#I TRIED SO HARD I PLAYED LIKE 60 HOURS OF IT technically i stopped right at the start

[parasitoidism]

i need to finish persona 5 but it also is maybe just a good watermark for my personal tastes in video games that I found that game so fucking boring in both the day to day stuff and the actual combat I put it down to play raidou 1 instead

[happyandticklish]

Stress Reliever - Part Two

Summary: Gansey can’t stop thinking about Ronan tickling him to pieces on the couch and tries to seek the other out for a repeat of that day. Ronan is happy to oblige so long as he hears a certain confession from the other boy. 

Gansey had been trying all week to get Ronan to tickle him, and the fifth time it happened Ronan finally caught on to what was happening.

After that first and second time on the couch, Ronan had left the other boy relatively alone. There were a couple moments when Ronan would jab him in the ribs, or that teasing smirk would play once again at his lips, moments where Gansey suspected he would pounce. Each time nothing happened. It was almost annoying as Gansey had been on edge ever since that day, waiting for Ronan to take advantage of his newfound information. As days and then weeks went by, however, Gansey began to accept that maybe he had forgotten. Or worse—maybe he was weirded out by the whole thing and was avoiding him on purpose. The thought was mortifying and Gansey tried to push it from his mind, though anxiety kept it there at the edges of his consciousness, needling away at him endlessly.

After a while of this strange radio silence from Ronan, Gansey decided to take matters into his own hands. The first time he had provoked Ronan into retaliation he had been acting like a dick; maybe it would work a second time.

When Gansey was feeling particularly stressed or needed something to help him focus, he would often turn on a playlist of classic jazz from the 60’s. Ronan was not a fan of this particular brand of music, something Gansey was well aware of. Hence why now he blasted it through all of Monmouth Manufacturing while leaning back in his chair and waiting. Sure enough, a couple minutes later he heard a bang, a muffled curse, and then Ronan stumbled out of the confines of his room. Gansey waited, casually twirling a pencil between his fingers as Ronan approached him.

“Turn it off.”

It was more of a demand than a request, but Gansey sat there stubbornly, refusing to touch his phone which was connected to a shitty stereo he had found at a gas station. He could have bought something of better quality, technically, but he preferred the retro aesthetic. It was yet another of the things that Adam often got annoyed at him for. “Why? Is it bothering you?”

“Obviously,” Ronan snarked. “I can’t hear myself over your damn music. I’m trying to sleep. Dream? You know? Work on my skills?”

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Gansey replied dryly.

Ronan examined him for a moment, making a mental calculation, before lunging forward and attempting to grab the stereo himself. Gansey had been expecting this, however, and quickly launched to his feet so that he was directly in-between his jazz and Ronan.

Ronan appeared startled by the confrontation; usually Gansey preferred to settle things peacefully. Still, he wasn’t one to give in easily so he narrowed his eyes, taking a step forward. “Move.”

“No.”

“Gansey.”

“Lynch.”

Ronan continued to glare at him for a moment, and Gansey could see his fingers twitching by his sides, the solution to their problem simple and easy if either was to act upon it. Triumph glimmered in Gansey’s eyes. 

To Gansey’s surprise, however, Ronan simply sighed, turning around suddenly and grabbing his keys off the desk.

“I’m going out,” was his only answer to Gansey’s questioning gaze, and then he was gone, leaving the latter alone in the house once more, having failed at his mission.

Gansey tried a couple more times after that, each time trying to find the right words that would provoke Ronan, small jabs that he was sure would make the other boy retaliate in kind. Each time it failed, leaving Gansey increasingly frustrated. His annoyance only grew as he watched Adam make the same kind of comments only to have Ronan pin him down on whatever surface they happened to be one, digging fingers into flailing skin. Gansey tried not to be jealous. The two were in a relationship after all; it only made sense that they would be more handsy with each other.

Still, Gansey couldn’t think of anything that he wasn’t doing. He stretched for abnormally long amounts of time whenever Ronan was around, raising his arms painstakingly above his head. He had even starting walking around the apartment shirtless, something that before would have mortified him. No matter what he did, Ronan would simply toss him a strange glance and then move on.

Maybe he wasn’t being overt enough. It pained him to be any more obvious than he was already being, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

“What are you doing?” Ronan asked when Gansey sat on the couch besides him, stretching his legs out so that they crossed over the former’s lap. Ronan was watching a movie, possibly a nature documentary though it seemed unlikely. He appeared less than pleased to suddenly have an entire extra Gansey on his person.

The Gansey in question shrugged, acting completely oblivious. “Sitting on my couch.”

“No, you’re sitting on me,” Ronan pointed out. He frowned down at the other boy’s legs for a moment, but after a while decided it was more trouble that it was worth to move him and settled back into the couch, turning his attention back towards the screen.

As it turned out, it was a nature documentary. Something about the dangerous lives of baby turtles, or something along those lines. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing Ronan would watch, but he appeared fully engaged as one, thus far successful, turtle evaded hungry seabirds and pointy rocks.

Gansey on the other hand, found himself fully unable to focus on the TV. All he could think about was how Ronan’s hand, stretched out as it was on the armrest, was mere inches away from his feet and how easy it would be for Ronan to tickle him at that exact moment. His heart raced with strange nerves at the thought, desperately hoping that Ronan would take the hint and he wouldn’t have to say anything.

Half an hour passed in the same tense silence. Around then, however, Gansey managed to catch the other’s eye and just noticed a smirk play over Ronan’s lips before he redirected his attention back to the TV. That was when Gansey suddenly realized that they had both been playing separate games all along.

Ronan knew. 

Of course he knew. He hadn’t been oblivious to Gansey’s attempts, he had merely been willfully ignorant. He knew exactly what he was doing right now and he was going to make Gansey say it because Ronan was an unforgivable sadist.

It shouldn’t have been as hard as it was to say the words out loud. He could play off his last request as a fluke, a momentary bad decision, a play for attention. This, however, would be an admittance of a desire that Gansey had only just come to realize in himself. After that day on the couch he had found himself unable to think of anything but Ronan’s fingers digging into his sides, his hips, right above his knee. He had tried replicating the sensation with his own fingers, but it hadn’t been the same.

One month. That’s how long the want had been festering inside of him, and he could feel it at the edge of his mind, desperate to escape. So, swallowing his pride, Gansey finally gave in.

“Could you—” he started, breaking off suddenly. Ronan turned to face him casually, arching an eyebrow and waiting for the words he had known were coming for weeks now. “Uh, could you, maybe… you know… er, that thing you did before… the, uh, the tickling thing?”

Ronan grinned then and simultaneous relief and nerves flooded Gansey’s system as he realized he wasn’t angry or disgusted. The next words that came out of his mouth, however, shattered that relief into a million tiny pieces. “Why?”

Gansey swallowed audibly. “Uh, I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you want me to tickle you?” Ronan repeated calmly.

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck.

Gansey was going to kill Ronan. Sure, it would be unfortunate for Adam and even Henry had started to grow fond of him, but at the moment it seemed the only way for him to get out of answering the question.

“Well…” Gansey started and then faltered, trying to think of a way to phrase it without sounding like a lunatic. Because he needed it? Because the unbearable sensation had been haunting him for a month now? Because the only way for him to get rid of this ball of stress in his stomach was to be able to laugh and squirm freely under devious fingers?

“Hmm?”

“I… sort of… like it?” Gansey cringed even as he said the words. “When you tickle me that is.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I like you… uh, I like you tickling me. I don’t know... why, necessarily. I guess I just enjoy the feeling, not, like, in a weird way. I just...” He tugged at his collar in the most Gansey-like gesture to ever have been attempted. “It helps me relax I suppose, and it feels... nice?”

Ronan examined him for a moment, a moment where Gansey waited on edge for him to respond, and finally said, “Okay.”

“O-Okay?” Gansey repeated slowly, uncertain if he had heard him right. “Okay what?”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” Quick as lightning Ronan had snatched his ankles up in one arm, Gansey’s eyes wide at the sudden helpless position. “Now I believe there was a certain request you had made of me?

“Y-Yeah,” Gansey stammered, unable to stop a helpless grin from taking over his features. “I mean, if that’s okay with you?”

The request was so unnecessarily polite that Ronan felt it was now his sworn duty to wreck the boy to pieces.

He started out light, however, wanting to lull him into a false sense of security. Gansey’s smile widened as nimble fingers drew slow circles over his feet, softly tracing the outline of the soles. Gansey hadn’t been sure before if his feet were even ticklish at all, but due to the electric currents running up his legs he figured it was a safe assumption to make.

