a/n: here you go, my love! Enjoy my snippet! Congrats on your 3,500 followers!
"You wanna taste, Lo?"
Twisting the lollipop against her tongue far more seductively than probably necessary, her eyes lid to half-mast, showing off eye makeup that catches the flickering light beneath the convenience store canopy just so.
Removing the treat with a deliberate pop! her tongue teases the luscious red sweet, lips slowly curling up into a vixen grin. The tap of her heel ticks off against the concrete as she gently balances her weight on the back of Logan's bike.
It sinks a little under her weight, and she leans back against the passenger rest, watching him fiddle with buttons on the pump. Her hand finds her thigh, fingers gently ghosting her exposed skin.
The hem of her skirt rides ever higher as she repositions, twisting her foot lightly against the pavement. She asks again, "Baby? You want somethin' sweet?"
She knows he's hungry, has felt the low rumble in his stomach beneath her hands as she'd fondled his abs, pretending to seek warmth and security on the back of his bike.
He knew she'd been teasing, of course. She'd seen his dark grin in the side mirrors more than once as they'd cruised.
Her hand brushes the low cut of her shirt and distracts her long enough for Logan to be on her in what feels like zero seconds - thick fingers grab her face lightly, tipping her head back as his other snatches the treat away from her slightly open, pouty lips.
The sweet gently skips over his teeth as he rolls it to rest in the corner of his mouth, swinging a leg over the bike. He guides her forward, his warm breath raising her skin.
Her smile is slow matching his, the pleased rumble in his chest sending pounding heat aching deep between her legs.
Logan’s hand lifts to gently rub the ribbon in her hair between his fingers. “Already got somethin' sweet," plucking the candy from between his lips with a wet pop, he forces her to take it with an encouraging chuckle.
"You hold onto that for me, princess," his thick hand drops low, calloused knuckles skimming along the exposed meat of her very upper thigh.
Gripping his arm, she’s breathless as her nails curl into the thick muscle, his coarse hair mottling his perfect lines of muscle, fat.
Her breath hitches a little roughly and he chuckles, fingers teasing at the warmth between her legs. His eyes skip to her lips, head tipped a little condescendingly.
it's my birthday month. as you can imagine, all I want is my two idiots fighting over me! jk, but not really, I can't live without them.
ANYWAY, to celebrate me turning 31 this month (such an old lady, I know!) I’m throwing myself a fic celebration because why wouldn't I?
how else am I going to spend my birthday but with my two old men?
that said, we're doing 31 prompts for my 31st birthday!
pick a old man loverboy and then a prompt (adapted from @fawndrip here) and send me an ask! I definitely won't get 31 of you in my inbox, but for the sake of clarity and my own peace of mind, I'll take the first 31 that come to me.
requests open until 12/12. add context to your ask if you'd like, or don't. just know I reserve rights to interpret as needed. prompts can be standalone or any of the universes from my masterlist.
who's next, bub? let's get this show on the road.
the prompts.
choose:
— a loverboy
♡‧₊ logan
☆ ‧₊ bucky
— a quote
☆ “you make it really hard to stay just friends.”
☆ “you’re blushing.” — “no i’m not.”
☆ “just friends don’t look at each other like that.”
☆ “tell me to stay. and i will.”
☆ “my hand fits so perfectly in yours. it's like i'm made for you”
☆ “do you want me to leave?” — “no. i want you to stay forever.”pending☆ “i don’t know how to stop wanting you.” pending
☆ “this means something. don’t pretend it doesn’t.”
☆ “if we kiss now, everything changes.” — “i know but that's a risk i'm willing to take.”
☆ “i’ve been in love with you since the night we met.”
☆ “tell me it meant nothing. lie if you have to.”
☆ “i was easy to leave, wasn’t i?”
☆ “say something. anything. please.” pending
☆ “i’m tired of pretending this doesn’t hurt.”
☆ “you chose them. you always do.”
☆ “i don’t hate you. i just wish i’d never met you.” pending
☆ “you let me go like i was nothing.”
☆ “it’s always been you. i just didn’t know how to say it.” regret me not
☆ “say that again. i dare you.” pending☆ “you really don’t see it, do you?”
☆ “do you always look at people like that?”
☆ “you make it really hard to think straight.”
☆ “oh my god. you’re blushing.” friend of a friend
☆ “this means something. don’t pretend it doesn’t.” cheyenne
☆ “i should’ve kissed you when i had the chance.”
☆ “you’re not helping. you’re being pretty. it's distracting.”
☆ “you make me nervous in the best way.”
☆ “every time you look at me, i forget what i was saying.”
