to the walkway that runs alongside the river. Truthfully, it’s too chilly to be on a park stroll at this hour in your current attire, but with Bucky’s body heat radiating from directly beside you and the buzz you feel from the weed, you’re surprisingly comfortable.
“One thing that has changed however,” he continues as you’re inhaling a second hit, “is how well I’ve started sleeping on the nights that we smoke together. On those nights, I don't wake up over a dozen times. Hardly ever even have nightmares anymore.”
Your skin tingles at his admission - a whole flight of butterflies erupting in the pit of your stomach that you push down. You know that he means this because of the weed, not because of you, but for some reason - maybe it's the way his arm keeps bumping against yours or the way the moonlight reflects in the pools of his blue eyes as he glances over at you - you let yourself believe, even for just a split second, that you're aiding in bringing him peace on those evenings spent together. On the roof above the living quarters right before bed, or at the edge of the lake's water when you stop after a late run to watch the sunset, or -
“I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm grateful that I found you up on the roof the night of the meteor shower,” he continues when you don't respond, his voice now possessing a nervous edge. Your mouth suddenly feels dry - the worst cotton-mouth you've ever had times ten. “For more reasons than one.”
You both gradually slow until you've come to a complete stop in front of a boat dock. Between the martini you had before leaving the gala, the effects of the marijuana, and the way he's looking at you while standing so close, you think it's a miracle that you haven't tripped in these ridiculous chunky heels and fallen into the East River. You clear your throat, hoping that you don't sound like a lovestruck teenager when you speak.
“I'm really glad too, Bucky.”
••••••
You stare down at the picture displayed on your phone screen as you and Natasha take the elevator up to the compound's living quarters.
Rolled and ready for you to be home reads the text attached to the picture of the joint pinched between the thumb and index finger of his flesh hand that Bucky had sent you ten hours ago, before your flight from Arizona to New York was supposed to depart.
Our flight has been delayed due to a thunderstorm. No current ETA your reply reads with a frowny face emoji at the end.
Now, at 2:16 in the morning, you are finally back home hours later than originally expected.
You were sure that Bucky was asleep by this point, and you didn't blame him. You wished you were asleep right now, too. Natasha slept the entire plane ride back to New York.
You, on the other hand, may or may not have spent the plane ride reading back over recent text messages between you and Bucky and zooming in on the picture he had sent you because for some reason you really like his hands. Both of them.
You were acting like a goddamn fifteen year old.
“What are you grinning at?” Natasha's voice snaps you out of your trance. You quickly shove your phone into the pocket of your duffel bag.
“I'm not grinning,” you lie, but it's Natasha - of course she sees right through you.
“You were grinning,” she shrugs with a knowing smirk. “But it's okay. We'll chalk it up to sleep deprivation.”
“I am sleep deprived, actually. Someone snored the entire flight back home.”
“For someone who wasn't grinning you sure are being defensive right now,” she retorts with a shit-eating grin as the elevator dings and the door slides open. You roll your eyes as you both step out into the hallway that leads to the living quarters. You turn to the left, towards your bedroom, and she takes a right but then comes to a sudden stop, calling your name. You freeze, turning to look at her with a raised brow.
“For what it's worth, I think you should go for it. It's obvious to everyone around you two.” She looks at you expectantly.
“Get some rest, Nat,” you huff a small laugh under your breath, and try not to smile. She doesn't press the subject any further.
Before reaching your bedroom, you pause at the door to Bucky's room. You don't knock, but wait to see if you hear any movement from inside. All that you hear is a loud static from his white noise machine.
Although you expected him to be asleep at this hour, you couldn't help but feel a small pang of disappointment that you hadn't been able to get back earlier. You knew you would see him tomorrow (well, technically later today), but you hadn't gone this long - a mere three days - without seeing Bucky since the two of you had become close months ago.
You quietly make your way into your bedroom and toss your duffel bag onto the end of the bed before stripping off the dirty, sweaty tactical suit that you'd been wearing since the early hours of the previous morning.
In your bathroom, you turn the faucet handle to the hottest setting and watch as the small room fills with steam before stepping under the showerhead.