Ronan started gently scratched his nails against the ball of his foot, startling a squeak out of Gansey that he quickly muffled by pressing a hand against his mouth. The squeak soon turned into a couple of hesitant giggles, his leg jerking against Ronan’s hold.

“I thought you wanted me to tickle you?” Ronan inquired innocently when Gansey’s struggling increased due to fingers raking suddenly down his soles. “I mean, you were the one who asked for this.”

“I-I did,” Gansey agreed, shifting on the couch as he tried to adjust himself to the sensation. “It just—ah, pfft, hmm—it just—nohoho, wait—”

“Tickles?” Ronan filled in for him and Gansey was only able to nod in response as Ronan suddenly dug in with vigor, spidering his fingers with quick intensity all over his soles.

Gansey’s response was instant. He jerked forward on the couch, one hand outstretched as if to stop him, before falling uselessly back again. “Rohohohohohonan!”

“This is incredible,” Ronan muttered with a shit-eating grin. “I can’t believe you’re ticklish and you like it, and somehow we never found out about this. I guess I’m going to have to make up for lost time.”

“Y-Yohohou’re an ahahahass!” Gansey complained, one hand covering his face to hide his growing blush while the other furiously gripped the couch in an attempt to prevent himself from stopping the other.

“I’m a what now?” Ronan dug under his toes and Gansey snorted, leg twitching involuntarily. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be back-talking right now.”

“W-Whahahat ihihif Ihihihi, gahahaha, whahahat ihihihif ihihi tihihihickled yohohou?” Gansey shot back, the threat sounding much less intimidating through helpless giggles.

Ronan couldn’t help but be aware how vulnerable his torso was, however, as both arms were occupied with Gansey’s legs. He stiffened, glaring back at his friend. “Then you’d be dead and I’d get revenge tenfold.”

“Ahahafter, or behehehefore y-yohohou kihihilled mehehe?” Gansey pointed out.

“You’ll never get to know, because you’ll never try it.”

“W-Wahahanna behehet?”

The shaky, laughter-filled words had Ronan immediately on edge. Before he could say anything back, Gansey had lunged forward and latched both hands onto his ribs, vibrating his fingers against the bone. Ronan choked on a laugh, the intensity of the sudden tickling making him immediately release Gansey’s legs and dart his elbows down protectively. Gansey had a precious few moments of wrecking Ronan’s torso while the other was still paralyzed with snorts and laughter from the sudden attack, before Ronan whirled around and grabbed each of his wrists, pulling them above his head.

Gansey swallowed as he stared up at him. “Hello there.”

“Hey,” Ronan said, a sadistic fire burning in his eyes that had Gansey’s nerves thriving with excitement.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you’ve decided to forget revenge and let me go?” he inquired hopefully.

“I don’t know.” Ronan switched his hold to one hand so that the other could slowly walk up the length of his right side. Gansey squirmed apprehensively at the touch. “What do you think?”

Gansey squeezed his eyes shut, giggling as the fingers reached his armpits. “N-No?”

“I guess you do have some brains in you after all.”

Monmouth Manufacturing was soon filled with the sounds of Gansey’s hysterical laughter. After that, Ronan sought Gansey out for a repeat of that day, almost as often as Gansey sought him out. There was never a quiet day between the two again.

Gansey decided that he should be honest with his friends more often.

[storybycorey]

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

(Full Version, A-Z)

author: @storybycorey

rating: R

word count: approx. 8000

summary: The ABC’s, as told by Fox Mulder.

For those of you looking only for part Z, just scroll a bit more than halfway down!  (or take a read back through the whole thing- there are references back to the first 25 letters in the final installment!)

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days.  Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him.  Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things.  He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably.  Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting.  On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer.  The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back.  With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise.  His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they're getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days.  Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal.  But Dana is an enigma.  He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free.  It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know.  He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really.  But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse.  The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly.  Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls?  Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas?  He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.  

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between.  He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife?  Girlfriend?”  

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes.  Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice.  He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried.  Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away?  Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.  

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha.  Spin the Globe it was called.  They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away.  He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head.  Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully.  Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe.  Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder.  That was more extraordinary than any adventure.”

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire.  He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand.  It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip.  He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket.  The nice thing about it?  She doesn’t even pretend not to want it.  She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in.  They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub.  She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years.  Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy.   He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it.  It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks.  He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars... 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres.  Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this:  In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. 

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks.  It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure.  Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.  

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.  

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.  

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully.  He’s not sure what else he expected.  Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.  

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day.  He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes?  Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe...”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.”   He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.  

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then.  Tomorrow...”

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

N is for No

He's scared of the word no, its finality. No, Mulder, it would never work. No, Mulder, we’re better as friends. No, Mulder, I don’t love… The word no could mean the end of everything. Of all he's seen, how absurd that two small letters could paralyze him like that. 

He walks through Violent Crimes once, overhears Scully talking to another agent from across the room. Rick Channing could be a television news anchor—hair coiffed and teeth so white they sparkle.

Mulder rolls his eyes. Scully doesn’t roll her eyes though; instead, she smiles as they talk.  She giggles.  Bile rises in his throat.

No, Mulder, I’ve fallen for someone else…

He should leave, but Channing’s next words stop him cold. “How about drinks, Dana? Maybe dinner?”  

She blushes, flustered, before scanning the room, eyes finding Mulder’s despite the way he hides halfway behind a partition.  

“Thank you, Rick, but no. I’m already…”  She smiles gently at him—him Mulder, not him Rick— “No,” she says again, then excuses herself down the hall.  

He stands there, rooted in place, decides no is the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.

O is for Opal

His birthstone is opal.  Not that he’d ever have cared, but one Christmas, he and Samantha received birthstone gifts—a topaz necklace for Sam and an opal-inlaid pocketknife for him. He still has that pocketknife, has rubbed his thumb across the smooth, cool handle countless times over the years.

Scully’s skin reminds him of that handle—the soft blue of her veins beneath translucent pink skin. She glows. He knows she’d scoff if he told her that, tell him human beings can’t glow, don’t be ridiculous. But she does—she glows just like an opal.

The pearly finish of his pocketknife is worn-down and soft by now, but her skin, he knows, is infinitely softer.  Her hand, her cheek—the safe parts of her body he’s been allowed to touch—they don’t even compare to the decades-old trinket.  He can’t imagine how much softer the more dangerous parts of her body must be.  The thought keeps him up at night, much more consistently than his nightmares do.

P is for Plum

Scully goes on kicks sometimes—bee pollen, yogurt, one month she sprinkled wheat germ into everything she got her hands on, his coffee included.

Fresh fruit is her latest. Oranges, nectarines, plums, oh, plums. There’s no neat way to eat a plum, though she tries, napkin laid out beneath her at the desk. The juice though. Drippy and sticky on her chin—his eyes try their best not to ogle, but usually fail.  

She walks around sometimes, cupping a hand to catch the drips, and once, as she reaches across his body for a book, a drop splashes directly onto his forearm.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, quickly swiping at his skin with her thumb.  How that same thumb winds up being sucked between his lips is a mystery, though probably has something to do with the way he acts sometimes before thinking. His tongue traces the sweetened ridges of her thumbprint as she chokes out a gasp, half-eaten plum forgotten.  

“No takebacks, Scully,” he mumbles as a joke, trying to laugh it off as he comes to his senses and releases her. Her cheeks stay pink for a good twenty minutes after that, and parts of him stay hard for an even better twenty beyond that.

Q is for Quest

This job of theirs, it’s more than a job.  More than a career path.  It’s a downright quest.  

He feels a bit like Don Quixote at times, Scully his faithful Sancho Panza, the two of them out there dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe. There’s a sort of nobility to what they do, and he likes that.  

Sometimes though, he wonders whether the aliens are really windmills, whether the consortium is nothing but a barber’s basin balanced on his much too gullible head. Whether Scully is not Sancho, but Dulcinea— out-of-reach and much too beautiful for his files and his basement, his second-hand coffee table and his worn leather couch.  

He sometimes can’t believe she’s still here, chasing windmills, slaying bad guys, at times even taking the time to clean out his fridge. She deserves the most elegant of thrones, yet sits happily beside him on that old leather couch, Monday nights, Tuesday nights, sometimes even weekends.  It astounds him really.  

And when she nudges his knee with her own, smiles at him with that smile that makes him think soon isn’t so far away, that’s when he really believes—that being with her is not such an impossible dream after all.

R is for Rebel

Dana Scully is a rebel.  She tries to hide it, acts all prim and proper, but beneath her stern, pursed lips and buttoned-up suits, there’s a troublemaker lurking.  It’s what endeared him to her on their very first case, the way she laughed with him in the rain, the way, regardless of her orders, she listened to him and formed her own opinion.