☆ “just admit it. you like me.”
☆ “if you don’t kiss me right now, i might explode.”
☆ “you’re dangerously good at that smile.” taste of you
— a trope optional
♡ mutual pining pending
♡ friends to lovers
♡ strangers to almosts
♡found family ?
♡ the “oh” moment taste of you
♡ confessions at 2am
♡ forbidden
♡ hurt/comfort
♡ secretly in love
♡ reunion after years
♡ accidental domesticity
♡ slow burn
♡ “just friends” denial
♡ second chances
♡ exes
♡ soulmates who don’t believe in fate pending
♡ enemies on the same side
♡ sleep talking confessions
♡ one falling first, the other falling harder regret me not
♡ patching up wounds with shaky hands
♡ dancing in the kitchen
♡ jealousy over nothing (but also everything) cheyenne
♡ caught in the rain
♡ almost kissing but someone interrupts friend of a friend
♡ waking up next to them
♡ fixing each other’s tie/collar
♡ boss/secretary (power dynamic)
♡ oblivious girlie
— a universe optional
☆ Bucky x Stark!fem!OC/reader Thunderstruck
♡ Logan x mutant!fem!OC/reader Where We Break
-> some mutuals I'd love to hear from, but absolutely no pressure! @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @cheekybarnes @tezooks @sidkneeeee @damimami1994 @emmathefanficgal @daydreamgoddess14 and really anyone else!
Random question, not an actual request (I saw those are listed as "maybes"). Bucky and Logan are locked in a room together. Do they fight? Do they kiss? Do they compare notes on longevity and exactly how many mutual friends they share?
OK so I love this question. My husbands thrown into a room together?! However am I to choose?! *cries in lust and ovaries*
I may explore this later in a fic, perhaps, but they absolutely do know one another - not just in my brain but canonically. I believe they've both worked together at Cap's side a few times in the comics, and they definitely have a lot of that shared life experience, specifically tied to the Cold War and WWII.
What's even more interesting? We know Bucky has worked with Laura Kinney a few times in the comics, too. So he's definitely familiar with the Wolverine mantle. I feel like they'd respect one another a lot but not necessarily like one another.
Specifically, because, I think they're such different personalities. I wrote a whole essay about this, but Logan is more of a hardhearted, bitter man about his mutation and what the world has done to him, whereas Bucky is more of a confused little bean trying to make his way in the world and see how he fits into it, and how he can serve it.
But an exchange would look something like this:
"Bucky, this is Logan. Logan, this is -- "
"Don't bother, darlin'," Logan's hand slips from the leathers of his pocket, nodding once in recognition as Bucky shakes his thick hand with a firm callous only time, and shared memories, could understand. "This fucker and I go way back, like, Nazi back."
"Logan," Bucky's jaw sets a little off his own nod, arms crossing over his chest with a halfway smile as he study's Howlett's posture. The hell-raising Wolverine, still alive and well. What a nightmare.
Still looked like a fucking butcher. "I'd say it's good to see you, but lying isn't exactly encouraged by my therapist."
"Your therapist," he snorts, lights a cigar with a disappointed smirk, "fuckin' figures."
Oh fuck. "Yeah, therapy. It's a part of the whole rehabilitation into society thing, for you know, war crimes," his brows fall in a hard line, "some of us don't have billionaire geneticists covering our ass out in the real world, Wolvie."
"Watch it, Frosty," his eyes cut to the vibranium of his hand, a wicked smile curling his lips back to reveal canines that may as well be pointed, "wouldn't wanna get yourself into any hot water, Barnes - might melt or somethin'."
Hello gorgeous! We were just talking about it and I decided I simply need to see you bring it to life. Leopold x nerdy, funny, invisible reader? Fic, blurb, head canons, dealer’s choice:) I trust that this ask is in the most capable of hands🫶
fate & God
Leopold Mountbatten x fem!reader
Summary: Leopold is everything she ever dreamed of, but also everything she didn't think she could have.
Warnings: fluff, some angst, Princess Diaries vibes kinda, reader is a former love of Stewart's, first kiss.
-> ahhh! Miranda! coming for my feels with this ASK. I'm sorry this took FOREVER, but life being what it is, and my obsessive compulsion to make this perfect (didn't happen) prolonged this. Enjoy it, I hope it fits!
“I really do think you’re overthinking this, princess.”
Stewart doesn’t even bother looking up from the screen of his computer, fingers plucking over keys one by one as he attempts to compile an email. He’d never really bothered to learn how to type properly – the smartest she knew, he was reduced to caveman status while at the keyboard, head bobbing between checking the screen and his keyboard like a chicken.
