Photo Negatives

Photo negatives

Summary: Ransom and his soulmate are photo negatives. But it works.

Word Count: 654

Warnings: fluff, use of (y/n)

Here is how Ransom met his soulmate: https://www.tumblr.com/drmaddict/719495908948049920/soulmate?source=share

Ransom was pretty sure that he and his soulmate were photo negatives.

She was shy. He was quick-tempered. She preferred to never leave the house. He wanted to go out partying. She was an early riser. He slept late into the afternoon. She loved animals. He never wanted pets.

Wanted. And yet the old one-eyed cat looked at him from the sofa, annoyed. Not even a pedigree cat had it become. She had gone to the shelter and asked which animal had the least chance of being adopted. Home she came with a 16-year-old mummy, who was missing an eye, had several bald spots, was half blind in his existing eye, and had chronic sinusitis. The cat jumped up and left the living room. Ransom looked after him disapprovingly. He called it a creature. She called him Edgar.

Once, for her sake, he had given the bastard his pills. Afterwards, he had recorded that he would rather shave his head than be mauled by the critter again. (Y/n) had amusedly disinfected the "scratch" on his hand. "That's not funny." "Of course not... A little lower and we would have had to go to the emergency room." He'd ignored her smirk and had the band-aid applied. It had been a serious injury.

She could cook. He could burn water. He wanted to take her shopping to spoil her and she wanted to drag him to a secondhand store first of all.

They weren't a good match. Except in bed. Ransom smirked at the thought. For someone so quiet and shy, she had insanely creative ideas.

But that aside, he just didn't understand why fate had stuck the two of them together of all people.

He was... happy. With her he was really happy. With her simple nature. No ambush. No drama. Well. Almost no drama.

For the past few weeks, she had gotten it into her head that she wanted to meet his family. Today they would all meet and she wasn't going away from the idea, that it would be best to rip off the metaphorical band-qid quickly and all at once. He had sworn to himself to be tough. Now here he was, waiting for her to get ready for his damn family's celebration. It wasn't going to go well. It couldn't go well. She would leave him. If his mother got a hold of her at the latest, she would leave him. No one would be willing to put themself through that for the rest of his life. Especially not because of someone like him. When had he started to see this as the rest of his life? He broke out in a sweat.

 (Y/n) came down the stairs. She was wearing a simple black dress. They had picked it out together. He had bought it for her. "Too much?" she asked uncertainly, pointing down at herself. "Perfect," was all he returned. He had never seen her look so chic.

"Can we?" she asked. "Are you really sure?" he asked for the hundredth time. She smiled at him calmly. "I've been waiting tables in luxury restaurants since I was seventeen." She poked him on the nose. "Your family must be going all out to make me back down." She stroked the back of his neck. "You're not nice all the time because nothing bad ever happened to you."

He gave her an appraising look. She giggled. "Come on. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave." She kissed him on the nose. "I have a reward for you, too." He looked ather testingly. "What kind of reward?" "I went to your favorite store." She grinned. He grinned back. "I get something to play with?" "And a pretty package."

He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the door. "You’ll have a stomachache after dinner because you couldn't stomach something," he determined.

She willingly let him pull her along, grinning.

The Wallflower Dance

Summary: Reader flees from her parents ball. Sirius saves the day and her feelings.

Word count: 1.214

Warnings: little hurt, LOTS of comfort, mentions of buising (no violence is happening or happened)

The wallflower dance was probably the most humiliating tradition of my family. Only a man could have thought it up.

Every year it took place. Once at the summer solstice and once at the winter solstice. The girls and ladies were dragged onto the dance floors and nicely draped side by side. The trick? There was exactly one male counterpart too few. One girl would be left without a dance partner and she would be the wallflower for the rest of the evening. The wallflower would spend the rest of the evening on the edge of the dance floor watching. That was the tradition.

I had been the wallflower for 3 years, since my introduction to this nutty society. Every time. Six times I had stood on the sidelines. Each time hurt in a different way.

The first time, I was crushed. I had tried so hard with my dress and my hair. The second time, I wanted to cry. Again? Why? The third time, I was sure I was just too ugly for this tradition. The fourth time, I stood on the sidelines, snivelling, watching the girls dance as they floated across the floor like princesses. The fifth time, I wanted to refuse to attend the ball at all. The sixth time, I was annoyed and angry.

Today I stood on the dance floor again. I had no hope. I wondered what would happen if I just left now. My mother would behead me. That's what would happen.

The boys and men came onto the dance floors and grabbed a partner one by one. One jostled me briefly before motioning to the girl next to me.