You think about what Natasha said as you scrub your body clean and let the harsh but satisfying stream of water relax your aching shoulder muscles.
You wanted to go for it. Goddamn, you wanted to go for it. Every time you are alone with him - whether he's helping you train with target practice, or you're paired up together for re-con, or you're just simply eating breakfast together in the common area - you want to go for it.
All you have to do is stare at his stupid, pretty pink lips for a split-second too long and you're thinking about going for it.
But for so many reasons, you don't.
Though your heart wants more, you love your friendship with him, too. And you would be devastated if you tried for more and it didn't work out and you lost that friendship altogether.
You also don't know if Bucky wants more. Natasha says that everyone around you sees it, but he's never directly said it. You know there's an undeniable chemistry, but what if you're the only one experiencing it?
You watch the last few suds of your body wash go down the drain and turn the shower off, deciding that it's too late and you're far too tired to be thinking about this right now.
You speed through your post-shower routine, desperate to feel the silk of your bedsheets against your clean, freshly moisturized skin as you drift off to sleep.
You're rolling some deodorant under your arms when a deep, loud cry thunders from somewhere outside of your room causing you to let out a shocked gasp. You drop the object in your hand immediately and it falls to the floor as you rush out of your bedroom, wearing only thin cotton shorts and a matching tank top.
As soon as you step into the hallway, you are able to identify where the screams are coming from. Pained, booming yells originate from behind the door directly across from your own.
Bucky’s room.
You don't hesitate to twist the doorknob, letting yourself and shutting the door behind you.
The pale orange glow of a small table lamp in the far corner of his bedroom illuminates the room enough for you to make sense of what is happening. The sight before you makes your heart sink to the floorboards.
He's asleep - his eyes pinched shut and his brows furrowed together in obvious agony. He's shirtless, and his skin looks pale and clammy with thick beads of sweat littered from his forehead to his torso.
There's a meek voice in the back of your mind that tries to remind you that you don't know what you're walking into, as you've never encountered Bucky while he's having a nightmare before but he looks so fucking pitiful that your only concern is alleviating him from whatever prison of torment his mind is currently trapped in.
You rush over to the side of the bed, nearly tripping on the comforter that he's apparently through to the floor in his sleep. Both of his hands form tight fists, his knuckles strained pale. He lets out another guttural yell that causes you to instinctively flinch away.
“Bucky,” you say, attempting to keep your voice from breaking. “Wake up, Bucky. You're having a nightmare.”
He gives no indication that he can hear you, his head thrashing violently and fists slamming down against his mattress as he makes a pitiful whimper.
“Bucky,” you repeat, leaning down to perch on the few inches of free space on the side of the bed. You reach out to place your hand on the flesh of his bicep, about to attempt to gently stir him awake, when he shoots straight up in his bed. You flinch again, but don't move from your position next to him, firming your grasp on his bicep in an effort to ground him. His blue eyes are as wide as saucers and his chest heaves as he takes in his surroundings.
“You're okay,” you assure him in a soft, uncertain voice, rubbing your thumb in circles against the skin of his flesh arm. “It was just a bad dream. Everything is–”
“I could have hurt you,” he interrupts you, his voice faltering on the last word. “I could have–”
“You didn't hurt me,” you interrupt him back. “You're okay, and I'm okay, too.” He nods, and you can tell he's trying to convince himself that the words you say are true.
You quickly glance around his room until you find what you're looking for. Strewn on the floor next to his bedside table, you see a black t-shirt. You reach over, picking it up. You hesitate for a moment before slowly extending the fabric to Bucky's face, where you delicately wipe away the thin layer of sweat that glistens on his forehead. He relaxes into the movement, his eyes closing until you pull away.
“I'm sorry that I woke you up,” he murmurs after a moment of heavy silence.
“You didn't wake me up,” you assure him quickly. He watches you with something akin to guilt across his features. “I had just gotten out of the shower. We didn't get home until half an hour ago.”