Her hands drop from lifting her hair into a would-be style, if it were longer. Fuller, prettier, straighter. Shoulders slumping forward, she begins wrangling it back into a clip, ignoring Stewart’s offhand comment – there was no such thing as overthinking an afternoon out with the man out of time, Leopold. The weird Duke from the 18th century.
Eighteenth? Maybe it was the 19th century—who was counting?
“I bet you never said that when we were dating,” blowing out an exasperated breath, she adjusts her glasses back into place, “if you only knew the hours I spent preening like some bird to impress you, Stew — hasn’t Kate taught you anything about women?”
“Kate never takes long getting ready,” his head finally lifts, eyes casting over her seriously, “she doesn’t put much thought into her appearance.”
“That’s because she looks like she’s stepped off the cover of Vogue at all hours of the day,” Stewart was likely to hear her eye roll more than see it, given how hard her eyes consider the ceiling, “some of us, unfortunately, aren’t graced with natural, effortless looks. Some of us poor fools actually have to try.”
Typing stops, only for a second. “I always thought you were naturally pretty, princess.”
That name. An unfortunate side effect of their relationship, Steward hadn’t stopped calling her by her college nickname even a decade after they’d graduated.
Now everyone called her princess, from her parents to her brother to her unfortunate colleagues at work who had tragically stumbled upon her email thread with Stewart perpetually hanging out in her inbox. Kate, even meeting her just ten days ago, had started calling her honey.
The only person who addressed her by her full name was Leo. She’s still unsure if that feels right or not – it’s difficult to discern the swirl of heat his attention spins through her blood.
The last two weeks have been little more than fairytale, skirting in and out of conversations and navigating New York at Leopold’s side — he was like an awakened child. Curious and imaginative, sweeping and charismatic.
His charm was endless, the innocent boyishness behind his eyes only ever as fleeting as his sharp wit. He could have her laughing one moment only to be knee-deep in the politics of the world the next, discussing everything from political science to history to art and, her favorite, literature.
Every morning this week they’d ventured to the corner bookshop to browse the endless spines of titles, only to never really buy anything — it was far more fun to pluck interesting titles and read the first page and make assumptions.
Leopold was well read and curled his nose at just about every modern title that managed into his hands, though he had mused at her latest interest. Three Bags Full had snagged her attention right away, and some time (and four pages) had passed before he’d managed to snap her attention back into the real world.
She’d almost fainted dead away when Leo had forcibly taken it from her to purchase it with whatever funds Stewart had provided, insisting great offense if she should deny him. Accepting it graciously and with a blushing smile, she’d looped her arm his proffered one and escorted him across the street to the coffeehouse they’d frequented every morning since her arrival to the city.
“I’ll let you read it first, Leopold,” she’d scooted the book across their shared outdoor table with light fingers, “Stewart can always mail it back to me when you’re gon—”
His jaw had clamped at the mention of leaving, muscle ticking with the strain of a refrained frown. “I should think not, my dear – there’s little time to read when the world teems with new curiosities. I’ll have my fill of reading when I—” hesitating, he’d sat back in his chair with a rare absence of grace, “ — no, thank you.”
She’d chewed the inside of her cheek at his dismissal. Leopold hadn’t resigned himself to the inevitability of returning to his time. Understandably so. The idea of their world shifting back to not having him around plunged an unspeakably deep, sour knife between her ribs.
Her very own Prince Charming in her very own fairytale. Doomed to return to the pages of history – it was more horrific than it sounded. Actively choosing not to dwell on it, she’d slipped the book into her bag, out of sight.
They’d returned to enjoying their drinks outside, a right of passage that hadn’t changed. An Americano and simple black tea, each time. They couldn’t be more different as they solve the world’s problems, she thinks.
And yet so perfectly similar.
“I think if you leave some down, it would look nice,” Stewart’s tone is genuine, soft. “Though I don’t think he’d really care either way.”
“You say that like I care,” it's too defensive.
“You do.”
Stewart’s reflection staring at her in the mirror triggers her attention back from the memory of the bookstore.
Eyes flicking up to his in the reflection, Stewart gently reaches to pull at the familiar face-framing curls. He’d always liked her wearing her hair like this. Her bottom lip rolls inward, beneath her teeth.
Heat creeps up her neck and she breaks eye contact with him in the mirror.
“I don’t –” it’s too quick, too breathless to be sincere. Stewart knows her better.
“You do, and it’s ok,” he gently squeezes her shoulder, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a placating, almost sorry, smile.