I rolled my eyes. I waited for everyone to see that I was left again and silently left the floor.

I watched the girls dance and rammed my gloved nails into my upper arm.

If I at least knew that someone had been interested in me for once. But no. No one had ever asked me out, or treated me as anything other than one of the guys.

I felt my cheeks grow warm and a pressure build up behind my eyes. I quickly turned and ran out intonthe garden. The dance was still going on, but I was not willing to watch it again.

The thirteen-year-old girl with the soft heart and big hopes, unfortunately, was still sitting behind my eyes, looking disappointedly at her beautiful dress.

I tore the gloves from my fingers and threw them carelessly into one of the flowerbeds I was walking past.

I heard footsteps behind me. I walked faster. I didn't want my mother to see me crying.

As the footsteps came closer and closer, I called out annoyed: "I'm not doing this to myself again! Your daughter is ugly. Accept it!" I stopped petulantly, breathed heavily. "I was going to ask if you wanted to dance." I heard a voice behind me that definitely did not belong to my mother. I turned around slowly. Sirius Black was looking at me with pity. I was getting angry. "I don't want your pity," was all I said and turned back around.

"I would've asked you when we were fourteen, but my scarecrow of a mother never let me participate in that crap. She thinks I'm just embarrassing her again." I stopped and turned back around. Sirius almost ran into me, but caught himself just in time.

He looked at me kindly. "Hi.", he said just beaming. "Hi.", I replied hesitantly. "So? Dancing?" He grinned at me. I turned and strolled on. Without haste this time. "Wallflower.", I said, "I'm not allowed." "Technically, we're not on the ball," he smiled. I sighed and lifted my arms into position. Sirius grabbed me and put one foot forward to step on mine with conviction. I groaned slightly, but had to laugh.

Sirius smiled. Slight embarrassment lined his eyes. "There's a reason I wasn't allowed on the dance floors. I'm sorry." "That's okay." He shook his head. "I should have just asked you in school," he muttered. "Ask what?", I asked irritated. Sirius looked at me in wonder. "Well... For a date.", he answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

I laughed lightly. "Yeah right. After beauty queen Susan Mitchel the little (y/n)." I shook my head in amusement.

When I looked up into Sirius' face, however, I wasn't met with the approving grin I had expected, but only a more confused expression.

"I'm serious," he said. He let the light swing dance fade out. Now I was looking confused. "Really?", I asked dopily.

Sirius nodded. "Do you know that Susan doesn't look half as good as you do under all that makeup?" he asked me. "It takes her over an hour to look like that."

He gave me a friendly look before grinning. "And there's only room for one diva in a relationship, and that's me." He winked at me coquettishly. "I need time for my hair."

I smirked slightly. "I'm serious. Noone wants to see that rat's nest in the mornig." He lightly punched my upper arm.

A gesture that was meant to be encouraging, but only reminded me of how other guys liked to treat me like that. Like one of them. Not just once had I been darkly bruised.

My smile stiffened a bit, but I tried to keep it up. "You okay?" he asked uncertainly. "Yeah. Sure," I smiled.

Sirius faltered. "You probably don't want to go out... at all. With me... Well, you have to have that much arrogance first," he tried to lighten the situation with a laugh. He tried to lighten up the situation with a laugh.

"I would," I blurted out. "It's just...", I gestured to my shoulder, "I don't like it. Mostly it just hurts and..." I looked to Sirius, whose eyes grew wide in shock. "Not that you hurt me right now.... But with the others..." I sighed. "All the other girls get hugs, or they put an arm around their shoulders and then I get beaten green and blue for the greeting." I looked down at the floor. "It's meant nicely, but I hate it."

Sirius looked at me intently. "Who was the last boy to hug you?" he asked. "I don't think there ever was one," I reasoned as Sirius raised his arms in the air as well. "Can I be your first?" he smiled. I walked up to him, but was slightly unsure. To be honest, I had a hard time remembering any hug I'd ever gotten.

Sirius took over for me and wrapped his arms around me. 'He smells good,' it flashed through my mind. I unobtrusively sucked in the scent and let myself fall into the hug. He stroked my back gently. He was about to break away, but my arms remained wrapped around him. He took the hint and put his arms around me again.

"Are you at the Malfoys' this weekend?" he asked into my hair. "I'm afraid so," I mumbled into his shirt. His laughter vibrated through his chest before he gently pushed me off him after all. "How about a date? I know a good place to hide in the backyard." I nodded with a smile. "I'd love to."

Can I touch your hair?

