"no hints were dropped" ok not to be that person but here are the hints that were dropped regarding Colin and Trent being gay:

1. Colin mentioning Grindr in a joke

2. Trent touching the arm of a man in the background

Here is one of the hints that Keeley was bi (even though I do believe she's been canonically bi since season 1, but not everyone sees it this way)

1. Her desktop background was in the colors of the bisexual flag

Here were some of the hints that Ted was bi:

1. Bisexual flag colored triangles above his head in the hallucination sequence

2. Inverted pink triangle next to him in that same sequence (and you can't tell me the creators didn't know, when the Homomonument is based on that symbol)

3. Countless (countless!!!) comments about men's physiques ("huge muscular thighs all caked in mud", whistling at a picture of Pep, "look at that head of hair", "he's strong", "he looks like a Rodin sculpture in cleats", etc.)

4. About a man (Higgins) and a woman (Rebecca), he had to say: "that's a crowd I don't mind being smack-dab in the middle of"

5. Him checking Trent out in the pub in 2x07 (his eyes are up there, Ted!)

6. "It could go either way", "I contain multitudes" and other comments in this vein

7. Bi lighting as he entered the Yankee Doodle Burger Barn

8. Giving similar looks to the female waitress and the male waiters in that restaurant (including a waiter in a cowboy costume that looked like he belonged in a gay club, who tipped his hat at Ted when greeting him)

9. "That's cause you were put into a box", "That box ceases to exist today", the box in the hallucination sequence breaking into triangles (as in the bi triangles and the inverted pink triangke), "we've been playing too rigid", "our guys need freedom", "fast, fluid, free, with full support", the "box that one needs to break out of" being a prominent motif in season 3

10. Wishing Beard called him pet names ("Honey, is that an ingredient or something you just called me?")

11. His crush on Pep

12. The connection between Ted and Colin: "my whole life is two lives, really", both wearing orange in Sunflowers, "I just want to kiss my fella" (Colin doesn't say "fella" , but Ted says it all the time), Ted just needs to get inspired and Colin's play is "inspirational" after he comes out, as per the commentators

And so much other stuff that, had Ted not self-identified as straight (*cough* put himself into a box *cough cough*) , you could make the case that he was canonically bi.

Here are some of hints that there was a romantic connection between Ted and Trent:

1. They hit a lot of romantic beats, and not in the jokey self-aware way in which Roy and Ted hit them in "Rainbow", but in an organic and sincere way

2. They both checked each other out: Trent checked Ted out when Ted was changing in front of him, Ted checked Trent out when Trent came up to him in a pub and hit him with a pick-up line while his date that looked a lot like Ted waited for him outside

3. Did I mention that Trent was on a date with a moustachioed man who dressed in a similar style to Ted? Let's mention it again

4. In that very bar, during a 50 second long conversation, Trent managed to say the word "love" three times. I searched the word "love" in the transcripts of the episodes. There's no other instance in which its frequency is this high

5. "Love our chats" incomplete rule of threes

6. "Sport, it's quite the metaphor" (implied: a metaphor for love; see also "love's a beautiful game" from the song Ed Sheeran wrote for Ted Lasso), "Also makes for a heck of a nickname", "Good night, Ted", "Good night, sport"

7. The soft, romantic, melancholic song playing in the background of this scene, while Ted and Trent are the last ones left in the office, with lyrics such as "When your words begin to crumble like the sidewalks all around this crummy neighborhood / From the chalky cliffs of Dover / I'd come over, I'd start over if I could"

8. Trent wearing sunflower colors in the episode "Sunflowers" and in the finale; sunflowers symbolize Ted's home (it's not subtle). He's the only character dressed like that. I'm still looking for any other explanation other than "Trent is Ted's home"

9. Their constant flirting and the way they look at each other with incredible fondness

10. The entire episode "The Strings That Bind Us". It's structured around Ted and Trent's relationship, and the way Trent changed because of Ted (in season 2, Ted defined a soulmate as someone who changes your life forever). The red string metaphor. Ted points out that soulmates are connected by a string tied to their little fingers. Ted and Trent both extend their little fingers out in similar shots. They are connected by a huge block of red in their last scene of the episode. Ted makes several comments about other men that apply to Trent ("Look at that head of hair", "Frames his face nicely", "My favorite one, he was clean shaven"). Many more details that lead back to Ted and Trent: Nate tells the restaurant owner to tell Jade he said "Hello". Immediately after, Ted and Trent say "Hello" to each other. The map that Nate's father used to ask out his mom has the number 1.3 written on it and an illustration of two people at a table in a restaurant. Ted and Trent went to a restaurant together in season 1, episode 3. The last scene of the episode mimics a "Race for Love" scene from a romcom, with Trent chasing after Ted. Trent also does not say a word to anyone other than Ted in the entire episode. He is completely focused on Ted

11. "Trent, what do you love? Is it writing?" and Trent ends up writing a book about Ted and naming the manuscript after Ted and he only cares about Ted's opinion on it (he leaves the room when Beard starts reading, but stays in the office after hours just to watch Ted read. "I just wanted you to like it.")

11. Trent's crush on Ted, confirmed by Jimmy Lance (and also obvious in the show, if you ask me)

Now, why would I believe that none of these hints were intentional? Maybe some could be explained away, but all of them? The hints we got for Colin, Trent and Keeley were so much smaller than this, and those turned out to be intentional.

anon i wish i could offer you the response you deserve, but i cannot stop rereading this masterpiece & focusing on the portions of evidence you provided that i didn't even pick up on until you laid them out. holy shit

When I was in need of Help you were there 

When You left I cried Tears 

When You said you couldn’t hold on you did 

When  You speak in front of a crowd everyone listens 

When You almost died I knew I couldn’t let go 

When You  gave your blessing to move on I couldn’t without you. 

When I needed someone to hold on to you where there 

When I wake up in the night from horriable dreams your arms to comfort are close by. 

When You see me fall you pick me back up 

When you saw me for who I am you still loved me 

When you were taken away I was broken 

When we kiss it feels like nothing us is in this world but us. 

When you smile I  smile. 

When you cry I am the shoulder you can lean on 

When I fail your always supporting me 

When I lost everything you were still there 

When you said you loved me I loved you to. 

When you bake or paint its you create something speical 

When you talk about me you make me feel like your the one

When I told you I am expecting you were overjoyed I know I said I’d never Bring Kids into this broken world but you showed me those wounds can be fixed when we have each other. I feel like if I was to bring kids into the world it would be with you no one else. 

Below are moments where Katniss Notices Peeta 

. I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage. Medium height, stocky build, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his blue eyes show the alarm I've seen so often in prey. Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his place.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Peeta and me to shake hands. His are as solid and warm as those loaves of bread. Peeta looks me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm.

But this seems an odd strategy for Peeta Mellark because he's a baker's son. All those years of having enough to eat and hauling bread trays around have made him broad-shouldered and strong. It will take an awful lot of weeping to convince anyone to overlook him. 

I don't know why, but this rubs me the wrong way. "What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour," I snap at him. "Tell him that. That's not nothing."

"He can wrestle," I tell Haymitch. "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother."

What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one except Peeta. Once I had something to barter with, things changed. I'm a tough trader. Or am I? What effect do I have? That I'm weak and needy? Is he suggesting that I got good deals because people pitied me? I try to think if this is true. Perhaps some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed that to their long-standing relationship with my father. Besides, my game is first-class. No one pitied me!

It's weird, how much he's noticed me. Like the attention he's paid to my hunting. And apparently, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," says Peeta. "It didn't show," I tell him.

Finally, I fill a plate with rolls and sit at the table, breaking oil bits and dipping them into hot chocolate, the way Peeta did on the train.

  Peeta looks striking in a black suit with flame accents. While we look well together, it's a relief not to be dressed identically.

  Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. A friend would do that, right?

"I do the cakes," he admits to me. "The cakes?" I ask. I've been preoccupied with watching the boy from District 2 send a spear through a dummy's heart from fifteen yards. "What cakes?" "At home. The iced ones, for the bakery," he says. He means the ones they display in the windows. Fancy cakes with flowers and pretty things painted in frosting. They're for birthdays and New Year's Day. When we're in the square, Prim always drags me over to admire them, although we'd never be able to afford one. There's little enough beauty in District 12, though, so I can hardly deny her this.

"Peeta?" I whisper. "Where are you?" There's no answer. Could I just have imagined it? No, I'm certain it was real and very close at hand, too. "Peeta?" I creep along the bank. "Well, don't step on me." I jump back. His voice was right under my feet. Still there's nothing. Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves. I gasp and am rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs. It's the final word in camouflage. Forget chucking weights around. Peeta should have gone into his private session with the Gamemakers and painted himself into a tree. Or a boulder. Or a muddy bank full of weeds. 

Oh, right, the whole romance thing. I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Peeta picked it up. Surely not from his father and the witch. 

I fumble. I'm not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don't want him to die. And it's not about the sponsors. And it's not about what will happen back home. And it's not just that I don't want to be alone. It's him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread.