“You deserve to be happy, princess,” his nose wrinkles a little with amusement as she rolls her eyes, “and I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time.”
The less people who see me the better.
And it is better, less painful. Though the idea of Leopold never seeing her again is suffocating. She may well be dracula, coffin nailed closed, slowly passing time in the darkness – alone, and soul hungry for a man she was never supposed to meet.
Fate is funny how it knits stars together, intertwines futures. Fate and God, only fate and God.
Swallowing the hopeless idea, she checks her appearance in the mirror for a final time. Adjusts the glasses perched on her nose before her fingers work swiftly to pin the rest of her hair into place. Her eye catches the time on her watch — it’s almost nine.
Leopold will return from his morning walk with Bart, and seeing her, would ask if she’d like to accompany him for morning tea.
Which meant back to the bookstore they’d go for a repeat performance of yesterday, and the day before. It’s the only thing they’d done on repeat – every other venture had been new.
The subway system, seeing Lady Liberty, the Met. Pizza from Sylvia’s and every food stand in between, walking countless blocks and discussing everything from religion to poetry to art and space.
Every day he’d accompanied her around the city, allowing Stewart to work without guilt, joining them instead for the night scene.
And she thinks she could pass lifetimes away with Leopold, wandering Manhattan in the way that star-crossed lovers do. There could hardly ever be anything more romantic. If she were the main character, if this were her story.
It isn’t, not really. In the scheme of things this is Leopold’s adventure, and she is B story. Well, technically C story— it hardly matters.
He’s the white-horse, knight-in-shining armor Prince Charming who will return to his time and marry the perfect Cinderella, and she won’t be a closet scriptwriter that spends her vacation in bookstores and reminiscing about her ex-boyfriend….
A knife of ice stabs at the mesh of her ribs, thinking about it.
….And she will be worthy of Leopold in a way I can never be.
She doesn’t hear the door close until Leopold’s already steps into the apartment, Bart flying ball in a blur of hair, nails on the floor, and that signature smell of dog. He lands his two front legs promptly on Stewart’s lap, almost smiling.
She whirls around on the ball of her foot when Leopold’s hand brushes against her low back, his warmth enveloping her like a mist that makes her start.
Blood kicking against her eardrums, she turns to find that not only has Leo taken the liberty to retrieve her jacket for her, he’s provided his gloves.
“Shall we go?” His brow crooks in that amazing way she’d only ever seen once before on men, and that was on television — blinking as his smile broadens softly, she nods as he gestures to the window with a gentle nod of his head, “There’s quite a chill in the air this morning, tea would be divine.”
It’s a departure from his usual, “Will you accompany me out for tea?” and without reading too much into whether he has taken to expecting her company or not, she takes the offered gloves.
Trying to settle the race of her heart against her ribs, she smiles.
“Sure thing, Leo,” he helps her into jacket, the woolen peacoat snug around the shoulders of her sweater as she buttons it closed. “Lead the way.”
Black tea and an Americano. It’s basically waiting for them at the front counter.
“There you are,” the barista eases against the counter, slowly, “was wondering if you’d be buy today, Leopold. They’re saying we could get snow.”
Unsure if they should be designated to first names after just ten days of frequenting the coffee shop, she doesn’t miss the way the barista smiles at her companion in the biggest, most beautiful way possible.
Maybe it’s her jade colored eyes, or the subtle piercing in her nose that catches the light in the prettiest way that knocks her confidence down a peg. It feels strangely provocative to be between their conversation, as if she’s an intruder for a moment, Leopold smiling back coolly with warm tones and his low register of a voice.
But either way, she slips away, to scout out a table, both of their coffees at hand. It isn’t until she’s shrugging out of her jacket that Leo slips up to her side, brow wrinkled in a downtrodden way.
“Something wrong?”
Leopold extends her chair for her, and does not sit until she is comfortable. He then begins to shed his own jacket, draping it over his arm as he graciously slips into the chair opposite hers. Nudging his tea in his direction, she warms her hands around the ceramic mug, blowing at the curling steam.
He looks miffed, and she feels his leg drape over the other as his hands fold over his knee.
“That was rather rude of you,” he intones pointedly, brow arcing again. “Just….abandoning our conversation with Violet.” Ah, Violet. Jade-eyes was named Violet. His posture corrects as he squares his shoulder, and if she didn’t know better, she could assume he was staring down his nose at her.
How quaint.
“Our conversation?” Her breath stutters on a snort as she attempts to cool her drink with a light breath, “I’m not sure you can count it as a threesome when Violet doesn’t even know that I exist,” skipping the tip of her finger around the mug, she smiles at him with a wrinkle of her nose, “I don’t think that girl would register a team of wild horses if they rolled her over, sweet, sweet Leo.”