He glances down, noticing your attire. You suddenly feel naked in only the thin gray shorts and tank top. You awkwardly clear your throat, reaching to place the t-shirt on his bedside table when something catches your eye. Bucky follows your gaze to the joint laying on his bedside table.
“I tried to wait up for you,” he exhales a soft laugh. “Ended up passing out around midnight.” Your whole body warms at his admission. The idea that he tried to force himself to stay awake just so he could see you when you got home makes you feel dizzy despite the fact that you're sitting down.
“Do you want to now? To help you sleep?” you ask, gesturing towards the joint. You don't even care that it's three in the morning and that you're borderline delirious from lack of sleep.
He takes one of your hands in between his own and brings it closer to him, giving it a tight squeeze as he shakes his head.
“No, I know you're tired. But could you just..” He trails off, bringing your hand clutched between his up to his mouth to rest his lips against the skin of the back of your hand. It's not quite a kiss, but it sends goosebumps across your flesh nonetheless. You're holding your breath without realizing it. “Could you just lay with me for a while?”
You nod your head in agreement without even thinking about it. “Yeah - yeah, of course,” you answer, hoping that you don't sound too eager while simultaneously knowing that your voice has risen several octaves.
You lean over once again, grabbing his comforter off of the floor as Bucky scoots towards the middle of the king sized bed to give you room to crawl in beside him. He extends his flesh arm away from his body, a clear indication that he wants you to lay in the space between his arm and his chest. You lay down, tucking your head under his chin so that your cheek rests against the mildly clammy but soft skin of his chest. He helps you tug the thick blanket across your bodies before bringing his arm around your abdomen, pinning you to him.
Luckily, you’re far too tired, and he’s far too warm for you to overthink it.
“You smell really good,” he murmurs into your hair and you hope that his preternatural abilities don’t pick up on the way your heart skips a beat. “I probably smell like sweat.”
You hum a laugh against his chest, sniffing the skin next to your nose without thinking about it.
“You don’t smell like sweat. You smell just as good as you always do, somehow,” you assure him, reveling in his unique scent of vetiver and something citrusy.
You’re both quiet for a moment, sleep threatening to overtake you at any moment when he brings two metal fingers to the underside of your chin and gently tilts your face to look up at him. Your breath is trapped in your chest at the close proximity of your lips and his.
“Remember the night of the gala, when I told you that I’d started sleeping better and having less nightmares since we’d started smoking together before bed?”
You nod, not trusting your voice to answer verbally. He’s so fucking close, you can smell the spearmint of his toothpaste from when he’d brushed his teeth hours ago.
“That was true,” he continues, looking down at you with an indiscernible expression. “But what I’m now realizing is that I don’t think it has anything to do with the weed,” he pauses, a small smile forming across his face. “It’s just you.”
You can’t stop the smile that blooms in return, just as you can’t stop what you do next.
Closing the distance between your lips and his own, you kiss him as you’ve thought about doing for months now. You’re hesitant at first, worrying that you’ve crossed that line that you can never go back over - but then he’s moving his mouth with your own in a synchronicity sweeter than you could have dreamed.
His arms dart under the comforter, wrapping around your body and pulling you even tighter against him. You bring one of your hands to cup his face as he sweeps his tongue along the swell of your bottom lip. You open up for him, letting him inside your mouth as you move your hand from his jaw to his hair - lacing your fingers through the short brown locks as he explores your mouth. Your thigh hooks around his, and it takes everything in you to hold back - to not swing yourself over him and lay the full weight of your body flush against his.
He’s just had a nightmare, and it’s late, and you’re tired, and you don’t want to move this sweet, special thing that you have too quickly.
He pulls away, and you fight against whimpering at the loss of the sensation of his soft lips.
“The night of the meteor shower,” he starts, his voice strained and his pupils dilated. “You told me to make a wish, and I did. Now that it’s come true, I can tell you what it was I wished for,” he pauses, running his metal thumb across your kiss-swollen bottom lip as you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. “I wished for as many moments like that as I could possibly get with you.”
Your heart swells in your chest. You're convinced that you're asleep because this is something straight out of your dreams. You remove your hand from his hair, placing it directly above his heart to make yourself believe this is real.