He sees glimpses of that rebel from time to time, when she scarfs down pizza in a Motel 6 despite her no-carb diet, when she gets that gleam in her eye as they sneak onto restricted government property.

His favorite bit of rebelliousness though is her new stance on hotel-room consorting. They’ve fallen into a routine lately, of watching movies together on polyester bedspreads, of dropping off before the credits roll, of pretending I’m too tired to go back to my room is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable excuse to stay.  

Each time it happens, the morning sun finds them a bit closer together than the last— hands touching, next toes and shins, most recently her hair brushed his cheek as she snuggled against the pillow.

His rumpled, sleepy little rebel.  She’s a rebel on her own terms though, he knows this. And he’s being as patient as he can be.

S is for Sexy

She’s sexy, unbelievably so. It took him a while to admit that to himself.  For the longest time, he blamed his body’s reaction to her on their constant proximity, her perfume, the fact that he was suffering a longer-than-usual dry spell… But no, what it really comes down to is that Dana Katherine Scully is sexy as hell.

Even back in the beginning, when her suits hid her body and her hair did that swoop-y sort of thing up near the front.  Even in the middle, when she was thinner than she should’ve been, when cancer stole her color but didn’t steal her soul. And then there’s today. Today when there’s no mistaking the black lace of her lingerie each time she leans across the desk, not two but three buttons undone at her clavicle. Today when she murmurs thoughtfully, “I think you may be right, Mulder,” tongue wetting her lips as she reads aloud from his book on mystical apparitions.

What really gets him though, is that despite her hair or her lips or even her lingerie, the sexiest part of her isn’t on the outside at all; it’s what lies beneath—that intangible something that makes her Scully. That’s the part he fell in love with, shoulder pads and all.

T is for Toes

She’s got cute little toes.  She’s got cute little everything really, but her toes are especially cute, pale pink polish adorning each one.  She sits one night, curled on his couch, those cute little toes just inches from his leg.

“Wanna stretch out?” he asks, patting his thighs, and amazingly, within seconds, there are two small feet lying warm in his lap.

He gives them a tickle, but she kicks at his hand. He tries again, this time pressing a thumb to her arch. No kick, only an appreciative hum.  It’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins massaging in earnest.  

Her eyes slip shut, her head tilts back, a low groan rumbles from her throat. He massages her cute little toes for an hour, counts each contented sigh that slips from her lips (thirty-four to be exact). The movie they’d been watching fades slowly to black, and she ends things finally, with a shy, quiet chuckle and an I should probably get going.  

As she heads down the hall, he jokes from his doorway, “The masseuse is available every night, double sessions on weekends…”

She rewards him with an arched brow, murmuring, “Careful, I may just take you up on that…” before stepping onto the elevator.

U is for Umpteen

“Umpteen’s not a word, Mulder,” she tells him, eyes rolling, “It has no specified value.”  

She’s got a point of course.  They don’t have umpteen case summaries to submit; they have twelve.  But umpteen is most definitely a word.  

Umpteen’s how many times he’s forgotten his point because her lips are too distracting.  Umpteen’s how many fantasies he’s had about sliding his hands through her hair.  Umpteen’s how many times she’s walked out the door, how many times he’s kept from going after her, how many times he’s sat in his car beneath her window and longed for her with a ferocity that scares him shitless. Umpteen’s how many times he’s wanted to kiss her.  It’s also how many times he hasn’t…

He chuckles, dipping his chin, “You’re right, Scully. We’ve got twelve summaries to do, not umpteen...”

Umpteen is how many times he’s said her name, it’s how many times what he’s really wanted to say was I love you.

V is for Volume

They fight over the volume control in cars. He likes louder, she likes softer (I can’t think over the noise she says).  He usually lets her win. 

Their relationship has its own volume control, he’s realized.  There are times when it’s loud, blaring even, arguments at every turn.  Other times it’s low—murmurs in a conference room, end of the day farewells in a darkened parking garage. Mostly it’s somewhere between.  They talk and they banter and they discuss, in basements, in rental cars, in random police stations across America. 

Sometimes though, lately especially, she lowers the dial even further, turns it all the way over to the left.  Soft.  The very softest. His name on her lips those rare times he holds her. Her blush and shy murmured stop when he pays her a compliment. The slight gasp he feels more than hears when his fingertips brush over her arm, her cheek, the curve of her hip.

It makes him want to do away with loud altogether, to turn off the music and the voices and the noise and listen only to the sound of her breathing, to tell her "It's quiet now, Scully. I’m ready when you are."

W is for Wristwatch

This job has done a number on his wardrobe.  Jackets, slacks, shoes—all gone the way of the incinerator—either damaged beyond acceptable FBI standards or outright destroyed.  Scully’s hasn’t fared much better (she still pouts over a favorite pair of heels ruined two years ago). All part of the territory, he reasons.

His shattered wristwatch on a recent case was a blow though; he loved that watch.  

There’s a package on his desk the day after, wrapped so precisely, he needn’t even guess whom it’s from.  

“Scully,” he protests, but she stops him.

“Just open it, Mulder.”

It’s a watch—of course it’s a watch—a beautiful one, silver links and a detailed, intricate face. “You didn’t need—” he begins, but she interrupts him again.  

“It was my father’s,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her voice softens, “I’ve held onto it since… Here, let me.” She takes the watch, fastens it around his wrist. There are tears in her eyes.

“It looks good,” she whispers, “It brings out your… It looks nice—you’ve got nice forearms, Mulder, and this accentuates—”

He takes hold of her hand, gives it a squeeze until she meets his eyes.  “Thank you,” he tells her, “I love it.”  

There’s no way this watch lands in the incinerator. He’ll protect it with his life if he has to.

X is for XFiles

The basement office often feels more like home to him than home does.  It’s his secret hideaway, and despite the odds, he thinks it’s become hers, too.  They’ve created their own little world down here—a cozy, paranormal universe—and Scully’s as much a part of that universe as he is.

She shines like the sun, trails glittery stardust behind her like a comet. His beautiful, perplexing riddle of a partner.  It’s funny really, but despite the hundreds of files that surround them, Scully remains his biggest mystery.  She’s the very definition of an X-File.  It floors him that she chooses this life, that she’s willing to be his sun, his moon, his whole damn galaxy, day after day after day.

There was a time he couldn’t have imagined not seeking the truth.  These days though? These days he’s beginning to believe he’s been searching in all the wrong places.  

The truth can’t be found in Bellefleur, Oregon or in Kroner, Kansas, in forests or in sewers or in fields.  The truth—the real truth— exists in ink-blue eyes and rosebud lips, in the skeptical arch of an eyebrow and the soft, shy murmur of his name.

It exists right down here in the basement office, sitting not two feet across the desk from him.

Y is for Yawn

She yawns as he speaks, but it doesn’t bother him. Things feel sleepy—dreamy— tonight.

It’s been an odd few days apart from one another, he across the pond and she…He’s not even sure what she’s been doing, doesn’t know that he wants to.  All he knows is that she’s here, now, pressed to his side and yawning, proving to him once again how fate works.

It’s hard not to babble when he feels this good; he’s drunk on the smell of her, on the heaviness of her thigh pressed to his.

“And that says a lot… a lot, a lot, a lot…” Babbling, more babbling, until he feels the smallest, sweetest weight at his shoulder, sees lashes splayed softly against warm, flushed cheeks. The perfection of the moment strikes him, of her here on his couch instead of in a hospital room, instead of in a temple, instead of anywhere else she could be at this point in her life.  

He touches her hair—he can’t bear not to—covers her with a blanket to keep away the chill.  Allowing himself one last glance, he counts slowly to ten (slowly, so slowly), before making his own sleepy way to the bedroom.

Z is for Zipper

He’s awoken by the sound of her skirt zipper, the dip of the mattress as she sits on the bed.

“Scully?” He’s not sure how long he’s been out, but the stillness in the air and a new moon slanting through the blinds suggest hours.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, “I tried not to wake you...” He’s never heard her voice in his bedroom this late at night. It’s softer than he’d imagined. Younger. “It’s late.  I’m not sure I should drive.  Do you mind if I—” 

“Sure, yeah.” He props up on an elbow. “Do you want me to…” He motions toward the living room, still half-asleep but awake enough not to assume anything he shouldn’t. Hotel room sleepovers (which they’ve partaken in) are in a different category than apartment room sleepovers (which they haven’t), and he knows this.

“I don’t mind,” she answers in silhouette, slipping off her skirt, “…not if you don’t.”  She’s stolen her way beneath the sheets before he has the presence of mind to offer her something to wear. 

“Of course not.”  He can’t think of anything he’d mind less than Scully lying beside him in his bed, near enough he can smell this morning’s perfume still on her skin.