He blinks, obviously confused. It takes him a moment to formulate a response. “I—I’m not certain that I follow your reasoning,” brushing a hand against his knee passively, he exhales a little roughly, “explain yourself.” At her surprised blinking, he correct with a proper, “Please.”
Her brow lifts. “Oh. Well,” she shifts a shoulder, falling back against her chair, “Leopold. Honestly? I get the whole bachelor-at-thirty situation you have going on back home, but you can’t really expect me to believe you weren’t flirting with little miss green eyes over there,” nodding to the counter, her eyes drop to half-mast, “She’s very into you, Leo — anyone can see it.”
“Into me?” Frustrated, he sits forward to hover over his tea, “Please. I honestly am not —”
“She likes you, Leopold,” taking a sharp sip, her lip curls at the strength of the coffee’s temperature against her tongue. Unmoving, his lips part in a frazzled O. “At a base level, sexually.”
“You mean coitus?” A disgusted awe skips through his tone, his hand moving to skate around his mouth nervously, “I beg your pardon.”
“Not sure how else to convey it? She’d like you to pursue her romantically?” Making air quotes, her eyes track to the ceiling, “Courtship? Is that what you call it?” Teasing heat slips up from her sternum, fanning up the length of her neck, she feels it blossom across her nose and cheeks. “See?”
With a small nod she gestures to the counter, triggering his attention over his shoulder. Violet and her other team members whisper violently, looking in their direction.
That’s how it starts — a few exchanged smiles, some flirtatious laughter over coffee mugs and muffins. It’s the classic genesis to every Hollywood love story basically ever, and it makes her a little sick to her guts thinking about.
Embarrassed, her eyes flick to the Americano parked in front of her, only for them to glance back to see Violet boldly wiggling her fingers in a cute wave as Leo looks her direction, brow wrinkled and a frown pulling down his features.
His expression softens for a moment before he looks down at his feet, thoughtful.
Stomach soured on her drink, nervously her hand flitters to toy with the face framing curls Stewart had encouraged before they’d left. Her leg begins to bounce nervously under the table, and suddenly the back of her throat bottlenecks to the point breathing seems like a chore.
Biting at her lower lip, her eyes snap up to consider Leopold shifting uncomfortably in his seat, equally stoic.
“While I must admit Violet is quite charismatic, and lovely,” Leopold’s gaze lands out their window, to the street traffic as he manages a deep, chest-heaving sigh, “I’m afraid she just is not what I would find enjoyable in a partner when it comes to marital considerations.”
Well, that’s a first.
Gnawing on her cheek has never been so painful.
Without adjusting his posture, his eyes move back to her, noticing her hand playing with her hair, “Why are you fretful?”
Her brows pop up, “I’m not?”
“You are. You’re pestering at your hair,” he nods, reaching across the table to brush her fingers away, flocking the curl with his finger, “you did so the night we went to the theatre reading and you were called out of the audience, and you did so when you were introduced to Kate’s brother,” his eyes pierce her soul to the very division of bone and flesh, his smile caddish.
Her inhale is sharp, and hurts her lungs. She chokes on it before puffing it out between her lips dramatically, batting his hand away from rubbing her curl between his fingers.
“You do it quite regularly when you wish to say something but aren’t sure when to interject.” His smile is quicksilver, like a cat cornering a mouse.
“You are anxious, my dear thing, but about what?”
The hinge of her jaw fails, her mouth falling open in a little O that robs her of all reason to think. She can’t feel anything but the rush of blood between her ears, the butterflies rising to lift her stomach to the base of her throat.
Suddenly freezing but somehow molten hot in the coffee shop, she feels the color on her face rise to an alarming red, before her mouth closes and her lower lips slip inward, prompting no response.
He noticed. Everything.
Leopold may think he knows her well, but he doesn’t. She’s a master at downplaying her own presence, killing her own heart to make light of situations that would demand she revive it. A lifetime of invisibility, of people-pleasing and chasing validation had made her both master puppet, and puppeteer.
Swallowing the base of a weak breath, she manages to blow out an unsteady one, pushing her glasses up a little on her nose.
“Leopold, I really think we —”
“Do not change the subject,” he matches her hard expression with a huffed sigh. “I know, darling. It’s been quite evident for some time.”
Oh.
“How do you—”
“Stewart,” he smiles at her softly. “We’ve discussed this at quite some length, and he’s confirmed what I’ve suspected these last weeks in your care.” Her face is flaming with a tomato red, she knows, and her bottom lip quivers with the effort to hold back tears. “To say I am flattered would be tragically understated.”