I make Peeta put his jacket back on. The damp cold seems to cut right down to my bones, so he must be half frozen. I insist on taking the first watch, too, although neither of us think it's likely anyone will come in this weather. But he won't agree unless I'm in the bag, too, and I'm shivering so hard that it's pointless to object. In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Peeta was a million miles away, I'm struck by his immediacy now. As we settle in, he pulls my head down to use his arm as a pillow, the other rests protectively over me even when he goes to sleep. No one has held me like this in such a long time. Since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else's arms have made me feel this safe.

I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me.

Peeta's a whiz with fires, coaxing a blaze out of the damp wood. In no time, I have the rabbits and squirrel roasting, the roots, wrapped in leaves, baking in the coals.

I also want to tell him how much I already miss him. But that wouldn't be fair on my part.

Catching Fire... 

Words. I think of words and I think of Peeta. How people embrace everything he says. He could move a crowd to action, I bet, if he chose to. Would find the things to say. But I'm sure the idea has never crossed his mind.

"So what's wrong?" he asks. I can't tell him. I pick at the clump of weeds. "Let's start with something more basic. Isn't it strange that I know you'd risk your life to save mine ... but I don't know what your favorite color is?" he says. A smile creeps onto my lips. "Green. What's yours?" "Orange," he says. "Orange? Like Effie's hair?" I say. "A bit more muted," he says. "More like ... sunset." Sunset. I can see it immediately, the rim of the descending sun, the sky streaked with soft shades of orange. Beautiful. I remember the tiger lily cookie and, now that Peeta is talking to me again, it's all I can do not to recount the whole story about President Snow. But I know Haymitch wouldn't want me to. I'd better stick to small talk. "You know, everyone's always raving about your paintings. I feel bad I haven't seen them," I say. "Well, I've got a whole train car full." He rises and offers me his hand. "Come on." It's good to feel his fingers entwined with mine again, not for show but in actual friendship. We walk back to the train hand in hand. At the door, I remember. "I've got to apologize to Effie first."

I go to my compartment and let the prep team do my hair and makeup. Cinna comes in with a pretty orange frock patterned with autumn leaves. I think how much Peeta will like the color.

Peeta, who spends much of the night roaming the train, hears me screaming as I struggle to break out of the haze of drugs that merely prolong the horrible dreams. He manages to wake me and calm me down. Then he climbs into bed to hold me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I refuse the pills. But every night I let him into my bed. We manage the darkness as we did in the arena, wrapped in each other's arms, guarding against dangers that can descend at any moment. Nothing else happens, but our arrangement quickly becomes a subject of gossip on the train.

I don't want to dance with Plutarch Heavensbee. I don't want to feel his hands, one resting against mine, one on my hip. I'm not used to being touched, except by Peeta or my family, and I rank Gamemakers somewhere below maggots in terms of creatures I want in contact with my skin. But he seems to sense this and holds me almost at arm's length as we turn on the floor.

When I open my eyes, it's early afternoon. My head rests on Peeta's arm. I don't remember him coming in last night. I turn, being careful not to disturb him, but he's already awake. "No nightmares," he says. "What?" I ask. "You didn't have any nightmares last night," he says. He's right. For the first time in ages I've slept through the night. "I had a dream, though," I say, thinking back. "I was following a mockingjay through the woods. For a long time. It was Rue, really. I mean, when it sang, it had her voice." "Where did she take you?" he says, brushing my hair off my forehead. "I don't know. We never arrived," I say. "But I felt happy." "Well, you slept like you were happy," he says. "Peeta, how come I never know when you're having a nightmare?" I say. "I don't know. I don't think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just come to, paralyzed with terror," he says. "You should wake me," I say, thinking about how I can interrupt his sleep two or three times on a bad night. About how long it can take to calm me down. "It's not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you," he says. "I'm okay once I realize you're here." Ugh. Peeta makes comments like this in such an offhand way, and it's like being hit in the gut. He's only answering my question honestly. He's not pressing me to reply in kind, to make any declaration of love. But I still feel awful, as if I've been using him in some terrible way. Have I? I don't know. I only know that for the first time, I feel immoral about him being here in my bed. Which is ironic since we're officially engaged now. "Be worse when we're home and I'm sleeping alone again," he says. That's right, we're almost home. "No, I'd have told you," I say. I pull his hand up and lean my cheek against the back of it, taking in the faint scent of cinnamon and dill from the breads he must have baked today. I want to tell him about Twill and Bonnie and the uprising and the fantasy of District 13, but it's not safe to and I can feel myself slipping away, so I just get out one more sentence. "Stay with me." As the tendrils of sleep syrup pull me down, I hear him whisper a word back, but I don't quite catch it.

Peeta comes by every day to bring me cheese buns and begins to help me work on the family book. It's an old thing, made of parchment and leather. Some herbalist on my mother's side of the family started it ages ago. The book's composed of page after page of ink drawings of plants with descriptions of their medical uses. My father added a section on edible plants that was my guidebook to keeping us alive after his death. For a long time, I've wanted to record my own knowledge in it. Things I learned from experience or from Gale, and then the information I picked up when I was training for the Games. I didn't because I'm no artist and it's so crucial that the pictures are drawn in exact detail. That's where Peeta comes in. Some of the plants he knows already, others we have dried samples of, and others I have to describe. He makes sketches on scrap paper until I'm satisfied they're right, then I let him draw them in the book. After that, I carefully print all I know about the plant.

It's quiet, absorbing work that helps take my mind off my troubles. I like to watch his hands as he works, making a blank page bloom with strokes of ink, adding touches of color to our previously black and yellowish book. His face takes on a special look when he concentrates. His usual easy expression is replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside him. I've seen flashes of this before: in the arena, or when he speaks to a crowd, or that time he shoved the Peacekeepers' guns away from me in District 11. I don't know quite what to make of it. I also become a little fixated on his eyelashes, which ordinarily you don't notice much because they're so blond. But up close, in the sunlight slanting in from the window, they're a light golden color and so long I don't see how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks.

One afternoon Peeta stops shading a blossom and looks up so suddenly that I start, as though I were caught spying on him, which in a strange way maybe I was. But he only says, "You know, I think this is the first time we've ever done anything normal together." "Yeah," I agree. Our whole relationship has been tainted by the Games. Normal was never a part of it. "Nice for a change." Each afternoon he carries me downstairs for a change of scenery and I unnerve everyone by turning on the television

I order warm milk, the most calming thing I can think of, from an attendant. Hearing voices from the television room, I go in and find Peeta. Beside him on the couch is the box Effie sent of tapes of the old Hunger Games. I recognize the episode in which Brutus became victor. Peeta rises and flips off the tape when he sees me. "Couldn't sleep?" "Not for long," I say. I pull the robe more securely around me as I remember the old woman transforming into the rodent. "Want to talk about it?" he asks. Sometimes that can help, but I just shake my head, feeling weak that people I haven't even fought yet already haunt me. When Peeta holds out his arms, I walk straight into them. It's the first time since they announced the Quarter Quell that he's offered me any sort of affection. He's been more like a very demanding trainer, always pushing, always insisting Haymitch and I run faster, eat more, know our enemy better. Lover? Forget about that. He abandoned any pretense of even being my friend. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck before he can order me to do push-ups or something. Instead he pulls me in close and buries his face in my hair. Warmth radiates from the spot where his lips just touch my neck, slowly spreading through the rest of me. It feels so good, so impossibly good, that I know I will not be the first to let go. And why should I? I have said good-bye to Gale. I'll never see him again, that's for certain. Nothing I do now can hurt him. He won't see it or he'll think I am acting for the cameras. That, at least, is one weight off my shoulders. The arrival of the Capitol attendant with the warm milk is what breaks us apart. He sets a tray with a steaming ceramic jug and two mugs on a table. "I brought an extra cup," he says. "Thanks," I say. "And I added a touch of honey to the milk. For sweetness. And just a pinch of spice," he adds. He looks at us like he wants to say more, then gives his head a slight shake and backs out of the room. "What's with him?" I say. "I think he feels bad for us," says Peeta. "Right," I say, pouring the milk. "I mean it. I don't think the people in the Capitol are going to be all that happy about our going back in," says Peeta. "Or the other victors. They get attached to their champions."