She settles, and is so close, her breaths tickle his bare shoulder. Once, twice, three times.  He shudders. 

They’re quiet.  He listens to her nighttime sounds—the swish of her hair against the pillow, the cadence of her breaths, the occasional wet slide of her tongue across her lips. He wishes he had his little recorder on the nightstand. He’d make a mixtape, label it Sounds of Scully and play it every night for the rest of his life.  

He longs to touch her.  A hand, a foot, even just the tip of a finger. 

They lie there long enough and silently enough he thinks she may have fallen asleep, but then she shifts. Or he shifts. Or maybe they both shift, but out of nowhere her still sweater-clad back spoons perfectly against his chest.

A quiet gasp leaves her lips, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t readjust. Neither of them breathes.

“Is this… okay?” he asks finally.

“Yeah, it’s…” The heel of her foot brushes his shin. “It’s nice.” 

Quiet again. His arm finds a place to rest wrapped around her waist.  His thighs nudge her bottom.  Her skirt is off, and possibly her nylons, too, but he thinks instead about her hair tickling his nose, her sweater against his belly.  He doesn’t think of other things—won’t let himself.

It’s nice was an understatement though. It’s so much more than nice.  He’s needed this, wanted this, for such a long time.  Even if this is all it is—the two of them spooned together in his bed until morning.

She snuggles a bit closer, slips a small, cold foot between his legs. He thinks about her pale pink toenails, he thinks about Dulcinea, he thinks about being number sixteen on a list he’s sure he was never meant to read.  He adds to his mixtape the sound of her hum when his thumb brushes the rose-petal skin of her arm.

“Foxtrot,” she murmurs sleepily.

“Hmmm?” He nudges the back of her head with his nose.

“Nothing,” she chuckles, “Just a passing thought...”

“Can’t have passing thoughts without sharing.  Bedroom rules.”  It’s strange how natural this feels, bantering with her in his bedroom, pretending this sort of thing happens often enough that rules have been made.

“Oh, in that case, maybe I’ll…” She makes to leave, pushing away covers and beginning to pull from his arms.

“Don’t you dare,” he threatens, tugging her back, wasting no time in snuggling her in even closer, wrapping himself around her like a question mark, which seems almost comically apropos on a night like this. She giggles, just barely, but it’s perfection, the sound of Scully giggling in his bed late at night.

“No, it was just…,” she continues, turned serious again.  “My father was obsessed with the military phonetic alphabet—Alpha, Bravo, etcetera...  He named my brother Charlie.  It just occurred to me that if your father had been the same, maybe you’d be Foxtrot instead of Fox.”

He chuckles. “Guess I should count myself lucky then.  Would’ve been a lot to live up to in the ballroom classes my mother made me take…”  She hums in amusement, and the vibration travels all the way through to his chest.  “Sounds like you’re a bit lucky, too.  Unless I’m mistaken, it was Dana, not Delta, who snuck into my bed tonight...”

“Hmm,” she ponders, “Maybe Delta's not as brave as Dana is....” He sometimes thinks nobody’s as brave as Dana Scully is, least of all himself. “Frankly,” she adds, “I always fancied Juliet anyway.”

“Juliet—I like it.”  He pictures her out on a balcony, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing, lover’s name tumbling from her lips.  “You’d need a Romeo…”  He doubts Wherefore art thou, Mulder is quite what Shakespeare had in mind.  

“Who says I haven’t got one?” she flirts.  Her hand rests just inches from his own, and he twines their fingers together, curls them against her abdomen. He sometimes wonders how his heart can possibly contain the amount of love he feels for her. People die of broken hearts; do they ever die of ones so full, they’re overflowing?  

“Hey,” he murmurs into her hair, “What’s got you thinking about all this at…,” he tilts back his head to squint at the clock, “…one o’clock AM?” Her body is warm and impossibly perfect against him.

“I guess…,” she says, a contemplative tone to her voice, “I don’t know. These last few days have been a lot.  I’ve been forced to consider things I haven’t thought about in years. My past, the way things used to be... What I used to assume my future looked like.”

“How’d it look?” They’re both nearing that point these days, where their paths can’t just keep continuing in the same straight line. They’re nearing a fork, he can feel it.  Question is, will they both continue in the same direction?

“When I was a little girl,” she begins, “I was surrounded by Navy men, Navy wives, Navy families.  We were taught call letters before learning our ABC’s.  I always felt that sort of life was expected of me, too.” His air conditioner kicks on, fills the room with a gentle whirr.  She burrows even closer. “It’s just funny how far we stray from what’s expected…”

“No more call letters, huh?” His lips catch on her hair as he talks.  It’s wonderful.

“No, I guess not…To be honest, I sort of miss them.  Things were simpler then.  There were right choices and wrong choices, or at least it seemed that way.”

He realizes as they lie there that this moment is the fork in his path.  That though the line between right and wrong choices may be blurred these days, there’s one choice he’s never once questioned.  Dana Scully is the rightest choice he’s ever made.  With her mouth full of questions and her head full of answers, her ever-arched eyebrow and her ever-open heart—she’s been his choice, his only choice, from the very beginning.  

Scully is the Juliet to his Romeo—hell, she’s the Delta to his Foxtrot.    

“Scully,” he murmurs, heart beating bravely in his chest, “Have I ever told you about the Fox Mulder alphabet?”

“Hmm, let me guess...” There’s humor in her voice, that wry Scully humor he adores. “A is for Alien, B is for Bounty Hunter, C is for….  Am I close?” Christ, but he loves this woman.

He pokes her gently in admonishment, answers, “Good try, smartypants, but no… No, you’re actually not close at all.”

“Tell me then, Mulder.” She pulls their hands up to rest beneath her cheek. “Tell me about your alphabet.”  

And so he does. He takes a deep breath and he does.

He begins at the beginning. A is for Apple.

He tells her how watching her eat an apple once made him ache for her, how he can’t bite into a Red Delicious, or a Fuji, or even a Grannysmith anymore without thinking about her lips.

It scares him, being this honest, but there’s something in the air tonight, something in her mood, in the way she slipped off her skirt and climbed into his bed after falling asleep on his couch.

She’s quiet while he speaks, still—eerily so. Her breaths fall quickly against his hand. He’s sure he can feel her heart beating, or maybe that’s just his own, pounding much too dramatically within his chest. There’s a lump in his throat as he finishes, the No that’s terrified him for close to seven years dangling above like an anvil from some misguided Loony Tunes short.  

He waits.  And he waits.  And is about to apologize for assumptions he shouldn’t have made when—

“More,” she breathes.

Not no.  More.

He burrows his nose in her hair, presses a kiss of relief to her ear.

He gives her more, he gives her everything—he pours his entire heart out into silly little stories about a basketball game, about candlelight illuminating the skin of her back. The words spill out more quickly than he intends them to, but the dam has been breached; he cannot stop it.

She’s quiet through the basketball game, quiet again through the candles. Her little body doesn’t move. He understands. He knows it’s a lot to take in—the flood-like musings of Fox Mulder’s mind.  Her ears are all he asks of her tonight.

By the time he’s reached D though, she gives him more than her ears. “D is for Dana,” he begins softly. And instead of more silence, she whispers his name.  

By E, there are tears at her cheek. He wonders for an instant whether that long-ago jewelry store could possibly still be open, whether she’d wait for him here while he makes a quick trip.  

By F, she’s pressing barely-there kisses to his knuckles. Friends don’t do that, he’s sure.  Their relationship may be uncertain, but friends don’t press kisses to knuckles, they don’t lie in beds at one in the morning, tell stories in hushed whispers with backs pressed to chests.

By G, she’s murmuring my God against his palm, Mulder against each of his fingertips. His basement globe spins and it spins. Never could it have predicted an adventure like this.

H… I… J... Her toes slide along his shins, they follow the curves of his arches. Her long-lost jacket hangs nestled in his closet not ten feet away.

K... “New Year’s Eve, Scully… That kiss…”  He tells her she’s all he could want from this millennium, or the next, or even the next (that’s illogical, Mulder, he expects her to say).  She doesn’t though. She doesn’t say that.  Instead, she turns in his arms, raises big, wet eyes up to his.

“Keep going…,” she urges him on when he pauses, “Please, Mulder, keep going.” Her fingers tremble as they move across his chest.

And so he keeps going. L... (“Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully,” he breathes)… M… N… With each new letter, her touches grow surer—small, gentle hands find his ribs, his shoulders, the wildly-beating pulse at his neck.  By O, those same hands are in his hair, they’re cradling his cheekbones, they’re fingering the soft, curved shells of his ears.