Leopold’s tone is gravely quiet, hand gently skipping across the table, offered to her.
“He cares for you very deeply, as do I. We both would like for you to be happy – and I believe, my dear, I can, and will, bring you such happiness. Perhaps maybe not even happiness alone, but content.”
There’s a slight tremble to his hand, she doesn’t miss the color blossoming on his nose. His voice hesitates, just a warble, but he clears it away with a lift of his chin and a deep, steadying breath.
“It is my intent to pursue your hand, princess — though I am not sure what that will entail, situations being as they are.”
Princess.
It flows from him so freely, so willingly that it terrifies her.
Her brow canyons with a hard line, and she manages a dismissive huff. Hand flitting through the air, her chair scrapes loudly against the floor as she stands. So abruptly that Leo falls back in his chair just to keep up with her snatching her coat and purse from the windowsill.
Her name from him follows after her, but it drowns in the blood pistoning in her ears.
Considering him for no more than a heartbeat, she peels for the door, tripping over her feet once she stumbles out from beneath the shop’s overhead bell. Her hands shake as she fights back into her jacket, frustration reducing the lively bustle of Manhattan to little more than the muted wash of a Monet.
Her heart fully leaps forward against her breastbone when she hears Leopold call after her, senses his footsteps on the sidewalk. She’s a stroke away from throwing up as her fingers dive into the warmth of her pockets, the webbing of her cheek almost bloody between her teeth.
Calling her by her first name with his rich accent causes her to whip around, stumble backwards a few seconds. He comes up on her quickly, breathing hard, eyes skating through hers, white and wild with alarm. An unspoken fear she’s only ever seen on paper.
Looking for mercy, brimming with desperation.
“Leopold, please,” her hands fly up in surrender, “I’d really rather not discuss this, please? I think we should go home, and just —” it dies quickly when he closes the distance between them, grabbing at the front of her jacket to pull her into a hard, forceful kiss.
Fear grips her viscerally for all of a few seconds, the surprise of the moment snatching away her breath to the point of panic. But his taste is so good — crisp and clear, deep in a way she’s only ever dreamed. Leopold is suddenly everywhere, hungrily skating his tongue against hers messily. Wordlessly asking for the return that she is bound, body and soul, to give.
He’s never kissed before, she can tell. He pulls and pushes and prods in all the awkward ways one does when learning the art, but he sighs against her mouth like she’s Aphrodite and he is starving of her. Every knock of his teeth against hers sends her keening, her spine numb with the warm honey of desire, of yes.
His hand is warm as it cups her cheek, thumb skipping over the wild blush on her cheeks. Breathless and burning, she breaks their kiss. Not realizing she’s clinging to the lapel of his coat, her teeth tease her bottom lips.
Shallow breaths rabbit in and out of her chest, and she can’t bring herself to look up at him, not yet. Too afraid it will shatter everything, break the glass ceiling of her limits.
Standing there, breathing hard, she can feel his heartbeat beneath her hand at his chest.
“I desire your happiness, my princess,” he says quietly, breath warm as his hands move to hold hers in place, “Do I make you happy? Will you be happy?” His eyes close, his whisper hanging there as he lowers his nose to brush the end of hers.
Leopold’s lips clumsily skip over hers, and she reaches a hand to brush at fresh tears on her face. She doesn’t realize her hand is shaking until Leopold’s eyes open, studying her as he takes her hand in his and laces his fingers through hers, tightly. With a gentle squeeze, he tugs her a little closer, lifting her hand to press a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist.
“Leopold, I —” she swallows protest, but her head persists, “—it’s been ten days,” she bites the corner of her lip again, attempting to put distance between them, “I’m not the kind of girl you want, Leo. I’m not a Violet, or a Kate. I’m — I’m just me.” Sighing, her eyes pinch closed. “The world says you marry someone else, Leopold. Someone not like me. I’m invisible, you shouldn’t see me. We’re in different classes, different worlds.”
Broken, the words clog her throat. Emotion grips her vocal chords like it demands ransom.
The look of devastation on his face is sincere as his hand gently lifts to spin one of her curls around his finger, “How am I to be in a world that does not have you, when you have so swiftly become mine?”
Shaking his head, his eyes sparkle as his hand brushes her cheek, “Say that you love me. I will simply cease in purpose if you don’t.”
Lips parting, she swallows the growing moisture in her mouth, hardly able to process the fullness of his statement. Love? His world? Is this even real? She’s not sure if time has stopped, or if she’s dying.