Peeta would lose it if he knew I was thinking any of this, so I only say, "So what should we do with our last few days?" "I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you," Peeta replies."Come on, then," I say, pulling him into my room.It feels like such a luxury, sleeping with Peeta again. I didn't realize until now how starved I've been for human closeness. For the feel of him beside me in the darkness. I wish I hadn't wasted the last couple of nights shutting him out. I sink down into sleep, enveloped in his warmth, and when I open my eyes again, daylight's streaming through the windows."No nightmares," he says."No nightmares," I confirm. "You?""None. I'd forgotten what a real night's sleep feels like," he says.We lie there for a while, in no rush to begin the day. Tomorrow night will be the televised interview, so today Effie and Haymitch should be coaching us. More high heels and sarcastic comments, I think. But then the redheaded Avox girl comes in with a note from Effie saying that, given our recent tour, both she and Haymitch have agreed we can handle ourselves adequately in public. The coaching sessions have been canceled."Really?" says Peeta, taking the note from my hand and examining it. "Do you know what this means? We'll have the whole day to ourselves.""It's too bad we can't go somewhere," I say wistfully."Who says we can't?" he asks.The roof. We order a bunch of food, grab some blankets, and head up to the roof for a picnic. A daylong picnic in the flower garden that tinkles with wind chimes. We eat. We lie in the sun. I snap off hanging vines and use my newfound knowledge from training to practice knots and weave nets. Peeta sketches me. We make up a game with the force field that surrounds the roof - one of us throws an apple into it and the other person has to catch it.No one bothers us. By late afternoon, I lie with my head on Peeta's lap, making a crown of flowers while he fiddles with my hair, claiming he's practicing his knots. After a while, his hands go still. "What?" I ask."I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever," he says.Usually this sort of comment, the kind that hints of his undying love for me, makes me feel guilty and awful. But I feel so warm and relaxed and beyond worrying about a future I'll never have, I just let the word slip out. "Okay."I can hear the smile in his voice. "Then you'll allow it?""I'll allow it," I say.His fingers go back to my hair and I doze off, but he rouses me to see the sunset. It's a spectacular yellow and orange blaze behind the skyline of the Capitol. "I didn't think you'd want to miss it," he says."Thanks," I say. Because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don't want to miss any of them.We don't go and join the others for dinner, and no one summons us."I'm glad. I'm tired of making everyone around me so miserable," says Peeta. "Everybody crying. Or Haymitch ..." He doesn't need to go on.We stay on the roof until bedtime and then quietly slip down to my room without encountering anyone.The next morning, we're roused by my prep team. The sight of Peeta and me sleeping together is too much for Octavia, because she bursts into tears right away. "You remember what Cinna told us," Venia says fiercely. Octavia nods and goes out sobbing.

Peeta's in an elegant tuxedo and white gloves. The sort of thing grooms wear to get married in, here in the Capitol.

We walk down the hallway. Peeta wants to stop by his room to shower off the makeup and meet me in a few minutes, but I won't let him. I'm certain that if a door shuts between us, it will lock and I'll have to spend the night without him. Besides, I have a shower in my room. I refuse to let go of his hand. Do we sleep? I don't know. We spend the night holding each other, in some halfway land between dreams and waking. Not talking. Both afraid to disturb the other in the hope that we'll be able to store up a few precious minutes of rest.

I rush over to where he lies, motionless in a web of vines. "Peeta?" There's a faint smell of singed hair. I call his name again, giving him a little shake, but he's unresponsive. My fingers fumble across his lips, where there's no warm breath although moments ago he was panting. I press my ear against his chest, to the spot where I always rest my head, where I know I will hear the strong and steady beat of his heart. Instead, I find silence.

Peeta and I sit on the damp sand, facing away from each other, my right shoulder and hip pressed against his. I watch the water as he watches the jungle, which is better for me. I'm still haunted by the voices of the jabberjays, which unfortunately the insects can't drown out. After a while I rest my head against his shoulder. Feel his hand caress my hair. "Katniss," he says softly, "it's no use pretending we don't know what the other one is trying to do." No, I guess there isn't, but it's no fun discussing it, either. Well, not for us, anyway. The Capitol viewers will be glued to their sets so they don't miss one wretched word. "I don't know what kind of deal you think you've made with Haymitch, but you should know he made me promises as well." Of course, I know this, too. He told Peeta they could keep me alive so that he wouldn't be suspicious. "So I think we can assume he was lying to one of us." This gets my attention. A double deal. A double promise. With only Haymitch knowing which one is real. I raise my head, meet Peeta's eyes. "Why are you saying this now?" "Because I don't want you forgetting how different our circumstances are. If you die, and I live, there's no life for me at all back in District Twelve. You're my whole life," he says. "I would never be happy again." I start to object but he puts a finger to my lips. "It's different for you. I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard. But there are other people who'd make your life worth living." Peeta pulls the chain with the gold disk from around his neck. He holds it in the moonlight so I can clearly see the mockingjay. Then his thumb slides along a catch I didn't notice before and the disk pops open. It's not solid, as I had thought, but a locket. And within the locket are photos. On the right side, my mother and Prim, laughing. And on the left, Gale. Actually smiling. There is nothing in the world that could break me faster at this moment than these three faces. After what I heard this afternoon ... it is the perfect weapon. "Your family needs you, Katniss," Peeta says. My family. My mother. My sister. And my pretend cousin Gale. But Peeta's intention is clear. That Gale really is my family, or will be one day, if I live. That I'll marry him. So Peeta's giving me his life and Gale at the same time. To let me know I shouldn't ever have doubts about it. Everything. That's what Peeta wants me to take from him. I wait for him to mention the baby, to play to the cameras, but he doesn't. And that's how I know that none of this is part of the Games. That he is telling me the truth about what he feels. "No one really needs me," he says, and there's no self-pity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. "I do," I say. "I need you." He looks upset, takes a deep breath as if to begin a long argument, and that's no good, no good at all, because he'll start going on about Prim and my mother and everything and I'll just get confused. So before he can talk, I stop his lips with a kiss. I feel that thing again. The thing I only felt once before. In the cave last year, when I was trying to get Haymitch to send us food. I kissed Peeta about a thousand times during those Games and after. But there was only one kiss that made me feel something stir deep inside. Only one that made me want more. But my head wound started bleeding and he made me lie down. This time, there is nothing but us to interrupt us. And after a few attempts, Peeta gives up on talking. The sensation inside me grows warmer and spreads out from my chest, down through my body, out along my arms and legs, to the tips of my being. Instead of satisfying me, the kisses have the opposite effect, of making my need greater. I thought I was something of an expert on hunger, but this is an entirely new kind. It's the first crack of the lightning storm - the bolt hitting the tree at midnight - that brings us to our senses. It rouses Finnick as well. He sits up with a sharp cry. I see his fingers digging into the sand as he reassures himself that whatever nightmare he inhabited wasn't real. "I can't sleep anymore," he says. "One of you should rest." Only then does he seem to notice our expressions, the way we're wrapped around each other. "Or both of you. I can watch alone." Peeta won't let him, though. "It's too dangerous," he says. "I'm not tired. You lie down, Katniss." I don't object because I do need to sleep if I'm to be of any use keeping him alive. I let him lead me over to where the others are. He puts the chain with the locket around my neck, then rests his hand over the spot where our baby would be. "You're going to make a great mother, you know," he says. He kisses me one last time and goes back to Finnick. His reference to the baby signals that our time-out from the Games is over. That he knows the audience will be wondering why he hasn't used the most persuasive argument in his arsenal. That sponsors must be manipulated. But as I stretch out on the sand I wonder, could it be more? Like a reminder to me that I could still one day have kids with Gale? Well, if that was it, it was a mistake. Because for one thing, that's never been part of my plan. And for another, if only one of us can be a parent, anyone can see it should be Peeta. As I drift off, I try to imagine that world, somewhere in the future, with no Games, no Capitol. A place like the meadow in the song I sang to Rue as she died. Where Peeta's child could be safe.

push people aside until I am right in front of him, my hand resting on the screen. I search his eyes for any sign of hurt, any reflection of the agony of torture. There is nothing. Peeta looks healthy to the point of robustness. His skin is glowing, flawless, in that full-body-polish way. His manner's composed, serious. I can't reconcile this image with the battered, bleeding boy who haunts my dreams.

I'm light-headed with giddiness. What will I say? Oh, who cares what I say? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He'll probably be kissing me anyway. I wonder if it will feel like those last kisses on the beach in the arena, the ones I haven't dared let myself consider until this moment. Peeta's awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I'm disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense that I can't quite place. Desire? Desperation? Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet, and moves toward me. I run to meet him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me, too, to caress my face, I think.

At a few minutes before four, Peeta turns to me again. "Your favorite color...it's green?" "That's right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange." "Orange?" He seems unconvinced. "Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset," I say. "At least, that's what you told me once." "Oh." He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "Thank you." But more words tumble out. "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." Then I dive into my tent before I do something stupid like cry.

He looks well. Thin and covered with burn scars like me, but his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. He's frowning slightly, though, as he takes me in. I make a halfhearted effort to push my hair out of my eyes and realize it's matted into clumps. I feel defensive. "What are you doing?"

"You're still trying to protect me. Real or not real," he whispers. "Real," I answer. It seems to require more explanation. "Because that's what you and I do. Protect each other." After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.

"Leave me," he whispers. "I can't hang on." "Yes. You can!" I tell him. Peeta shakes his head. "I'm losing it. I'll go mad. Like them." Like the mutts. Like a rabid beast bent on ripping my throat out. And here, finally here in this place, in these circumstances, I will really have to kill him. And Snow will win. Hot, bitter hatred courses through me. Snow has won too much already today. It's a long shot, it's suicide maybe, but I do the only thing I can think of. I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. "Don't let him take you from me." Peeta's panting hard as he fights the nightmares raging in his head. "No. I don't want to..." I clench his hands to the point of pain. "Stay with me." His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. "Always," he murmurs.

"I think...you still have no idea. The effect you can have." He slides his cuffs up the support and pushes himself to a sitting position. "None of the people we lost were idiots. They knew what they were doing. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow." I don't know why his voice reaches me when no one else's can. But if he's right, and I think he is, I owe the others a debt that can only be repaid in one way.

Through the water in the glass, I see a distorted image of one of Peeta's hands. The burn marks. We are both fire mutts now. My eyes travel up to where the flames licked across his forehead, singeing away his brows but just missing his eyes. Those same blue eyes that used to meet mine and then flit away at school. Just as they do now.