P... “That plum,” he whispers, “…the juice…your thumb...” Her thumb (the same one he sucked into his mouth so many months ago) skims over his stubbled chin, makes its tentative way to his lips. His tongue steals out for a taste, and she sucks in a breath, her eyes fluttering shut. She drags her hand away before he can swallow her whole.

Q... (“Dulcinayyy-uhhh,” he sings quietly)… R… The heat of her breath hits his neck, hovers beneath his jawline until he can barely speak. “Don’t stop,” she whispers when he falters.  Her mouth slides against his throat and he groans.

S… T...  By U, he can’t keep from touching her.  A hand tangles finally in her hair, the other slips beneath her sweater and molds to the warmth of her back. She whimpers, her body arching sharply against him.  Umpteen is the number of times this very scenario has played itself out in his dreams.

By V, his lips are at her temple, “V is for Volume” spoken directly against her skin. She turns the dial all the way to the left, sighs so softly he almost misses it.

W and X fall between kisses, his lips on her eyelids, at her jaw, wrapped around the lobes of her ears. Barely-there whimpers slip from the back of her throat, and he reaches for that imaginary recorder, adds them to his mixtape as well.  Her legs tangle with his and he pulls her even closer.

“Y is for Yawn,” he murmurs against her hairline, “Tonight, out there, while we sat on the couch…”

“I’m not…,” her voice is low and husky, so close to his ear that he shivers, “…m’not yawning now, Mulder…”

He shifts, rests his forehead against her own.  Hot, ragged breaths collect on the pillow between them.  He can hardly believe a few hours ago, they were out on his couch drinking tea, a few years ago, they were meeting in the basement for the very first time.

“What about…,” she breathes, the tip of her nose nudging his, “What about Z?”  Their hands roam freely now, sensuous and slow.  She angles her pelvis against his, presses softly.

“Z…,” he barely gets out, “…is for Zipper.” She’s trembling against him, and it’s the sexiest thing in the world.  “The zipper from your skirt that woke me half an hour ago, the zipper that—”

She swallows the rest of his words with a kiss, open-mouthed and desperate, body melting against his.

Her lips, her tongue, the flutter of her fingers at his cheek… He forgets about candles, about earrings, about Rick Channing and Don Quixote and even about the wristwatch lying just across the room on the dresser.  He forgets about everything in the world except Scully and her mouth, about the way she kisses him with her whole damn body, with hands in his hair and toes flexed at his shins and hips arched so divinely against his, he worries he’ll faint.

As her sweater slides over her head, he marvels at the way everything has fallen into place, how a crisp, juicy apple led to a basketball game, how sleepy, sexy yawns led to the undoing of zippers, how all of it combined led to them being here, now, discovering each other for the very first time.

Their lovemaking is slow, achingly so.  It’s the Standard English Alphabet, the Military Phonetic Alphabet, and the Fox Mulder Alphabet combined—whimpers and sighs and Romeo and Juliet and ice cream and globes and… Amazingly, in the end, it all makes perfect, wonderful sense.

As they move together, the beginnings of a new alphabet emerge in his head—A for the arc of her hips as they rise; B for her short, quickened breaths; C for her cries, for her moans, for her whines; D for the softest derriere he’s ever held in his palms; E for her elbows, laid either side of his ears; F for fuck, for oh holy fuck, Scully, sweetheart, I’m gonna, I’m gonna…

“It’s crazy really, isn’t it?” he murmurs afterwards, Scully tucked beneath his arm, her leg slung sweetly over his sweat-damp thigh.

“Hmm?”  Her fingers play at his lips, trace over and around and between.  

“That it took us seven years…,” he mumbles around a pinky, “…when in the end, it really was as easy as learning our ABC’s.”

She hums, presses a kiss to his chest right above a nipple. “You could have had me all the way back at C if you’d wanted to, Mulder...”

He smiles, pulling her impossibly closer.  Her breasts are soft against his chest and her chin rests at his shoulder, and for a moment, all is right in their windmill-riddled, impossible dream of a world.  

“I think Z was perfect,” he says, kissing the disheveled part of her hair, “Absolutely perfect.”

[an-actual-angel]

Pretty Baby: Chapter 6 & 7

Pairing: Connor (RK800) x Reader, Collin (RK800-60) x Reader, Richard (RK900) x Reader

Summary: The year was 2082. 44 Years after the android revolution. Things have turned south for humanity. Androids now rule the world, leaving humans to be considered as mere animals. While some Androids still have a general disdain for humanity some have taken to the idea of keeping them as “family pets.”

You, born in captivity, specifically bred to be the perfect pet happen to get adopted by the RK brothers.

Chapter Description: A few hours had passed since the 'incident' with Richard...

Previous Chapter | AO3 | Next Chapter

KOFI

Chapter 6 -  No Angel

A few hours had passed since the 'incident' with Richard. You awoke, still lying in his regal-looking bedroom. Your mind was still full of unanswered questions. What was going to happen now? Everything was quiet. You were alone. Perhaps this would be the perfect time for a bit of snooping. You never did get the chance to go in Richard's room before so you were going to seize this golden opportunity to dig up some dirt on your owner.

Sitting up off the bed, you noticed your underwear was now around your ankles. A flush of embarrassment fell over you as you pulled them back up as fast as you could. Your eyes caught on the bedside table snapping you out of your mortification and focusing you back on the task at hand. This was the place to start your search. Kneeling down on the floor you slowly opened the top drawer to begin rummaging through it. The first drawer just had some books, nothing of any particular interest. At the bottom was a notebook, what would an android even use it for? you pondered.

Before you had much of a chance to open it you had noticed a darkness loom over, the light around you dimming slightly. You turn your head up to find out where the sudden change in lighting came from. It was Richard, now standing over you nonchalantly with his arms crossed.

"And what are you doing?" He questioned you.

You nervously fling the book back into the drawer where you had found it, your face glowing red.

“Don’t make me have to punish you again, little one. Next time it will be far less enjoyable.” His voice, smooth and teasing as he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “Do you understand?”

You promptly moved back to the bed, sitting on your hands. Trying to look innocent. His eyes settled on you and you nodded back at him.

“Good girl.” The android sounded amused. “Now run along and play.” He dismissed you as he walked over to the wardrobe in his room, which he began looking through.

You exhaled sharply then made yourself scarce even though a part of you still wanted to ask him some questions. The logical side of your brain told you it was best to move on. You thought you would be best to head back to your room and hide for the rest of the night, or maybe week. A mixture of embarrassment and guilt swirled around in your stomach.

What happened with Richard was a mistake… but why did you enjoy it? Why did a part of you wish to lay in his arms?

No, that was wrong. That can’t happen again. Where things going to be awkward now?

No, everything should go back to normal, Richard seemed unfazed by it. He pretty much dismissed you. Why where you mad at him for it?

You were then cut out of the deep pondering that had hazed your mind by a voice calling out to you.

It was Collin. He looked pissed.

“Well, well if it isn’t the little Troublemaker.” He came sauntering towards you.

“You got me in quite a bit of trouble with Rich.” He tilted his head in a matter of fact way. “The bastard might even make me stop my nightly escapades because of your little stunt.” Collin pointed his finger as he had backed you up against a wall.

You gulped hard as he towered over you, still moving closer. Both of his arms were now on either side of you, his hands lying flat against the wall.

“Why did you do it?” He whispered, his voice quiet but still intimidating. Your head moved to the side avoiding eye contact with the droid.

“I was lonely.”

His face was full of confusion, still staring at you to continue.

“I wanted to see my friend, Emily.” You quietly explained.

“Your friend? You did all of that for some human? I can’t have a night out because you wanted to see another human?" He seemed almost insulted by your response. His eyes scanning over your face. You still not meeting his gaze.

He moved back a little allowing you more space. “You care about her?” He asked suspiciously.

“Of course.” Your eyes shut tight, thinking about her all alone.

Collin’s LED flickered Yellow. “Hmm.” Was his response. He moved back, standing away from you.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding. His stare was still fixed on you. “Interesting.” He said. With that Collin had turned and left you, who was still backed up in a corner.

Foolish human. Weak.

You better not get me in any more trouble.

You placed your hand over your heart feeling its erratic beating as Collin walked away. Where you ever not in trouble. You headed to your room and hid under the blankets of your bed which you lay in the rest of the night. Silently weeping to yourself.

You were so confused. You never felt these emotions before.

_________________

You lay in bed late until the next morning, or afternoon technically. It was time to leave the safe space you had created. You knew it was coming you had to get food eventually.

Luckily it seemed quiet enough. You weren’t sure if the androids were at work or not today. You hoped they were. Maybe you could stock up on food and avoid them until the awkwardness had subsided.

As you sneaked past the living room you saw one of the androids sitting on the couch. You weren’t sure which one it was. They all looked so similar it was hard to tell from the distance you were at.