Summary: Steven is curious about readers short hair.

Warnings: fluff, sleep deprived Tony Stark beeing Tony Stark

I was sitting in the common room of the avengers tower listening to my podcast, drinking my coffee. My dad Tony had only shuffled past me 5 minutes ago into his room to go to sleep. God only knows how long he had been awake again.

Steve had joined me, having already completed his usual exercise routine. He was sketching something in his pad while eating his breakfast.

He was watching me. As he had been doing on and off for the past few weeks, out of the corner of his eye. Probably thought he was being subtle.

"Can I ask you something?", I asked, stopping my podcast.

He nodded. "Why are you looking at me like that all the time?"

He faltered before shaking his head. "Nothing." he smiled politely and minimally pushed his sketchbook away from me.

"Oh come on. I'm a big girl. I can handle it," I teased. "What do I do to pique the interest of the great Captain America?"

He kneaded his hands. "Can I touch your hair?" he blurted out. Immediately he squinted his eyes and turned bright red. "Never mind. Sorry. That was...forget it," he stammered.

"My hair?", I laughed. "Why?"

He just continued to shake his head. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. You don't ask things like that."

By now he resembled a ripe tomato. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't the cutest thing I'd ever seen. "Deep breath big guy. You're very welcome, but I'd still like to know why." I leaned further toward him, resting my head on my fist.

He looked cautiously at me. "They're just so short... And I... Back in my days, women hardly ever had short hair. Not that short at least... And if they did, they were in movies, or in photos, but I never knew anyone... No woman with hair that short and...", he left the sentence unfinished.

"And you're just curious. That's okay," I smiled at him. "You asked me if you could touch my hair, not if you could touch my boobs." He seemed on the verge of collapsing at that comment. "Most people don't even ask. They just mop through it. So knock yourself out." I smiled encouragingly at him and patted his hand.

He lifted it hesitantly and gently stroked along my short bangs before reaching further up and pushing his fingertips through the short strands. "So soft." he smiled.

"You're lucky there's no gel in it.", I smiled. He slid his hand to the back of my head and then on to the trimmed out nape. Most people didn't treat me this tenderly. There was a seductive ease. There was awe in his touch and I surrendered to it. I closed my eyes with relish, enjoying the gentle caress of his fingers on my neck.

"Hey!" a shrill voice snapped us out of our little bubble. My dad was standing in front of us still with dark circles under his eyes, staring at us in bewilderment. "Film that soft porn in one of your rooms, will you!"

"Don't be so dramatic," I sighed.

Dad just shook his head. "That's my daughter! Don't you ever think about the bro-code man?" he shook his head in mock disappointment. "Don't you dare dishonor her. I want to see a ring on that finger! Got it?"

"Dad go to sleep.", I said firmly.

"I'm fine."

"Friday how long has he been up?", I asked.

"Sixty-eight hours miss." came the immediate reply.

"Go to bed!", I ordered.

"All right." he grumbled. "You're almost like Pepper.", he grumbled inarticulately into his beard on his way out.

I shook my head with a sigh. I looked at Steve, who was bright red again, and grinned. "And was I able to satisfy your curiosity?", I asked jokingly. He just nodded without looking at me and quickly took a sip of his coffee.

"Friday showed me the pictures you drew of me, by the way. They're really good."

He choked on his coffee, a small amount shooting through his nose.

I laughed. "How do you feel about dinner?"

Gray Hair

Summery: Napoleon reveals his biggest fear

Trigger warning: mention of Alzheimer's

English is not my first language so be gentle.

(gif is not mine)

Napoleon Solo is a man who paid insane attention to his appearance. He paid meticulous attention to his clothes, his hair, his shoes, the watch he wore. His hair knew its place. None would just jump out of place for no apparent reason.

His skin was well-groomed. His face always shaved.

He didn't overeat, never drank too much, and trained his body with an iron conviction to mold it to the image he deemed appropriate. Every morning without fail before the rest of the world even got out of bed.

Napoleon was a man who knew how he affected others and how to act to change that effect. He was a born manipulator. So it wasn't unusual for him to take longer in the bathroom than I did. But today it went too far even by his standards.

I sat on the bed, bored, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom. I was used to waiting. Napoleon took his missions more seriously than I would have thought possible at the beginning of our partnership. He proved me wrong. He let me into his world, into his heart. Which led to me to also opening the little locked door to my heart for him.

I had learned over time to love and respect this man. With all his quirks, but even I had my limits.

Annoyed, I stood up and walked to the bathroom door. "Napoleon?", I knocked at the door.