I yank my head back in confusion to find myself looking into Peeta's eyes, only now they hold my gaze. Blood runs from the teeth marks on the hand he clamped over my nightlock. "Let me go!" I snarl at him, trying to wrest my arm from his grasp. "I can't," he says. As they pull me away from him, I feel the pocket ripped from my sleeve, see the deep violet pill fall to the ground, watch Cinna's last gift get crunched under a guard's boot.

Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that. So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real."

They play in the Meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs. It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not much.

Not Real Pt. 2 (Five Hargreeves x Robot!Reader)

Summary: After disappearing for almost seventeen years, Five returns to the academy. He returns to you.

A/N: The part two nobody asked for, but the part I wanted. The reader acts a little more human here because of Five. Btw, the whole I Think We’re Alone Now dancing sequence never happened in this imagine. Also (Y/F/F) means your favorite flowers.

You sat on one of the plush sofas in the living room as Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus, and Vanya discussed the death of their father. Luther claimed it was murder, which you didn’t quite understand. Pogo told you that Reginald had died of heart failure. Then again, you weren’t there when it happened. You were shut off as you were being recharged, apparently.

“Would anyone like anything to eat?” You spoke up, smiling sweetly. You didn’t mean to intrude on their conversation, but you hadn’t cooked or baked for any of the children in a long time. It was nice to see them all again even if it was during a despairing occasion.

“No, we’re good, (Y/N),” Allison assured you, sending you a pitiful smile. She knew you were only trying to liven up the conversation

Your smile faltered, and it became a little more synthetic. “Oh, okay,” You muttered, fiddling with the hem of your dress. As the children continued their discussion, you looked up at the painting above the fireplace. The painting of Five.

You never understood why Five left. He stormed out of lunch one day after an arguement with his father and never came back. Vanya had tried telling you that Five wasn’t really gone, that he’d be coming back soon. It had been almost seventeen years since his disappearance, and you were still waiting for him to come home.

You stood in the dining room as the children ate the lunch you and Grace had prepared. It was a bit too quiet for your liking, but you wouldn’t dare voice your opinion. No talking was allowed during meal times as it interrupted Herr Carlson. One of the many rules your master and creator, Sir Reginald Hargreeves, had set in place for those living in the Umbrella Academy.

You looked over at the children, each of them doing their own thing. Ben was silently reading a novel as he chewed his food, Klaus was rolling a joint under the table, Diego and Vanya were eating their lunch, and Allison and Luther were stealing subtle glances at each other. Five was staring at his father intently, his mouth opening and closing. You knew exactly what he wanted to say.

Five discussed with you earlier that he wanted to time travel. You opposed the idea, reprimanding him and telling him it was too dangerous. Five only scoffed at your words. He knew you only wanted to protect him, but he was ready. He would propose the idea, with or without your approval, at meal time.

In order to grab his father’s attention—as words wouldn’t be enough—he grabbed a butter knife and jammed it into the table harshly.

“Number Five,” Reginald scolded.

“I have a question,” Five stated, ignoring the look you gave him.

“Knowledge is an admirable goal, but you know the rules. No talking during meal times. You are interrupting Herr Carlson.”

“I want to time travel.”

“No.” Reginald shot down the idea immediately.

“But I’m ready,” Five argued. “I’ve been practicing my spacial jumps just like you said.” You watched as Five teleported and reappeared by his father’s side. “See?”

“A spacial jump is trivial when compared to the unknowns of time travel. One is like sliding along the ice, the other is akin to descending blindly into the depths of freezing water and reappearing as an acorn,” Reginald lectured.

“Well, I don’t get it,” Five admitted, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Hence why you are not ready.”

Five glanced over at you, and you shook your head, mouthing, “Sit down.” Angry at his father’s refusal and lack of explanation, he turned on his heel and ran out of the room.

“Number Five! You haven’t been excused! Come back here!” Reginald yelled out.

You wanted to go after him, but your circuits were screaming at you to stay put.

You snapped out of your trance as you heard a loud, thundering sound outside. Diego’s knives flew out of his hands as they jammed themselves into the wall, and the metal jar of Reginald’s ashes almost fell out of Klaus’s grasp at the strong, unknown force. You all rushed to the backyard to see a blue anomaly forming in the sky.

“Looks like some sort of temperal anomaly,” Luther stated. “Either that or a minature black hole. One of the two.”

“Pretty big difference there, Paul Bunyan!” Diego yelled sarcastically.

“Out of the way!” Klaus shouted as he rushed forward, holding a fire extinguisher.

“What are you—?” Diego started to ask, but he was cut off as Klaus threw the fire extinguisher into the anomaly. It merely repelled, flying back.

“What is that gonna do?” Allison questioned frantically.

“I don’t know!” Klaus retorted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You got a better idea?”

“Everybody get behind me!” Luther yelled out as he shoved Allison behind him.

“Yeah! Everybody get behind us!”

Vanya grabbed onto your hand, holding you closely as the wind began to pick up. You watched as a man—no, a boy—began to emerge from the anomaly. The boy fell to the ground, and the portal disappeared, swirling out of existence.

“Uh, does anyone else see little Number Five or is that just me?” Klaus asked as the Hargreeves stared at their long lost brother in shock.

Letting go of Vanya’s hand, you stepped forward cautiously. “Number Five?” You called out, your voice sounding oddly shaky.

Five looked down at himself before looking back up at his siblings. “Shit,” He cursed, realizing he was young again. After rushing him back inside the house, you were all seated around the kitchen table.

“What’s the date?” Five inquired, grabbing a bag of bread from the cabinet. “The exact date.”

“The 24th,” Vanya answered.

“Of what?”

“March,” She clarified.

Five nodded. “Good.” He reached into the bag, pulling out two slices of white bread and placing them onto the cutting board.

“So are we gonna talk about what just happened?” Luther questioned. Five paid no heed to his words as he continued to make his sandwich. “It’s been seventeen years!”

“It’s been a lot longer than that,” Five retorted, glaring up at him. He teleported, reappearing at the counter and grabbing a bag of marshmallows.

“Where did you go?” Diego spoke up.

“The future. It’s shit, by the way.”

“Called it!” Klaus exclaimed, clearly proud of his little achievement.

“I should’ve listened to the old man,” Five continued as he rummaged through the fridge. “You know, jumping through space is one thing. Jumping through time is a toss of the dice.”

Five looked over at you, a small smile breaking through his serious expression. “Nice dress.”

You smiled, looking down at the dress you were wearing. It was the one Five had gotten you for Christmas before he disappeared, the one with (Y/F/F) on it. “Thank you,” You beamed.

“Wait, how did you get back?” Vanya asked, interrupting your little moment.

“In the end, I had to project my consciousness forward into a suspended quantum state version of myself that exists across every possible instance of time,” Five explained.

“That makes no sense,” Diego muttered.

“Well, it would if you were smarter,” Five quipped.

Diego stood up angrily, but Luther held him back, putting his arm out in front of him.

“How long were you there?” Luther questioned.

Five shrugged. “Fourty-five years, give or take.”

“So what are you saying? That you’re fifty-eight?” Luther asked in disbelief.

“No, my consciousness is fifty-eight,” Five corrected. “Apparently, my body is now thirteen again.”

“How does that even work?”

“Dolores kept saying the equations were off.” Five shrugged, taking a bite of his peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich. “Bet she’s laughing now.” He glanced down at the newspaper on the table, reading the headline. “Guess I missed the funeral.”

“How did you know about that?” Luther asked.

“What part of the future do you not understand?” Five retorted. “Heart failure, huh?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Nice to see nothing’s changed,” Five said sarcastically, walking out of the room.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” Allison questioned in disbelief.

“What else is there to say? Circle of life.”

The Hargreeves all sat in silence, trying to process what just happened. You stood up and walked out of the room, intending to go after Five. You hadn’t seen him in almost seventeen years—well, forty-five years, apparently.

You walked up the large staircase and into his bedroom. Five stood in front of his closet, wearing his old Umbrella Academy uniform.

“Number Five,” You spoke up, and he turned to look at you.

“(Y/N),” He breathed, stepping towards you and engulfing you in hug. He squeezed you tightly, tears suddenly pricking his eyes. He hadn’t realized how much he missed you until now.

You wrapped your arms around him, feeling your dress become wet with tears. “Why are you crying, Number Five?” You asked softly, a little concerned.

“I missed you so much,” He whispered, placing his chin on your head. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of your artificial hair. Even though you weren’t real and incapable of having a scent, he swore that you smelled of the loveliest things.

Five pressed a small kiss to your forehead and pulled away. He smiled down at you, something that he only seemed to do with you. “I love you, (Y/N).”

You smiled, reaching up to wipe away his tears. “I love you, too, Number Five.”