This one was wearing a light blue jumper, this gave you the indication that this might be Connor since he was the only one to ever really wear colour.

Even though you knew Connor wouldn’t bother you, you still sneaked by just in case you were wrong and it was one of the other brothers. You couldn’t help but wonder what Connor would say if he knew that you tried to escape.

Richard made it quite clear he didn’t want his brother knowing. But why?

You wondered if Connor could be an ally? But could you trust him, you weren’t sure yet.

He did seem kind and showed a lot more empathy than his brothers.

“but neither of you dare touch her.” You remember him saying the first night you met.

What would he say if he only knew… what would he do? The dark thought crossed your mind, should you say something? Would it only divide these brothers further? Would it be a ticket to freedom?

Another wave of guilt washed over you. A part of you didn’t want that. You didn’t want Richard to get in trouble with Connor.

Why? Why did you want to protect this arrogant android? You sighed and brushed off your thoughts.

It was all too much. After you gathered your food, you snuck back into your bedroom.

Leaving Connor blissfully unaware of the whole thing.

Well, as blissful as he can be.

________________________________________________________________

Chapter 7 - Rot

Your plan to stow away in your room had proved successful so far, a part of you hated the loneliness but the confusion you felt made you not want to face any of your owners. You wanted to work through it, to understand. However, instead of any helpful self-reflection, you really just spent most of your time hidden under your blankets. You snuck out whenever needed but you kept it as low as you could.

It was going according to plan. You had been unbothered for coming on three days now. Well, that was until you had an unexpected visitor.

“You’re hiding.” He spoke blankly, His dark figure lingering in the doorway.

“I’m surprised you even noticed.” You grumbled pulling your blanket around your shoulders. Richard clenched his jaw before he slowly strode towards you.

“Don’t sass me.” His voice was low and heavy. “Remember your place, pet.” He was standing above you, his large right hand placed on your delicate chin.

“That’s what you are, a pet.” His words sounded bitter. He tilted your chin up to meet your eyes but you broke away from his touch moving your head to the side, in protest. You were still slightly miffed about him dismissing you so coldly after what you both did. You were even more irked by the way he was talking to you today.

“Come.” He ordered, turning back around to the door.

You didn’t move. You didn't reply either, you stayed huddled under your blanket with your legs crossed.

“Come, now.” He replied impatiently. “You will eat proper food and stop sneaking around like a common mouse.”

He didn’t leave room for you to reply. He simply demanded and you obeyed. You didn't want to see what type of tantrum he would pull if you disagreed with him.

Richard had led you to the kitchen where there was food made and laid out for you. When you tried to thank him, he just scowled at you and said: “When you are finished you will go to the living room.”

Why was he acting like this all of a sudden? So demanding, and cold, colder than usual. He never really paid attention to you before, why now?

Did you dare ask?

He's in a bad mood, best not poke the bear, you thought.

----

You entered the living room and saw Collin sat on the couch with his arms crossed and a sour look on his face. He glared at you, as he usually did, reminding you of a huffing child. Richard was sitting on the same plush couch, now reading an electronic magazine.

“Sit.” He orders and points beside him, without even looking at you.

So, you obey. Sitting between the two androids. You shiver a little, not knowing whether it was a draft or if you were just nervous.

Richard looks up at Collin and tilts his head. Collin sighs and reluctantly throws the blanket that was across his knees, over you. You shuffle to pull it over your exposed shoulders. You were still wearing your semi skimpy pyjamas.

“We are going to spend a lot more time together." Richard spoke up while his eyes were glued back to the magazine that he was scrolling through.

Collin rolls his eyes. “Rich, don’t you think that this whole thing is more trouble than it’s worth, I mean-”

“Shhh.” Richard patronisingly cut off his brother, still not looking up.

“But-”

“I said shut it.” Richard growled back his eyes finally lifting to his brother. “Remember what I told you, Collin.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Collin sighed crossing his arms once again.

Just as Collin finished sighing the sound of the door made Richard put down the magazine to his side. He lets his arm slink around you and pull you to now be leaning into his chest.

You hate that it makes your heart flutter.

“Good evening, Connor.” Richard calls out.

You see Connor enter the room with a smile on his face, a smile that falls flat when he sees Richard’s arm around you.

“Richard… Come on, really?” Connor sighs as his arms drop from loosening his tie.

“What can I say?” Richard shrugs. “The little dote loves me. Needy little thing won’t leave me alone.”

“Isn’t that right, sixty?” Richard eggs on Collin to join.

“Yep, follows us everywhere.” Collin replies in a monotone voice. You can see that Collin was displeased. Why was he going along with this?

Connor’s brows furrow and his lips become a straight line.

“Sit with us.” Richard suggests to his brother.

“I think I’ll pass.” Connor sighs continuing to undo his tie.

“Come on Connor, we never see you anymore. It will be just like old times.”

“Next time.” Connor gives a weak half-smile, turns and walks away.

When the oldest brother is out of sight Collin sighs and throws his head back.

“Good work.” Richard retracts his arm from you and focuses his attention back to the magazine. Leaving you feeling a cold breeze where his body once was.

“Go do your thing, Collin.” Richard points his thumb towards the direction that Connor had gone.

Collin sighs as he gets up to follow Richards orders, whatever they were. It would only be a short while until he has returned to the living room again.

“Tomorrow.” was all he said before sitting back down on the couch.

“Perfect.”

_________________

The next day came, It was much of the same thing as the previous day. Richard called you back to the living room again, only this time he gives you your own set of instructions to follow:

“I want you to coo over Collin, once Connor comes in you will play along. If I give you further instructions you will follow them, without question.”

Whatever he was planning, it didn’t sit right with you, but you were going to do as you were told. You didn't really have any alternative option.

5.45 pm. You get called into the living room again.

Collin enters with a glass of his special 'Android whiskey' in hand. His shirt unbuttoned and looking a little dishevelled, still sporting the same sour look from the previous day.

“You’ve been drinking…” The younger android observes, disapprovingly.

“Yep.”

Richard frowns and taps his foot for a few moments before he stands to his feet. “Don’t mess this up.”

“I’m fucking fine, okay.” Collin hissed taking a swig of his drink, staring down his younger brother. Although the youngest, it was very clear that Richard had made himself the Alpha among his brothers. Although Collin had a distaste for his plans, he still followed along.

Richard shook his head before ordering you to go sit with Collin.

You hear Collin mumbled something you can’t quite make out under his breath. He must really not like you, you thought.

Collin hovers his hand over you reluctant to actually touch you. Almost as if he is…

Afraid?

No that’s not right.

He awkwardly takes you into his arms and attempts to get you to look as if it was natural when in reality it was just an awkward mess.

“Collin.” Richard warns his brother, uncuffing the sleeves of his dark dress shirt that fit his form so exquisitely.

“It’s her, not me.” Collin only whines in response, you both still fidgeting.

You huff a little but still attempt to ‘cuddle’ into him while trying to look natural. When in reality it was very uncomfortable. Just as the two of you had finally settled into a half decent looking position, Connor had come home.

When he entered into the living room, he immediately notices you now draped over Collin. He averts his gaze away quickly, LED glowing bright yellow.

“Finally come to join us?” Richard greets him with a pat on the shoulder.

Connor looks back towards the hallway.

“Come on, you promised.” Richard used his best fake sincere voice, pleading for Connor to join, eventually he caves and sits on the couch farthest from the three of you.

“So tell us, how has work been?” Richard sparks up the conversation once Connor has settled down into his seat.

“It’s been going quite well actually. I think we are really starting to make some progress with- ” Connor stops himself mid-sentence when he sees Richard rubbing your lower leg.

“Can you just not… Do that.” His eyes close shut in frustration.

“Oh Connor, why are you so uncomfortable with our new pet?”

“She’s not a-” his quiet voice is interrupted.

“She really does love the attention, in fact, she’s quite sad you haven’t given her any. Isn’t that right?” Richard nods to you to agree with him.

You nod back, feeling like shit for doing so. You didn't want to mess with Connor. you had no reason to but-

“See? Poor thing…” he teases Connor again.

“Richard I-”

“Come on Connor, she only wants to play.”

“Enough!” Connor finally raises his voice and stands up out of his seat. “What is your problem? You know I don’t like this.” He gestures towards you and Collin. You feel your stomach turn in guilt. “Humans are not just some kind of lap dog.”

“Con-”

“No Richard.” He stops his brother. He really is not in the mood for this discussion again. It felt like they had it far too many times by now.

“Hey! Come on chill, Look.” Collin releases his hold on you, his hands in the air. “Come-on we’ll just watch some TV, yeah?”