“Speaking of meteor showers,” you start as you trail the tips of your fingers over the defined planes of his chest. “There's supposed to be a cool show at the planetarium in Manhattan this weekend. Do you want to go with me?”
His answer is a soft smile before attaching his lips to yours once more.
thanks so much for reading! as always reblogs and comments are extremely appreciated. i hope you enjoyed 🩷
other recent works by me: love language • delirium • it's nice to have a friend
everyone crying over caitlyn dictator this caitlyn fascist arc that … everyone failed to recognize the power of a butch lesbian against generational cycles of violence. caitlyn most girlfailure dictator ever. saw her ex for 3 seconds and immediately folded. girl me too tf
the arcane fandom can argue about literally anything, but the one thing we all agree on is that ekko, the boy savior, is the most unproblematic character ever, and that we all absolutely love him. while everyone else is caught up in gay tragedy of all kinds, my boy is just over here trying to fix his damn tree.
y'all missing the whole point of stardew valley. it's supposed to be slow paced. you're a farmer. crops do now grow instantly and you wont be making millions in a season. enjoy the fucking game, take your fucking time. take days off to just forage and talk to people. aren't yall tired of the grind from real life??? do you want to experience burnout in a farming game too??????
how seventeen would act as a webtoon fantasy world prince
this was written with those virtual character dating simulation thingies in mind btw?? like. those unrealistic webtoon isekai-esque stuff. ive never played them before but this is based on my interpretation of them lmao
masterlist
seungcheol
either you fall in love with prince seungcheol at first sight or it's some charged enemies to lovers dynamic until someone finally realises they've fallen. he's just such a huge and great and formidable presence and he is just The Best protector. there's ofc gonna be some sort of altercation where you get hurt and you can bet that his eyes go stormy and he's asking "who did this to you" in a low voice, full of promise to murder anyone who hurt you. watches you with stars in his eyes when you descend the staircase in the beautiful outfit you're wearing as his partner to a royal ball, and that's how he knows that you're the one
jeonghan
prettier than you. every time he appears on screen there's a bunch of shiny sparkles and floating hearts and at least one of the other faceless side-princesses has to faint at his beauty in the background of the scene. he's charactertised by his soft eyes and the glinting teeth in his smile and the way he always has the most out-of-pocket sentences that leave his lips. he's really pretty and really smart but also???? unexpectedly does little things that show that he cares about you. prince jeonghan is written as the webtoon trope where he looks like a laid-back pretty boy but secretly loves you dearly and would defend you with his life
joshua
childhood friends who drifted away due to circumstances in their own kingdoms before finally reuniting at a ball and realising oh god... they both grew up to be so beautiful. there's some underlying, dramatic plot involving betrayal and corruption in the temple (dude it's always the temple) but your love for one another is always there, unspoken but ringing true constantly. does it kind of give you plot armour? yeah, bc the writer doesn't want anything to happen to joshua. (or you. but mostly joshua.) but there's also at least 6 shirtless prince joshua scenes bc the writer loves him so. take what you can get.
junhui
he's just Doing His Best okay. he's been married off to you, a royal from another kingdom, and he's kinda having a bad time bc the climate of your kingdoms are just so different but you're also kind of being all snappish with him like he chose to be married off to you?? but you're also really pretty and sometimes you're quite nice and it's obvious you're a good person from how you talk about your subjects and he knows that you don't like him but he thinks he might be falling in love with you, which is kind of confusing for everyone. comedy-fluff-misunderstandings webtoon style.
hoshi
playful younger prince. rebellious. you first meet him in some rundown, peasant area and you genuinely think he's just the illegitimate son of a noble rather than the prince himself bc he's just so friendly and blatantly disregarding all sorts of common court etiquette. as someone stifled by the rigid aristocratic structures, you find it refreshing, and talking to him is just so easy and you get to express yourself so well around him. before you know it, you're in love, and when you feel horribly betrayed at the reveal that he's the prince, well.... perhaps someone else out of the two of you managed to catch feelings too.