And those words were real.

aesthetics tag!!

tagged by @flowerbeom​ 💞💞 (thank you kat!! hope you’ve been doing alright 🥰)

rules: bold the aesthetics you relate to and add twenty of your own aesthetic qualities for others to bold

tagging: anyone who wants to do this HAHA (im so late oops)

soft

baby pink | iridescent | glitter is always a good option | no bra | minimalistic tattoos | cherry patterns | sweet scented perfumes | wearing generous amounts of blush | doodling hearts | getting excited to pet an animal | fun nails | rewatching old barbie movies | hair sticking to glossed lips | heart shaped sunglasses | taking pictures of the sunset or sunrise | stuffed animals | protecting nature | stickers everywhere | teen movies | the light rain that falls from a clear sky at the beginning of the night

dark academia

neutral tones | masculine outfits | studying languages | worn down copy of books | grey skies | turtleneck sweaters | loose fitting pants | hair tied with a silk ribbon | trying to remember a cool difficult word you read somewhere to use in a convo | thick belts | minimal makeup | windows fogged by rain | vintage jewelry | blouses with cuffed sleeves | reading a murder mystery and trying to solve it | oxford style shoes | sweater vests | subtitled old movies in a language you don’t speak | leaves crackling as you walk | annotating books to express your emotions about the story

edgy

closet full of dark clothes | fishnet tights | makeup sweating off | neon signs | searching for unknown songs | chokers | band tees | doodling on old converses | finding smoking aesthetically pleasing but not doing it | weird humor | accidentally very dramatic | dim lights | layered outfits | chain belts | chipped nail polish | messy hair | low quality pics | piercings | combat boots | scribbling on desks

seventies

colorful wardrobe | doodling flowers | wearing short shorts | using a bikini top or bra as a normal top | listening to ABBA | flowers in your hair | diy-ing everything | jamming to songs alone in your room | drunkenly telling your friends you love them | patterned bandanas | mid heeled shoes | messy braids | flared sleeves | walking barefoot on grass or sand | bold sunglasses | the good kind of tired you get after doing something you enjoy for hours | feeding stray animals | fun patterned socks | room decorated with succulents and other plants | likes to go roller skating or skateboarding

preppy casual

collared clothes | drinking juice out of a champagne glass | getting excited to see the met gala looks | thick headbands | small pastel cardigans | making your friends take your ootd pics | plaid mini skirts | tweed two pieces | watching reality tv to pass time | frilly tops | watching old hollywood movies | academically driven | long manicured nails | new year’s eve fireworks | colorful tights | layered golden jewelry | yearns for luxury brand items | decorating your room with fairy-lights | cursive and neat handwriting | lace details

cinanamon - steph

gold jewelry, slowdancing in the kitchen with a lover, sun on skin, red-tinted lip balm, lazy mornings, getting lost in foreign cities, scent of bakeries, high-waisted jeans, kissing someone’s neck, writing reminders on your wrist, sleeping in braids to have waves in the morning, growing an herb garden, gentle touches, sketches tucked between pages, flushed cheeks, tandem bikes, floating in a pool, vintage gold hand-mirror, deer grazing, softly singing while doing chores

jaesmintea - dia

oversized everything | painted nails | fairy lights | dozing off in the middle of class | tying hair up into a ponytail | round glasses | laughing so hard you can’t breathe | late night study sessions | tender hand holding | impromptu photoshoots | drowning in moondust | bathing in the light of the sunset | strawberry flavored lollipops | polaroid pictures | eagerly tugging someone down the street | handwritten love letters | smell of coffee | living with reckless abandon | crinkled pages of a journal | replaying the same part in a song over and over

naptimetea - helena

everything black | rewearing your favorite outfit | drawing late into the night | rewatching favorite shows | the bread isle | minty lip balm | falling asleep anywhere and everywhere | making green tea | useless questions when it’s 2 am | forehead kisses | sleeping in till the afternoon | love of pink | staying up to watch the sunrise | dancing in the bathroom | messy handwriting | pile of sketchbooks | talking for hours about interest | old sentimental stuff animals | hanging out on the bed and doing nothing | thick fluffy blankets

jeonginks

the thrill of leaning your body way over a balcony’s edge | the suffocating feeling when the strong wind blows down your lungs | tip-toeing barefoot | hair ruffling and cheek pinching | hugging a body pillow at night | facing the sky with closed eyes | the whimsical silence when it’s past midnight and you’re the only person awake | when you can physically feel your eyes soften when you look at someone | dancing alone with only an oversized shirt | when your sweater falls over your thighs as you stand up | humming scary but memorable lullabies | vivid imagination | w-sitting with a mini skirt and thigh high socks | heated laptop on your lap | cereal at 3 am | gliding your fingers across your thighs | bittersweet melancholy | withdrawn and distant eyes | very tight belts | wanting love but not believing in it | not cruel but not kind

scxrlettwxtches

listening to a song and remembering the times you used to listen to it on repeat | imagining yourself living in any other life than the one you have now | crop tops and high waisted jeans | forgetting to smile but not actually being upset | nuzzling your face in the crook of their neck | back hugs when you’re stressed | turning in assignments 1 minute before they’re due | wanting a relationship but getting scared the moment you’re in one | pretending that you don’t care when inside you’re burning with doubts and fears | the sound of the evening waves as you lie on the sand | lying in your bed listening to your sad playlist | exhaustion but you can’t sleep | singing loudly when you’re the only one home | feeling safe and comfortable with that person in your life | knee high suede black boots with your black winter coat | comfort over appearance | writing essays at 2 am | creative peak from 1 am to 4 am | the one that always ends up walking in the back of a friend group

hyunsracha - sav!

split-dye hair | female rappers | staying up until 6am and sleeping until 1pm | taking notes on an ipad | middle school emo music | mini skirts | late night drives | rain on the ocean | flirting with people when you’re bored | doc martens | eating ramen in the pot | afraid of being looked at | fishnets | getting joy out of making people laugh | small tattoos | crying yourself to sleep | peppermint everything | desperate for freedom | chipped black nail polish

lveletters

well-worn converse | ginger ice cream | farmers’ markets | amaretto in coffee | the sound of pen on paper | empty mountain trails | black and white photographs | vintage bicycles | roads trips with no destination | overfilled bookcases | a shoebox full of ticket stubs | granny smith apples | orange gerbera daisies | cardigan sweaters | games that tell a story | red wine in a mason jar | succulent gardens | tattoos of birds | fresh-baked muffins | a favorite pair of jeans

dnceracha - sydni

black chelsea boots | chapped lips | browline glasses | losing yourself in video games | impressionist art | pink peonies | writing down anything you need to remember | the smell of gasoline | business goth style | dangly earrings | florals | ballet flats | cuffed jeans | liking the villain | a stack of journals | generous amounts of highlighter | knives | rain on a tin roof | heavy footsteps | small-town diners

bamshine - sae

chunky black boots | not realizing you’ve been writing for hours | soft dog fur under your hand | the loud gathering of friends after an exhausting dance class | bubble tea | casual touches between friends | beach trips | airports late at night or early in the morning | coming home from travel and finally being in your own bed | leaves crunching under your foot | shopping for groceries with christmas music on the radio | loud family gatherings over a pizza | succulents | goofy singing and dancing with friends | getting so into a book you do nothing else all day except read | cool summer evenings around a bonfire | apple cider | the scent of vanilla | selfies with friends | the sting of a new tattoo

jjinyounf - cres

ocean breezes | moonlight/sunlight through clouds | sweatpants and baggy tees | empty journals | stud earrings | messy bedroom | thought-provoking movies | apple cinnamon | hot, but not sticky weather | chill big dogs | mixing flavoured vodka with ice cream | playing songs at full blast in the shower | quiet corners | the sound of bacon while it cooks | loud thoughts but quiet words | staying in bed until the absolute last second | mid-calf boots in the winter, flip flops in the summer, sneakers every other time | mental breakdowns doing anything academic-related | madras shawls | the colour combo of red, black, gold, and white

flowerbeom - kat

polaroids | saying hello to the moon | buying more books that you can read | lo-fi playlists to fill the emptiness | baking bread of saturdays | playing the same song over and over until you learn the lyrics/vocal runs perfectly | milk tea | booping your cat’s nose with your nose | keeping a stash of that one perfect pen | being the quiet listener in conversation but always has a great story to tell | sneakers over everything | watching the sunrise through cracked open blinds | leather and patchouli candles | freshly cooked rice | finding the perfect word to describe something | the crunch and squeak of walking on freshly fallen snow | writing “hello” on foggy windows | strolling through ancient forests and feeling small | kissed on bare shoulders | falling asleep to the sound of rain

sxfterhearts - rach

espresso dripping onto a cup of milk | taking pictures of food before eating | drunk karaoke | bangs | travel journals | writing out your favourite lyrics | sentimental playlists on sad days | sending multiple long texts in quick succession | white clouds and blue skies | watching the moon from your bedroom window | cafe vlogs | glittery pink eyeshadows | mailing postcards to yourself | pastel flower bouquets | baking as therapy | the feeling of strikingly cold air on your cheeks | ink stains on your fingers | intimate late night conversations in the car after a night out | writing and daydreaming to escape reality

14 with Jason Todd please. (Maybe this is too picky but with an assassin reader? 👀) I absolutely adore ur writing btw, ur an inspiration to me

askhsdkh you’re so sweet!!! i adore YOU!!! it’s about 1.5k of Jason fluff. hope it’s okay 💕 (for the sake of this fic, the reader is allergic to blueberries)

14. “You’re not as evil as people think you are.” “No. I’m much worse.”

You’ve barely made it two steps into your apartment when the door slams shut behind you and you’re crowded against it, a pair of calloused hands resting on your hips and a pair of soft lips brushing your forehead. 