Richard smiles and shrugs at Connor, daring him to say something else. He doesn't give him the satisfaction.

“Fine.” Connor bites his lip. A very human habit he had picked up.

Richard grabs the remote and winks over to you and Collin. Should you have said something? It seems whatever he is planning is going in his favour so far. He turned the channel to the news. Connor’s shoulders begin to relax back into the chair as the volume is turned up, the newscaster finishing up her story.

“And in other news today, there have been multiple reports of feral human’s running rampant in the city. Some cases leading to multiple civilian casualties. Officials announce today saying the situation is being taken care of."

Richard tuts.

“Hmm. Bad for business, Con” He turns his head to Connor with a sly grin. “See what happens when these animals are free?”

___________________________________________

Previous Chapter | AO3 | Next Chapter

[izzy-b-hands]

You Send Me: Chapter Eight

Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe

Did I seriously include the song this fic is named for in the fic? Of course I did lol. Part of this fic is self-indulgence, another bit is wanting to write good fic y’all will enjoy, and the other part is getting more people to listen to Sam Cooke. 

Also, much like Freddie, I’m a gay who can’t drive. I’ve had a few lessons on an automatic, was too terrified to learn stick at all, so if the driving in this chapter is questionable...yeah. There’s a reason I made description in that section brief lol.  In my defense, Freddie is also involved in that portion, so this is the blind leading the blind here, but doing their best. Points if you notice the real life driving mistake I made when I had lessons that I included in this fic!

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“Come dance!” Freddie, usually shy in public, was officially drunk enough to be less shy, and it was adorable. 

Until now.

“I don’t dance,” you insisted. “I’m content to watch you lot go.” 

“You said you like Sam Cooke,” he protested, pointing at the jukebox, which at this bar held almost exclusively ‘50s and ‘60s sock bop sounding pop music. “That’s what’s playing, and what we have queued up. Come on, let yourself have some fun!” 

Blessedly, it switched to a slower favorite of yours, You Send Me, as Freddie pulled you out of your seat. This, you knew you could manage. 

And with no one there aside from the bar staff, the band, and the crew, you could actually enjoy it, letting your arms wrap around Freddie to hold him close while you swayed. It maybe wasn’t ‘dancing’ exactly, but it was lovely, and his smile was well worth it. 

“I bet you can sing this well,” Freddie mumbled. “I want you to sing it for me. Go on.” 

“Freddie,” you blushed. “Maybe later.” 

“Later,” he nodded. “Fine. In the next hotel room, you’re going to sing for me.” 

You shook your head and laughed. “Sure. If we’re both awake by then.” 

Even though you were refraining from drinking more than a sip of whatever Freddie was having, you figured you would still be exhausted from running about with them. They were fun, but energetic fun, more than you were used to from working the same venue each night. 

The crew fell away from their professional personas as well, and you chuckled as you drifted with the group to the next bar, one arm holding Freddie close and mostly upright, the other tugging John in line, as he would turn to look at whatever caught his eye as you went down the road, and would occasionally forget to continue walking as he did. 

Crystal and Roger were mostly holding each other up, and Brian was trying to tally exactly how much each of you had already had to drink, in what seemed to be an attempt to ensure no one got any drunker. Adorably, he kept getting distracted by the sky, desperately working to point out various stars and constellations to whoever was closest to him, disparaging the brightness of the city lights that made them hard to see. 

You could only compare it to kittens, or puppies, let loose in a yard for the first time. Interested in everything, with unsteady legs, barely able to recall exactly what their original goal in moving was.

Somehow, the next bar still agreed to serve you all, though you again found yourself not wanting to drink much at all. It was more fun watching everyone else get sloshed, the playful barking at each other over the drinking competitions that started over already half-drunk pints of beer. Besides that, someone would need to have most of their mind present to get everyone back to the van. 

The idea was to drive right away, and make the two or so hours to Kalamazoo so everyone could rest before the show. However, the more everyone partied, the more you wondered if that was an achievable goal. 

Sure enough, getting them back to the van was chore enough. 

“I’m not ready for the van,” John mumbled. “I hate that thing.” 

“You helped pick it out,” you giggled. 

He was draped over your shoulder, feet stumbling along, trying to hold hands with Freddie behind your back. “I know. It was cheapest, and safest, but it’s so ugly. You know, you know, it won’t even be the booze that makes me sick, it’ll be the interior of it.” 

“It’ll be the booze for me,” Freddie said cheerfully, before patting you on the back and stumbling to the nearest trash can on the corner. It sounded painful, but he grinned even as he stumbled back. “No more for me. Too much, much too much already. That’s a funny word, much...” 

John groaned as Freddie continued to rhapsodize about the word ‘much’, and you focused on keeping them both walking. 

Granted, the trail you were following was an odd one, with Brian and Roger and the crew leaning on each other just ahead of you, laughing and walking in anything but a straight line. More importantly, you didn’t recognize anything around you.

“Lads?” you asked.

No response, everyone was in their own little world.

“Guys?” 

Nothing, but Freddie let his face fall against your neck and mumbled something that sounded like “What?” 

“Are we going the wrong way?” 

Brian was the one to stop dead, so fast that Roger smacked straight into his back. “This isn’t where the van is.” 

“No,” you said slowly. “I think it’s back the way we came. I think, at least.” 

Had Brian been sober, you figured he would have led the charge back the other way. But drunk Brian was easier to panic, and panic he did, dropping to sit on the nearest curb. 

“How’re we going to get back? I don’t know where we are, and if you don’t know where we are,” he threw up his arms in apparent frustration. “Then we’re done for.” 

“I don’t know about that,” you said, and tried to swing John and Freddie with you to a payphone on the other side of the road. “How about I call the driver, hm? Maybe he can just drive and find us.” 

“Y’mean me?” the crew member that usually drove popped out from behind Crystal, nearly tripping as he did. 

“Oh for pity’s sake,” you muttered. “Did you all forget we have to drive to Kalamazoo before the morning?” 

Mentioning the next city’s name was a mistake, because it utterly destroyed them. 

“What a stupid fucking name,” Roger laughed, slipping to sit down by Brian. “Like kazoo. Or harmonica. I’m going to name a city Timpani.” 

“You’re going to buy a city just for that?” Brian asked. 

Roger shrugged. “What better reason to buy one?” 

“Property taxes,” John said decisively, earning another round of laughter, but as far as you could tell he was deadly serious. 

“Okay,” you said. “I technically have a license. I’ve never driven a van, or much at all, but I can do this.” 

Only Freddie seemed to glom onto what you were going to do. “Are you going to leave us here, and go get it?” 

“Don’t have a lot of other choice, love,” you replied, and helped him and John to the curb. “Just stay put, make sure no one is sick all over themselves, and soon enough we’ll have you on the van, alright?” 

“I should come with you,” Freddie insisted, struggling to his feet. “I’ve only had...I didn’t count the drinks, but that’s fine. You can drive, I’ll just help you drive well.” 

“Freddie, you don’t know how to drive at all!” Roger called. 

“Well, technically I don’t either,” you admitted. “I mean, my granddad bribed the instructor to pass me...and I have been in a car, behind the wheel before...for an afternoon, at least...” 

You looked down at the sensation of John’s hand on your leg. 

“I believe in you,” he said, again so serious you would have thought this matter was life-or-death. “Bring us our ugly fucking van.” 

“It isn’t that bad, John,” you sighed. “You’ve got to forgive yourself for that, my man. You really do.” 

You left them then, Freddie stumbling along beside you, and pondered exactly how different a van might be compared to a car, and hoped to god it wasn’t a stick. 

“Driving is overrated,” he mumbled as you took him by the arm, keeping him close so he wouldn’t get lost in the small crowds on the sidewalk. “But flying is expensive. How do people get around in this country?” 

“You drive, or you find the money to fly, or you hope there’s a train or subway in your area,” you replied. “Or in my case, you walk when you can, and are incredibly thankful and kind to those who provide you with rides when you need them.” 

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “That’s why your thighs are so big. I mean I like that, that they are. But it’s the walking. Lots of muscle. Good thighs, those. I wish we had a hotel room tonight, so I could appreciate them properly.” 

You blushed, grateful that the people out and about didn’t seem to give a shit about the two of you wandering, and Freddie speaking less than quietly, though you didn’t think he was aware of that in his current state. “Maybe once you’ve sobered up, hm? If we make it to Kalamazoo on time, and all.” 

He nodded, only to suddenly dash away from you as you approached the venue, lurching towards the van. 

“Please be careful!” you called, patting yourself down for the van keys. 

The keys that were not in any of your pockets. 

Because they were with the driver, back many streets away. 

“Freddie,” you said softly as you watched him struggle with the van door. “Have you ever picked a lock?” 