No response. "I know you take your appearance very seriously, but you've been in there for over an hour now. What are you doing?"

"Just... Just 5 more minutes... I'll be right there," I heard the frantic reply before a muffled clink sounded. I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion.

He was stuttering. He never stuttered. Even when a gun was held to his head, he still had a casual line on his lips. The clink. With him, every move was spot on. He wasn't the best pickpocket in the world for nothing.

"Are you sure about this? You sound kind of... confused? Should I tell Illya and Gaby? Should we cancel the mission?"

"NO!.. No. I... I'll have it in a minute."

But after five minutes, still nothing was happening, so I grabbed the hairpin from my hairstyle, which was purely for decorative purposes, and stuck the deliberately sharpened end into the door until I heard a soft click. I pushed the door open just as quietly. What I saw was definitely not what I expected.

Napoleon clung to the sink and looked in the mirror in panic.

"Napoleon?", I asked timidly.

His head shot around to me and big eyes start at me. His right hand shot up and abruptly rested on the right side of his head, where it covered his hair.

I drew my eyebrows together in irritation. "Napoleon what's wrong? Talk to me!" I walked toward him. He stalked away from me until he bumped into the toilet behind him and sat down surrenderd on the lid. His hand still pressed to his head. I squatted in front of him and gently tried to dislodge his hand from his head. He refused at first. Did not look me in the eye. I pulled on it jerkily and I had a clear view of the covered area underneath.

My face reflected more confusion. No wound. His hair laying as it always did.

I looked irritated at his face, but he just had his eyes squeezed shut and his face turned away from me.

"Napoleon you have to talk to me. What's wrong? I don't understand? Are you hurt? What? Napoleon are you crying?"

I gently turned his face toward me and wiped away the tears.

"Napoleon what-"

"How can you not see it?" he snapped.

"See what?"

He looked at me out of wet, hysterical eyes. "The hair!" he said, as if that explained everything.

I glanced at his strands of hair. At the part he had been so panicked to cover. There it was. A delicate silver shining hair in a sea of black. THAT was the reason for this reaction?

"Leon.", I sighed. "That's just..." I stroked his cheek with my thumb. "Honey I know you... You know you're only human. An outstanding, talented, insanely good looking humanbeing, but still just a humanbeing. That's perfectly normal."

He shook his head. "I need more time. I... This can't be happening already. I still have so much to do. I still have so much to show you. I need... I need more time." He clung to my wrist hysterically. He was completely out of it. I reached for the mic on my garter and turned it on. "Illya Gaby? We can't go with you... I sprained my ankle. You'll have to go on your own."

"Understood." came the short and practical reply from Illya.

Napoleon was still in his own world. "Honey you... you're not going to die tomorrow. It's just a gray hair."

He shook his head. "I'm going to forget everything. I'm going to forget you. The paintings. Me. That's... That's how it starts. First comes the gray hair

and then..." he shook his head to stop himself.

I reached for his face again. "Look at me. Napoleon come on. Look at me. Good. Now breathe with me. In and out. In and out. Good... Good."

He was slow to calm down, but it worked. "Now, I need you to tell me what's going on."

He took a deep breath. "My father...he was the smartest man I knew. He... hell he was a janitor, but always the smartest man in the room. He was one step ahead of everybody. Until the gray hair came. Until he forgot who I was. Who he was. He was in a wrong time. He didn't know what world he was in anymore. Age took away everything he was."

I looked at our clasped hands. "Alzheimer's?", I asked. He nodded.

I stroked the top of his head. "Gray hair doesn't make you old. I know a girl who went gray at twenty-two." He rested his head against my shoulder and I continued to stroke his strands of hair. "Not every person who gets old has Alzheimer's. I can't promise you it won't affect either of us, but you have more than enough time before that could even be an issue. Leon. You still have time. For the world. Your paintings. Me."

He was silent. "If you find out, you'll have to take me away." He lifted his head and looked me straight in the eye. "I don't want anyone to see me like this. Not even you. If it starts and you notice, you'll take me away under a fake name and leave me behind. I want people to know me as a man. Not...not as a decay."

I was literally struck by his fear, but nodded bravely.

He dropped his head back against my shoulder. "What am I going to do now? I'm supossed to be the young bachelor out there. I can't have gray hair."

"I'll just get hair dye. You're in luck as usual my good man. Black is an easy color."

I scratched the back of his neck. He put an arm around me and pulled me closer. He smelled my scent. "I love you. I can't imagine ever forgetting that."

When your WIP doesn’t write itself:

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