“I’ve missed you.” Jason tells you, as if missing you is as simple as the instinctive, dopey smile that blossoms across his mouth when he pulls back to meet your wide eyes.  

“I-I’ve missed you, too.” You admit, guilt twisting your stomach – not because you’re lying, but because you’ve missed him unreasonably much. “W-what are you doing here?”

“I was in the area and thought I would stop by.” 

Dubious, you arch an eyebrow at him, setting your bag on the ground and leaning down to pry off your boots. 

Jason’s on his knees in an instant. “Allow me.” He winks up at you, grinning, and you flush as he deftly slides off your shoes, fingers gentle against your ankles. 

“I – um, thank you.” You sputter.

He rises again, white t-shirt snug against his sculpted frame, and your stomach flips like you’re upside down. 

To be fair, he does a good job of tilting your world of its axis. 

“Anytime, angel.” 

The term of endearment sends your heart soaring and you push past him towards the bedroom so he can’t see how utterly flustered you look. As expected, he trails after you like an affectionate puppy, humming some pop song about falling in love. 

You’d consider yourself anything but an angel. In your line of work, you thought yourself more of a demon. You stole life from breathing bodies to make a living and left the souls for the Grim Reaper. 

He flops on your bed while you shuck off your coat and wash up in the bathroom, splashing cool water on your face in an attempt to cool your heated skin. 

“What’ve you been up to?” You ask, patting a towel against your face and peeking around the door at him. 

Jason appears unabashedly relaxed seated on the edge of your bed, legs splayed loosely, propped up and leaning back on his elbows. It’s a startlingly natural sight, one you’ve grown a little too fond of in the past few months.

“Some recon for Bruce. Thinking about you. Nothing too crazy.” 

You want to tell him it is actually quite crazy that he thinks about you and that he has kept you and your occupation a secret from Bruce, but you bite your tongue and meander into the bedroom, wringing your hands and gazing at the ground like some bashful teenager about to confess her love.

Jason sits up a little and beckons you closer – you’re incapable of disobeying the sultry, soft curl of his mouth and the bright affection reflected in those soulful sapphire eyes. You end up standing between his long legs with his hands splayed across your hips. He pulls you closer into his space and rests his cheek against your stomach, heaving a deep sigh. You card your fingers through his hair, tousled locks of ebony and a streak of white. Jason nuzzles closer and practically goes limp beneath your ministrations. A soft noise resonates in his chest when you lightly drag your nails across his scalp, and he squeezes your waist. A lump forms in your throat because you are hopelessly enchanted by Jason Todd. You adore him like this – unguarded, warm, cloyingly affectionate. This is Jason beneath the mask and the sarcasm and the rough edges. You don’t understand why he’s chosen to share this secret, honey-sweet garden of vulnerability with you. It scares you a bit, but you certainly don’t mind it. 

“Dinner?” You tug gently on his hair, so he looks up at you. 

A Cheshire-cat smile flashes across his features and you burn. “Jason! I mean real food!” 

Jason mouths at your hip and presses his fingers into your opposite thigh. Your knees wobble a little. “I don’t know, Y/N,” He purrs, voice low and smoky. “You seem pretty real to me.” 

“I-I baked bread! And y-you – okay that’s not real dinner b-but you should try some?” You squeak, fingers fisted tightly in his hair, and he halts his trail of kisses across your abdomen. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, curious. 

“Whether or not I eat the bread, there are other things I would like to try at some point. If you’ll let me.” 

You make a wheezy noise that may or may not serve as affirmation, but he doesn’t seem to mind the ambiguity. Jason leans away from you and stands up in all his sensual, sturdy glory. 

“Lead the way, sweet thing.” 

He hops up onto the kitchen counter as you fish around for your favorite strawberry jam in the fridge, stomach still in knots with the ghost of his mouth against your heated skin. 

“I have this…and this. And I saw this blueberry one and thought of you, so I hope it tastes good.” You plop three jars onto the island next to the loaf of bread and startle when you look over your shoulder to see him gazing at you with a lopsided grin adorning his face. 

“What?” 

“You bought me my own blueberry jam? Even though you’re allergic to blueberries?” 

You fumble around with the lid, eyes averted. “Um. Yes. You really like them and you’re here…relatively often…so I thought it might be nice for you to have options.”

Jason sighs dreamily, sliding off the counter and wrapping his arms around your waist. He kisses your shoulder and rests his head upon the top of your head. 

“You’re not as evil as people think you are.” 

You snort and tell him darkly, “No, I’m much worse.”

And you mean it. There is too much blood on your hand and too many jagged scars across your heart, echoes of a venomous past you could never escape – so instead, you embraced it. You followed in the nefarious footsteps of your predecessors. You’ve become the best of the best working for the worst of the worst. 

Sometimes – a lot of the time – you think you must be bad news for Jason. He’s only just recovering, blossoming cautiously into an entirely different (but no less beautiful) flower. In a period of such profound vulnerability, he needs light. You were born into a world of darkness.

Maybe he’s so fond of you because he sees himself reflected in your eyes, or maybe it’s because you’re all his; you only know him from this lifetime, so he has been able to grow with you organically, on a mostly clean slate. 

It doesn’t really matter though. You’re too selfish to cast him out of your life and into warmer, less turbulent waters. He’s become too entangled in your soul. The bitter guilt nagging at the pit of your stomach, frantically worried about dragging him to a place darker than from where he emerged, is clouded and unraveled by his cherry blossom kisses and sugary words. 

Jason turns you around to face him, resting his hands on either side of you and effectively caging you against the counter. He’s frowning a little, pretty mouth pulled into a slight pout. 

“You’re not, Y/N.” 

You offer him a melancholy half-smile. “But I am, Jason. And I’m petrified because one day you’re going to see it and I’m going to lose you.”

His frown deepens, blue eyes muddled with concern. “Y/N…” He says your name, soft and low, and you crinkle your nose in despair because the sound is so bittersweet. 

Jason raises his hands and cups your face gently, as if you’re the most delicate flower in the world and the only thing holding you together is the pressure of his palms and the sticky-sweet passion in his eyes. 

“At the end of the day, I don’t think I’m good for you, Jason. You deserve better.” You admit quietly, mouth turned downward gloomily. 

His jaw is set for a moment before he leans in a heartbeat closer. You don’t realize tears are leaking from the corners of your eyes until he swipes the pads of his thumbs across the apples of your cheeks.

“You make me happy, Y/N. It’s been a lifetime and a half since anyone has brought this much joy and peace to my soul. The thought of being without you is more devastating and terrifying than anything I’ve ever known.” He brushes his lips against your forehead tenderly and you feel your heart throb. 

“I’m not going anywhere, not unless you want me to. Okay?” 

You sniffle and nod, face still settled gently between his hands. 

“Plus, you bought me my own personal jam to keep in your home. That practically makes us married.” 

This wrenches a laugh from your throat. You sniffle again when he drops his hands.

His voice drops, too. “And you taste better than even the sweetest blueberries.”

Three Rascals (Asra x MC x Muriel)

Summary: In which you, the MC, are childhood friends with Muriel and Asra. A story from the past.

A/N: I had a burst of inspiration for some scenarios between MC, Asra and Muriel. This is the first one so far and I hope y'all like it! I haven't written in a looong time, so you'll have to forgive my crappy writing.

Edit: My dumbass wrote Asra with male pronouns when they're nonbinary, so I fixed that! Thanks to tumblr user voidelsspussyblr for mentioning it in the replies! 💕

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Two children walked the streets of Vesuvia, hand in hand. One had a small, frail frame; their skin was the color of sand, dipped with rays of a gold sunset, and their hair was pure white, with beautiful curls to frame their face. The boy next to them was taller, and bulky; he had a more olive hue to his skin, though. The bags under his eyes were prominent, and his dark hair was long, with noticeable split ends. They both came trotting towards your father's bakery, and you couldn't help but smile, feeling your younger self filled to the brim with excitement. Asra and Muriel. But, that excitement slowly died down as you remembered how long the line for bread and pastries was.

The bakery was almost never full at this hour, but the seasons were shifting-bringing in cold air-which meant customers coming at random times of the day; all to get some freshly baked pumpkin bread. Asra and Muriel stopped outside of the bakery, perfectly within your eyesight. Asra waved at you with a warm smile, while Muriel raised his hand and then lowered it. You waved back, and gestured for them to wait. You turned to your father, Selasi, while he spoke with a customer. You stood there for a minute, impatiently waiting for the conversation to end.

"I hope Ashanti is able to carry the baby full term."

"Thank you, Selasi, it means a lot to us."

"Dad," You interjected. Your father gave his last thank you's to the customer, and turned towards you.

"Sweetie, you know you shouldn't interrupt my conversations!" He scolded you, but then the corner of his lips gave way, and he laughed. He leaned into you, whispering. "Thank you, though, otherwise he would have dragged the conversation further." You giggled, knowing exactly what he meant. You quickly change subjects, desperate to go out with Asra and Muriel.

"So, dad, is it okay for me to leave now? I've been helping most of the day, and I'm pretty sure it should be Kehlani's shift by now." You said, eager for him to dismiss you. Kehlani was your older sister, though, not the most responsible one at that. Your father smiled.