wonwoo
he's always so calm and composed and it makes you want to climb him like a tree and wring his shoulders to finally ruffle his leaves a little and find out what makes him tick. you want to be the one to crack the secret to prince jeon wonwoo, basically. will he let you? no. he hates you. at least, that's what you think, before something happens at a horse-riding tournament through the woods that you're participating in and your horse becomes out of control, and from then on, wonwoo never leaves your side. almost as if he was scared that he'd truly lose you, and he realises that he never wants that to happen, ever.
woozi
guys. guys prince jihoon is perfect for a prince x knight trope. prince jihoon who's head knight and always ends up sniping with you, the one knight in his charge that always snarks back. prince jihoon who spars with his knights often and always seems to be the closest in skill level with you. prince jihoon who mostly sees you in your armour so to see you dressed in finery at a ball makes him blink because you're actually rather beautiful. and you, who feel torn between your duty and the comfortable banter that you've developed with the crown prince that makes you crave more and more every time he turns to leave.
minghao
you rarely go out to balls but this time your family convinces you to come to the masquerade ball the royal family are holding for the crown prince. there, you meet a handsome masked man, who leads you through one of the fast dances and has you laughing into him before you share a fascinatingly intellectual conversation with him until the ball ends and from there, you're whisked away by your chatty (but well-meaning) family and you never see him again until a dramatic encounter at the market where you're about to get robbed but a familiar voice steps in. is it a cliche plot? yeah, but prince minghao is drawn to be utterly gorgeous so people will stay for the art
mingyu
is literally soooo drop-dead gorgeous that you promise yourself you're not gonna fall in love with him bc like???? he's the prince from a neighbouring kingdom that you're being forced to marry. this off-the-charts handsomeness is just a ploy to get you to act out a cliche of falling for him. but the more time you spend with him, the more you find that despite being (almost terrifyingly) handsome, he's also kind of... adorable? so... maybe you'll rethink your decision to not fall in love with him.... especially when he trips over his feet and accidentally blurts out how he's in love with you when on a walk in the palace gardens
dokyeom
ray-of-sunshine crown prince who is so annoyingly perfect that you feel kind of irritated. literally it's soooo obvious that the writer has a thing for puppy-coded sunshine bright boys bc it even makes the reader fall for him too. you have an (admittedly one-sided) rivalry with him, bc he's just so kind and loved by all and it fills you with hatred bc you've been nothing but despised and shunned your entire life. but then, some small, kind gesture that he does to you marks the beginning of change in your feelings, and it's as his eyes find yours during yet another ball that you realise... oh. perhaps you've fallen for him after all.
seungkwan
spoilt brat. but also your childhood best friend, so you've learnt to deal with his tendencies and know how to hold him back from kicking someone in the shins in a very un-royal way, and have even grown to love him. like a friend, ofc. however, the weird feeling in your stomach from seeing him having to entertain foreign royalty.... it's definitely not jealousy, right? definitely not. at least, you don't think it is, until seungkwan and you overhear his parents talking of an arranged marriage with another kingdom and you realise with startling clarity that you never want to lose seungkwan to someone else
vernon
honestly. vernon is probably the ordinary guy who was isekai-ed into a fantasy novel as the crown prince. but like, Why does he manage to do so well in his role???? he's panicking the entire time, but he's not necessarily doing badly, and he manages to make you fall for him even harder than you do in the original novel. the second male lead doesn't even have the chance to be an option bc vernon is literally the only person you see. he doesn't know how it happens, but he speed-runs the entire book in one month and then you're confessing your love for him and uh. he might actually be in love with you too.
chan
prince chan is the most gentle and most courteous prince of all time. bows all deeply and respectfully when you first meet him, and he's careful not to touch you without your permission. has such a captivating smile and such captivating words that you can't help but find your gaze gravitating to him at all times. stares at you all awed when you laugh at a particularly funny joke he made. he will 100% definitely treat you right forever. kisses you all soft when he leaves for a battle, your handkerchief tucked into his clothes as a reminder of what he can never leave behind