World little more than a blur of Manhattan steel and concrete around them behind fresh tears, she breathes deeply of his scent, which clings to the clothes he has borrowed from Stewart. There are a thousand questions, maybe more, that she doesn’t understand — that she can’t bring herself to ask.
Asking always ruins everything.
Fingers twisting into the front of his shirt, she lifts on her toes to brush her mouth along his jaw, Leopold angling to capture her mouth with his in a slow, uncertain kiss. Gently guiding him with a finger beneath his chin, she sighs a little when his arms fully find her, pressing her close.
Brushing noses with him again, her nod is small. “I love you, Leo,” his sharp little inhale excites her in a way that makes her burn, “I’ve waited my entire life for you.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she buries her nose against his shoulder in a tight hug, trying not to cry.
“I know,” he whispers quietly, a smile forming in his words, “and I am right here.”
the way you just abandoned the Wolverine fandom and jumped onto a new trending blorbo is sick and you're disgusting
oh wow. they come with pitchforks and fire, I guess? lmao
-> let's dive into business that really isn't yours, anon, and talk about this? since you feel the need to be hateful over something as trifling as fandom?
ok so, alpha one here: the balls you have here, anon. I haven't abandoned the Wolverine/Hugh Jackman fandom. I still very much love Wolverine and Hugh Jackman, he will forever be one of the celebrities I respect the most for his talent and his range and his triple threat self. he'll forever be the man I got to see on my first NYC trip. Logan will forever be my favorite superhero, right up there with my childhood love of Batman which he has surpassed.
the fact of the matter is we can love more than one thing and one man at the same time in fandom. it isn't that serious, honey. anyone will tell you I'm WELL within my rights to stan more than one man. actually, many of my friends and mutuals love more than one man in equal amounts. just because I've delved head first into Sebastian Stan doesn't mean i stopped loving Hugh Jackman, I still do.
but the HJ/Wolvie fandom has quieted down a lot for reasons I can only speculate. that's okay. fandom is not the same as it was when I was a youngster, they ebb and flow with popularity. and that's okay. I have consumed sooooo much Wolverine content it isn't even hilarious. I've written sooooo much Logan fic.
truth be told I'm in my SS era, yeah. and that's ok. for a long time I didn't respect Bucky Barnes as a character in the MCU and my brain chemistry changed after seeing Thunderbolts* with my family, in such a way that isn't really all that surprising. I've changed a lost in the last year. my interests, what type of characters I like and am drawn to. the men I'm attracted to and respect in a career I am now professionally studying.
in many ways I'm looking for professionals in this world that I can learn from and study as I navigate going back to school, people who I not only admire at a basely primal level but also in talent and scope. Hugh Jackman is an attractive man and a top hand in his craft; he is a Broadway king. he acts in a deeply personal way that rivets me to the floor every time. he's unapologetic, confident, and takes up the air in any space. he's insanely outgoing, by his own admission, and sexy.
all things that I really am not. his confidence and ability to stand out in any given situation I admire, and hope I can someday aspire to if acting is anywhere in my future. he commands a room unlike anyone I've ever met, uses his body freely and feels himself.
Seb, though. Sebastian Stan I relate to on a personal level. he's socially anxious, struggles with body dysmorphia. he stumbled into this career the whole way after a rocky start as a child actor, and from the interviews I've watched, he's been hand picked by directors and casting producers who see something in him that he doesn't really see in himself, from what I can discern. he wears black, shops at Target, takes vitamins, thrifts, doesn't like his cell phone, wears a traditional watch, doesn't think before he talks, and doesn't check his facial expressions. he's a completely adorable, real, everyday person that I genuinely believe probably doesn't put on many airs in his real life. my question constantly to my friends is, is this man aware he's famous?
so yes, to answer the question, I'm entirely sold on Sebastian Stan. I think he's wonderful and I can't wait to learn more about him and study more of his roles. I have high respect for a man who struggles with his appearance and his confidence in an industry that demands the highest iterations of those two realms, and I love how real he is. He's everything that Hugh Jackman isn't, the stark opposite, actually, and it fascinates me that I can love two men in the same way that are so distinctly opposed.
my Seb phase has started much like my HJ one did last year; it crept in there and smacked me upside the face with a character that has spiraled into an admiration. Seb will also be with me forever, as I've started, for the first time, looking at him through lens of someone in the arts, desiring the same craft.
people can love two things at the same time, nonny. I used to believe it was cheating, sure. but I've grown up a little.
yeah my blogs are Bucky focused, now. that's okay. Hugh will still have his appearances. I'll still be feral about him when his content jumps up into my feed. I'll still love Wolverine, he'll still by my X-Man. I just have an Avenger/Marvel/Thunderbolt* extra, now.
and I think it's pretty sick and disgusting you'd leave a remark like this in my inbox, and I can't believe I even have to justify myself to you, but I am, because that's who I am as a human being. still working on that.