"Are your friends here?" He asked, one eyebrow raised. You nodded, noticeably excited. He shook your hair. "You can go out now, but on one condition: do not get into trouble. It was hard enough explaining to Mrs. Holloway why her garden didn't have any of her favorite flowers without getting the three of you involved." You rolled your eyes at him.

"Dad, you know that Asra needed ingredients for a spell! Muriel was sick with a fever that wasn't coming down! I had to help!" Your father laughed a hearty laugh. His chest filled with pride in the knowledge that he's raised a kind child. He extended his hand expectantly, and you untied your apron, handing it over quickly. You went to the back of the bakery, snatched two loafs of pumpkin bread, and ran out to the streets to meet your friends.

"Hey," Asra called out, as you felt yourself be swallowed by too many faces, customers, and vendors. You turned to your right, and gave them the most sincere smile you could muster, but walked sheepishly towards them. You presented the bread and Asra gasped. It was still warm as they felt it; they leaned into you and gave you a peck on your cheek. "Thank you." Blush creeped into your face, and your smile became small. Muriel looked at you and offered a smirk as an expression of gratitude.

"What do you guys want to do today? We could go to the underground theatre, and watch the new play." You suggested, but it already seems Asra had something else in mind.

"We want to show you our home, and also, Muriel has something he wants you to see." Asra says, already pulling Muriel behind them. Muriel extends his hand for you to hold, and you do. His hands are dry, calloused, even for a young boy. You thought about the fact that they both pick up odd jobs for sustenance; Muriel does hard labor, meanwhile Asra has taken up a spot where he performs with his snake familiar, Faust. Muriel's work must be hardening his palms. You wish they didn't need to do these things.

You walked around the outskirts of Vesuvia, among trees, and chattering birds. The trees surrounding you were tall, and the forest was not devoid of color, because you saw many, beautiful, wild flowers during your journey to the boys house. You felt your grip on Muriel's hand tighten when you heard a wolf howl. Muriel let out a low laugh, and Asra snickered.

"It's alright, the wolves are harmless." Muriel speaks, looking back at you with a closed lipped smile. You nod, wishing you could relax, but not being able to. You stop in front of a big tree, with a door at its center. You stare at it for a bit, while Asra and Muriel pick up random branches to start a fire with. A chicken comes gawking, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, letting out a scream. The chicken screeched back, and, immediately, you begin to laugh, and the boys do too.

"I didn't think you were so jumpy!" Asra says through their laugh. You keep laughing, and the chicken just bobs its head. Muriel comes over, scooping up the chicken in his arms, and presenting it to you.

"You have to relax and pet it gently." Muriel instructs. You wipe your tears from laughing, and take a deep breath. You extend your hand to pet it, but it gawks at you again, and you pull your hand back just as quickly.

"I don't think he likes me, Muriel." You say, giving him an embarrassed smile. Muriel nods.

"Maybe you're right." He says, giving the chicken a worried look. "It could be because he's never seen you before." You shrug, opening your moth to say something, but are quickly cut off.

"Hey, you two, come inside." Asra says, already kicking the door open, because their arms are filled with branches and twigs. Muriel places the chicken down, going inside the house as you follow pursuit. You notice it's a small hut, just enough space for one or two adults, but three children can comfortably fit here.

"I like your house, it's very cozy." You say, noticing one bed in the far right corner, a fireplace in the center, and small table to the left. Asra throws the branches in the fire place, and they're about whisper a spell, when Muriel interrupts them by lighting a match and throwing it in. Asra gives him an annoyed glance.

"You still don't know how to handle fire magic well, Asra. Remember last time?" Muriel asked. You snort, remembering how they almost burned your hands by trying to warm up bread. Asra pouted, but didn't respond. Asra sits on the bed, Muriel sits next to his legs and you sit next to Asra. You spend the rest of the day braiding Muriel's hair, and learning how to make flower crowns with Asra.

It's night time now, and Muriel wakes up from his nap. He notices both you and Asra sleeping soundly on the bed. Asra has their face buried against your neck, and you have your leg under theirs. Muriel smiles, remembering how you both beckoned him to come nap on the bed. He refused, worried he would somehow crush you both, even though, he wasn't that big; just taller, and with a bit more muscle than both of you. He stood up, and lightly shook Asra awake. You were a heavy sleeper, so Asra found themself giggling when they noticed your lips slightly parted, and drool sliding from it. He quietly asked Muriel to bring over a cloth, and gently wiped away the saliva they could get. Asra leaned into your forehead and gave you a kiss.

"Hey, wake up." They whispered into your ear. You woke up abruptly, shaken, and even slightly irritated. Your mind began to settle, and you looked around the hut. Oh no, you thought.

"What time is it?" You asked, scared. You hoped it wasn't too late into the night, knowing your father would definitely ground you if you got home late.

"It's night time, and I know you have to go home, but before that, Muriel and I want to show you something." Asra said, while standing up from the bed. You rubbed your eyes, and stretched. You remember that Asra had mentioned this earlier.

Asra grabbed Muriel's hand, and he offered his to you again. The three of you set off in the darkness of the forest. Asra managed to conjure a small ball of light with their free hand, sending shivers down your spine. You'd seen Asra perform different types of magic tricks plenty of times, but this time it felt different. This was pure energy flowing through them, and they were in full control of it. You gazed in awe. The three of you stop on a spot in the forest, like a small clearing, with yellow, blue, and glowing flowers. Muriel and Asra sit down, and place you between them both.

"What are we doing?" You asked. Asra shushed you, asking you to lower your voice.

"The Heart of the Forest comes here sometimes, and Asra thinks tonight will be one of the nights we get to see it close. We've only seen her from far away, but maybe tonight will be different." Muriel whispered, green eyes looking in your direction. Muriel wasn't one to be overly expressive, but right now, under the moonlight, and with the help of the glowing flowers, you could see excitement in his eyes for the first time. You felt yourself smile. You wish you could somehow keep him this way forever; if you were an artist, you would have found a way to commit his green eyes into paper or canvas.

"I thought The Heart was a myth?" You asked too soon, as you heard twigs snap under heavy hooves. The beautiful creature came from between the trees, glowing like an ethereal being only can; the deer-bird hybrid had feathers of iridescent colors all through her body, she was tall, and with antlers twice the normal size of any deer; her antlers were pure white, with shiny spiderwebs intertwining them, and crystal beads of water on the webs. You stared at her in complete astonishment, but something was wrong. Her breathing seemed ragged, and her eyes darted from every corner of the clearing. Your brows furrowed in worry. Your instincts tugged at you, wanting to go near her.

You stood up slowly, moving your gaze to the ground. A sacred creature deserves respect. You thought. All the myths of The Heart spoke of people's care for her.

Muriel lifted his hand to stop you, but it only got mid-way, not wanting to scare The Heart away. Asra and Muriel exchanged puzzled looks behind you. The Heart stood still when she noticed your movement. You kept your head down, and walked cautiously. Once you were five feet apart from her, you stopped; she kept her place.

Maybe I should bow. You thought. You bent your posture, bowing to the creature before you. The Heart snorted, and closed the gap between you both by placing her snout against your forehead. You prudently lifted your gaze, and looked at her eyes. Your hand slowly made it's way to pet her head, and immediately, a surge of energy overcame you. Magic flowed through your arms, and in the air; Asra stood up promptly after noticing this, because their hands were glowing, while your entire being glowed too; The Hearts eyes lit up, and so did her feathers. You felt your pulse pick up, and a far off voice came reverberating through your mind. It sounded like a woman's.

"Help. Hide." She said. "Hunters." You gasped.

"Muriel, Asra, she says she needs help hiding! People are hunting her!" The Heart looks directly at both boys, and you can feel her fear. Muriel and Asra nod fervently, and Muriel immediately springs to hist feet. The sound of galloping comes near, and The Heart begins to tense.

"Follow me, my lady, I'll take you somewhere safe." Muriel whispers as he begins to run into the woods. You look at the deer, and give her a reassuring expression. She runs off behind Muriel, as you and Asra stay behind.

"We need to cast a spell to cover The Heart's tracks!" Asra spoke to you. You looked back at them, desperation in your face. "Just repeat after me." They said, walking towards you, and holding your hands in theirs.

"Winds of South, come strong to us, erase this path, and make it visible no more!" Asra whispered; you spoke behind him, your voice trembling. One of his hands let go of yours, and he directed it towards the path Muriel and The Heart took. You mimic his gesture, and the wind picks up, howling in its sudden awakening. Dirt, leaves and everything in between begins to move, effectively covering the tracks. Once you're both satisfied, you stop, and the wind dissipates with you.

Soon enough, a man with a golden arm, blonde hair, and luxurious clothing comes into view. This must be Count Lucio, you realized. Everyone spoke about his lost arm, replaced by a mechanical one made of gold.

"You two!" The man shouts, and points a finger at you both. Your grip on Asra's hand tightens. "Have you seen the deer? I need it." Two guards come galloping behind him.

"No, sir, I don't think I've seen any deer in this forest." Asra replies quickly, and sounding very convincing at it. The man scowls, but doesn't look away from either of you.

"What are two children doing in a forest, during the night anyways?" Asked one of the guards. Asra offered a smile.

"We go lost on our way home." Asra replied, with complete ease.

"Count, what should we do?" He asked. The Count thought for a long moment, and began moving away.

"Let's go back to the palace."

"But, Count, the children."

"They'll find their way out eventually." He said with finality as he kicked his horse, and sped off. The guards followed close behind him. You and Asra sighed in relief, relaxation washing over you.

"We should go back to the hut." Asra spoke. You agreed, and walked hand in hand with them.

Near the hut, you spot Muriel; he's sitting next to the door, holding and iridescent feather. He sees you both and smiles a genuine smile. You run to him, and wrap your arms around him tightly; Asra follows behind you, and throws themself ontop of you both. The three of you are laughing, and all the worries of your father grounding you go out of you mind. All you can think about is this moment.

"We did it, Muriel, we saved The Heart of the Forest!" You say loudly and cheerfully. You lean in and kiss his cheek, and Muriel's face goes red. Asra kisses his other cheek, and the three of you hug again. It's an amazing night, and neither of you want it to end.

For the soft asks! Soft, sweet, smooch, and flower?

Hi, sweet anon~

I actually answered 2 on my main blog, so I’ll shamelessly copy-pasta the answers from there, because it’s essentially the same!

Soft: Who makes you feel safest? ♡ 

Someone who cannot be with me anymore. Memory of her still keeps part of me safe and is something I hold onto when I think my fingers are about to let go, from exhaustion, cold... Everything.

Smooch: Kiss on the cheek, forehead, or nose? ♡ 

I’ve genuinely never received nor given nose kisses and forehead ones right now associate with something very painful for me, and they generally have been sparse as well. Their emotional slot has been taken up by cheek kisses/hugs so far, most of the time. I think those, overall, are most comfortable for me to both give and receive and I love them.

Flower: What’s your favorite smell? ♡

I… don’t think I have one, actually. I like a lot of smells - various flowers, the outside after rain, crisp fall air, fresh baked bread and the scent of books, but… I know how I get about the favorites, the way I seek to implement them in my daily life on some level, such as with my favorite colors, even if I’m not screeching about them non-stop. And I don’t think I have a favorite smell that way. Something to discover in future, perhaps?

Sweet: Is there a song that makes you feel light? ♡

This is such a good question, because at first, I started wonder what do you define light as? The sort of light where everything is right in the world and you feel like a sort of weight is slipping off and away and you can walk a little easier? The sort of light where everything is coated in echo of ache and yet, there is light, too, like a lighthouse’s lamp seen through rainy window pane? The sort that makes me feel the sort of light that wants to burst out through seams of who I am and carry on as a sort of urge to fight, to try? And so many more.

But. In short way, I think under first category I’d say is Emilie Autumn’s Rapunzel - for me, it really makes me feel lighter, better and more hopeful if I am in a good place. And another, while I’ve never watched the show, that somehow helps me soothe myself, if I manage to focus on it, is Here comes a thought. Then, from the cocooning numbness sort would be Mogwai’s Take Me Somewhere Nice. And, finally, of the light, but defiant sort of recent findings would be Never Enough from The Greatest Showman (another thing I’ve not seen, but!)

Send me a soft ask?

[LOSVU] Barson Drabbles

A/N: I took the liberty of combining some prompts and therefore I justified them being longer than the traditional 300 words. Pretty sure none of you will hate for me it!

Title: Waiting Author: untapdtreasure Word Count: 346 Words Rating: T Summary: She loved rainy afternoons, but she missed the familiar sounds of Noah playing with his toys and Rafael chattering softly to her. A/N: This was written for the 'rain' and 'tickle' prompts at @thebarsondaily .

As the rain trickled down the plate glass window of her apartment's living room, she lay curled up on the couch reading one of her favorite books. She loved rainy afternoons, but she missed the familiar sounds of Noah playing with his toys and Rafael chattering softly to her.

She was glad that Rafael and Noah were enjoying a Father and Son day at the zoo, but that didn't mean that she didn't miss them any less. She marked her place in the book with a warm playing card and set the book aside.

They'd be home soon, and they would no doubt be hungry so she decided to get dinner started so that they wouldn't have to wait even longer for it once they returned home. She settled on something simple and a family favorite; spaghetti with a salad and garlic cheese bread on the side.

- -

Noah raced into the apartment, leaving Rafael to close the door behind them. The smell of oregano and garlic hit his nose like that of a finger-like cartoon hand that he had once seen as it beckoned Mickey Mouse toward a freshly baked pie that Minnie had baked for him.

"Spaghetti!" Both Noah and Rafael had exclaimed at once.

Her face lit up from where she stood, stirring the homemade sauce. She turned and gave them a warm smile. "I hope you're both hungry. I may have made too much."

Rafael moved to her, placing his hands on both of her hips as he leaned in, nuzzling her neck with his nose then his lips. "I'm starving." His breath tickled her skin, causing her to shiver at his double meaning.

She turned her head and whispered in a breathy moan, "That will have to wait." At least until their son was tucked safely and soundly into bed in a couple of hours.

"Not too long, I hope." He nipped at her neck, pressing his hips against her backside.

"Long enough," she whimpered, biting her bottom lip to contain the moan that desperately wanted to escape her throat.

Title: Simplicity Author: untapdtreasure Word Count: 487 Words Rating: K+ Summary: Her eyes met his as a smile teased at her lips. A/N: This was written for the 'discovery', 'flowers' and 'accident' prompts at thebarsondaily.

The discovery of Olivia's favorite flowers had been a complete accident. They had a working lunch in his office, discussing the ongoing case in which a stalker lured his victims to accompany him on dates by having roses sent to their place of employment. That had someone turned into a more personal and private conversation between her and Amanda in which she stated that roses were overrated and that if someone really wanted it impress her that they would try daisies instead.

He had been pretending to listen to something Carisi was going in about, but the women were far more interesting as he put that in his bank of knowledge concerning just what Olivia did and didn't like.

- -

The bouquet of daisies was delivered to her office late one evening as she was trying to finish up her paperwork and head home for the evening. He just happened to be arriving at the same time and waited until the delivery girl had departed before he knocked casually on her door.

"Someone's trying to get your attention..." he teased.

She held the card in her hand, glancing at him over her shoulder. "I can't think who would be sending me these. I haven't told anyone that I liked daisies except..." She had opened the card as she kept talking, eyes widening as she read the message on it.

He moved closer to her, taking the card from her fingers. "I hope you aren't upset with me. I didn't mean to be eavesdropping..." A little white lie wouldn't hurt anything. "So I took advantage..."

Before he could explain himself further, she leaned closer and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'd love to go out to dinner with you."

"Really?" He hadn't expected her to agree so quickly. Or at all if he was being honest with himself. She took his hand in hers. "I mean, you went to so much trouble to pay attention, so why wouldn't I say yes? Besides, I've been trying to work up the courage to ask you the same thing for awhile now." Her eyes met his as a smile teased at her lips. "When did you want to have this date?" She couldn't ask Lucy to stay tonight as it was too late of notice for the night.

"Whenever you can arrange something for Noah. There's no rush." Truth was, he was now even more nervous than he had been while he waited for the flowers to be delivered in the first place.

"Thursday night good for you?" She was certain there would be no conflict with Lucy, but even of there was, Amanda owed her one for all the times in the last six months that she had kept Jesse (sometimes even overnight).

"Perfect." He leaned in then, pressing his mouth against her ear as he whispered, "Waiting will be such torture." And worth every second of it.

Title: Failure to Resist Author: untapdtreasure Word Count: 351 Words Rating: M Summary: Her eyes drawn to his backside as he reached for a pair of jeans. A/N: This was written for the 'zipper' prompt at thebarsondaily.

It was Saturday morning and neither had to be anywhere at any specific time. Like always, he had woken before she had and as he shifted to get out of bed, she woke with a moan. "Where are you going?" Her body shifted until she was half laying on his pillow. Her eyes drawn to his backside as he reached for a pair of jeans.

He glanced over at his shoulder as he pulled his jeans up and over his hips. Her heart was a tousled mess, but she looked breathtaking as she always did to him. He bent to kiss her forehead. "Coffee, of course."

She felt an all to familiar ache between her legs, desperate to pull him back into bed. "Noah's still asleep. We should take advantage of that fact..."

He wagged his finger at her. "That worked last weekend, Lieutenant. Don't get used to it." As her lips formed a pout, he chuckled softly. "And neither will that, Olivia." He bent again, kissing her mouth as his hand slipped between her and the sheer covering her.

His hand covered her mound, giving a gentle squeeze. "How badly do you wish me to crawl back into this bed and have my way with you?"

She arched up into his hand. "You can stand right there for all I care." She shifted, revealing her naked self to him as she moved him in between her legs and immediately reached to lower his zipper.

It was only a matter of seconds before he was inside her, pushing and pulling until he made her come apart with a muffled moan around her fist. Just as he followed suit, there was a gentle knock at their bedroom door. "Mommy, I'm hungry," Noah's sleepy voice carried through the door.

"Coming, baby boy," she managed to rasp out as she untangled her legs from around him and pulled on a discarded pair of flannel pajama bottoms and her robe. "So much for resisting me. That's what? Five in a row now?" She slapped his ass playfully and went to get Noah's juice and breakfast.