Ok I’m such a bad girl—I’ve never seen Mummy and I don’t even know who Mr. #3 is. 🫥🫨🫠 But I can get on board for what I’ve seen of Brendan’s character.
lmao your fics are trash literally get notes so low they're suicidal
wow, ok. nothing like waking up to this absolutely lovely note.
not gonna spin my wheels here, anon. if you don't like my fics that much, why are you here? are you obsessed with me? honestly if this is true, your taste is so poor it's begging for handouts on the freeway. and I'm gonna take a wild guess here and say that you're one of those people with Marlboro's sticking up out of their front pocket and in the next breath, wonder why you're broke.
newsflash, I've never once asked people to hype up my fics. never. maybe unlike you, I don't believe in begging for interaction and notes. not about the fake love, fake friendship, fake sh*t. why? because if someone reblogs or comments or inboxes me about my stuff, I know it is genuine note, and a real interest. it's not because I ask. it's because something I put into the universe, from my own bleeding heart and from between the bones in my hands, meant something.
that is why I write fic.
and sure, there's commentary to be made about the lack of interaction across social media platforms. it's not just here for fanfic. I just read an amazing LinkedIn post about how interactions online are down in general, whether you're a fic writer or a gif editor or a big box Uncle Sam corporation. people just aren't interacting. like, 67% of the viewing world is idle and "silent seekers," choosing to consume content anonymously and incognito. that's a huge amount of people.
writers and fandom creators feel it, sure. but coming out of the digital advertising/copywriting world, I know this won't stop creation. it can't. creativity is bred into people nearly at a biological level that takes different highways through each of us; whether you're a math genius or the next Michaelangelo, creativity hemorrhages out of man like a gunshot wound. man does not stop creating simply because he has no audience.
the fact people are creating just for the hype, the adrenaline, the "fame," if you will, is concerning to me. I understanding seeking community and validation. I know it's fun to freak out with other people and watch the counters tick up. I get it, validation and adrenaline feels good. but creativity is very rarely about the high. it is about the end product, the sense of having completed something that is a part of you, an extension of your soul in the world. art, creativity is meant to leave a piece of you behind that exists long after you. that touches lives and builds, dismantles the narrative long after you've stopped sucking air between your ribs.
the raw fact of the matter, anon, is that I don't write fic for you. I write it for me, for the person who the message of my pieces hits right between the eyes and allows them, maybe for the first time in a long night, feel seen. I write them for the sake of writing, for the sake of playing with characters I love and resonate with. I write for my craft, for that untamable wild thing in me that wants to exist in worlds I don't have to build from the ground up. I write to fall in love, to break. to experience things with characters that only exist in the hearts of the beholder.
are they trash? maybe so. but I don't think so and I don't care, because I don't suck and I am not trash, and these words on a tumblr blog are parts of me. so when you say this, anon, you're basically insulting authors. artists. creatives. you're basically slapping me in the face and telling me I'm not better than the idea of killing myself and nonexistence.
that's so nice of you, by the way. you're so big and strong. look at you, drowning in your own rushing water of pride and arrogance. sucking air into lungs that can't breathe without putting others down. pumping blood that's probably laced with so much vitriol and bitterness that it threatens to turn you to stone.
get a life and get the h*ll out of my way.
^ me coming to Winter Soldier the hell out of you, btw.
mare i wish to ask how you are and how your gorgeous self is doing this fine month 🙂↕️
- 🩶
hiiiiiiiiiii love!
so I should probably just take a minute to update my space here and let you all know that I've been extremely busy in the real world, and Tumblr has taken a very huge backseat in my life right now, as has writing fanfic—I've still been plotting things and writing here and there, just nothing super consistent.
the fact is right now I'm swamped busy. I'm currently in show week for a production I'm the assistant stage manager for, that has dominated the last month and a half of my life; I've been really sick with a sinus infection, getting over influenza A, and a rough case of bacterial vaginosis. plus, additionally, I've been working feverishly on a scope of work proposal for a film I'm writing and directing with a studio, which took a lot more research and work than I was thinking.
all on top of working 40 hours a week, commuting three hours a day, and trying to go to school on my off time (which I haven't done since Christmas—yikes!).
I'm alive and well, however, just here and doing all the busy Mare things.