----

“We owe Roger one,” Freddie sighed as you finally clambered into the van. “I’ve never been so glad he liked breaking into my hotel rooms.” 

Roger’s method, at least part of it taught to Freddie, had been enough to crack the lock and let you in. As a bonus, it has also sobered Freddie up a decent amount. 

He settled into the passenger seat and watched you sit behind the wheel. “So. You have driven before, at least once?” 

You nodded. “It didn’t go great, but I have.” 

He nodded slowly, matching your nods, as if that would somehow make the van go on its own, as the two of you stared at the steering wheel. “By didn’t go great...” 

“I was supposed to do a three point turn on a really narrow dirt road, and sort of ended up more in the ditch than on the road. My granddad had to help me get it back on the road, yelling the whole time, it was horrid, honestly.” 

“Can sort of see why you don’t drive more, knowing that,” Freddie said. “But you’ve got this.” 

You sighed, and then realized that, without the keys, the van would not go anywhere. “Oh fucking hell.” 

Freddie fumbled with the glove compartment, and tossed an extra set of keys to you. “Thank god we paid extra for those. Never thought we’d need them, but here we are.” 

Getting out of the lot was easy enough; it was a big open area with no other vehicles in it at the time. 

Detroit traffic, however, was a different beast. 

“I literally would kill to be doing anything else,” you muttered. 

“As long as it isn’t me you would kill,” Freddie chuckled. “But I get it, this is...not great. Let’s not say bad.” 

But it was bad. You crept forward as much as you could manage, only to get not a single spot you were fast enough to drive into so you could join the traffic. 

“Maybe you’re overthinking it,” Freddie said gently. “I don’t know that this is really right, but next time you see an opening, just gun it? I suppose?” 

“Anything is better than sitting here,” you replied, and the next chance you got, you took. 

Thankfully, it seemed Detroit drivers weren’t unused to sloppy driving. Sure, ninety percent of them were flipping you off, but you were in your lane, obeying the speed limit, and braking with enough room (maybe too much, at a few stops, but you preferred that to accidentally hitting anyone.) 

Even so, you had to nearly ask Freddie to pry your white-knuckled hands off the steering wheel once you’d reached the rest of your group and parked in the lot of the bar nearest to them. 

“Are you good to drive?” you asked the driver as he led the rest over. 

“Sure,” he replied, while you watched everyone else make their way into the van. 

“No, really,” you said. “Traffic is terrible here, if you aren’t sober enough, then we need to wait.” 

He muttered something under his breath, too low for you to hear, but nodded. “Fine. We’ll be close on time, but we’ll see if we can sleep it off here for a bit.” 

You headed for the van, only to dash away as John came running back out of it, making it a good few feet away before he lost his stomach over the pavement. 

“I told you it would be the interior,” he said, as he tried to wave away your hands. 

“Let me at least help you up,” you insisted, and it was a relief when he let you grab him and carefully pull him up. You managed a quick wave to Freddie, who watched as you helped John back onto the van. 

He looked tired, and like the beginnings of a hangover were starting to claw at him, but he smiled as he looked on, and that made the whole situation better. 

Though you were still incredibly glad you wouldn’t have to drive the van to Kalamazoo yourself. The streets of Detroit had been more than enough, thank you very much. 

[batwake]

Come In From The Cold - chapter three + epilogue

chapter one - chapter two

pairing: clint barton/bucky barnes

ao3 link

It rains.

It rains and it rains and it rains.

The first person they try to send in gets his neck broken. The second and third have their own guns turned against them. The fourth calls out a woman’s name as his head connects with the doorframe. They don’t send any more for a while after that.

There are no windows, but the rain can be heard loud and clear. Which means it’s close. To what, it’s unknown. The surface, if the cell is underground. Some sort of window, if it isn’t. Close to going crazy, close to escape, to a man dressed in purple, to a house.

The fifth person they send is not taken down so easily.

Dodge. Dodge. Punch, miss. Dive, go for the legs. Go for my legs, someone had said. Jump back up, punch when he isn’t expecting—

The man goes down, does not get back up.

The Winter Soldier sits on the floor, and does not feel like he has won.

-

When Clint was a kid, he and Barney used to play a game.

It was like hide and seek. When dad gets home from the bar, you hide. When you wake up at three am and hear him yelling at mom, you seek. Clint isn’t allowed to step between Barney and dad, but can between dad and mom. Don’t talk to dad unless he talks to you first.

The rules of the game went out the window once dad hit Clint’s head too hard and they couldn’t afford hearing aids. Barney stood up for Clint when he hadn’t before, talking to dad out of turn when Clint couldn’t hear him. Shoving him roughly and telling him make everything something to hit with. And hit them until they stop.

Barney hadn’t been a good brother.

But he wasn’t a bad one, either.

So Clint picks up the phone and calls.

~

It rains well into the night, long after Nick Fury has vacated the premises with the barest promise to let Clint know if they learn anything else.

Kate arrives sometime after three am, finding Clint sitting on the floor of his living room, all of the furniture pushed up against the far wall and the carpet rolled up. Clint isn’t dancing, though. Piles of paper sit on the floor around him, all from an overflowing file that Fury had left. It mostly incomprehensible, and what Clint can actually make out doesn’t make sense. There’s a form that appears to be from the army, the name James Buchanan Barnes at the top, and a photo showing a younger and clean cut Bucky dressed in fancy army greens. Another photo is attached to what looks like an essay written in Russian, and has Bucky in a more familiar form, with his long hair and unshaved face. He looks dead, almost, skin tinted blue as he sits in what can only be some sort of freezer. There are other photos, of brain scans and dog tags and chairs that look like the kind of thing an evil dentist would have. Clint can’t make sense of it all. Some pages are written in English and appear to be American, while others must be Russian. 

He hadn’t been able to explain much over the phone, but she looks understanding as she toes over the papers to kneel next to Clint, who is shaking. Kate wraps her arms around him delicately, not paying any attention to her soaking wet rain coat or the papers around them. Clint presses his face into her neck and lets himself cry, her soothing hands pressed to the back of his head. For a fleeting moment, he is reminded of his mother.

“It’ll all be okay,” Kate assures him, snapping Clint out of the fog he had been in. Kate is Kate, and never anyone else. She presses their foreheads together, her wet hair falling into Clint’s face. “We’ll figure it out.”

“We’re calling in the reinforcements,” someone says. Clint’s head snaps up, looking over Kate’s shoulder to see a tall, blonde man standing awkwardly in the doorway. He looks sheepishly between Clint and Kate, like he feels bad for ruining their moment. “Uh, sorry.”

It dawns on Clint exactly who this is. “Katie, were you ever going to tell me that you know Captain America?”

Kate’s hand, which has moved to Clint’s shoulder, tightens its grip. “I ran into him in the stairwell. So somehow he knows where you live.”

Captain America shuffles. He is not at all like the warrior Clint has been picturing. He seems awkward, and carries himself like he isn’t totally sure what to do with his body. Steve is what Bucky had called him. His best friend.

“Bucky told you,” Clint realizes after a beat of silence while Steve searches for his words.

“For emergencies!” Steve hurries out. “I think this is as emergency as it gets.”

Clint presses both of his hands to the wood floor, trying to steady himself. Kate lowers herself so she is sitting beside him, shrugging off her coat and tossing it to the couch a few feet away. She remains close to Clint, their knees and shoulders bumping. Her worried eyes connect with Clint’s as she cuts off Steve’s continued awkward and panicked rambling. “The Captain said that he can help.”

Somewhere between the stairs and Clint’s apartment Kate and Steve had realized who the other was and were planning something. “Reinforcements,” Clint echoes from earlier.

Steve presses forward until he stands at the edge of the circle of papers that Clint has made, glancing over them. He doesn’t look surprised at what he sees. It makes Clint wonder how much of this Steve understands. “We, some of the other fighters and I, can help.”

“I don’t understand.”

Steve crouches down and picks up a few of the papers, looking over them. “Has Bucky told you anything? About his past.”

Clint shakes his head.

“I don’t believe the government, or whoever has Bucky, is planning on killing him anytime soon.”

“But Fury said—”

“Fury is holding his cards close to his chest,” Steve says, passing a paper over to Kate, who holds it in front of both of them. The paper has clearly been kept over years, maybe decades, the edges folding in and the page turning brown instead of white. That’s not what surprises Clint, as most of the papers around them are older than Kate. The page contains a list of some sort, a straight line of black going down the page next to a seperate list of years. The only thing besides the years that isn’t blacked out is one name at the bottom. James Buchanan Barnes sits next to the years 1963-2010. “You’ve heard of the Winter Soldier.”

“That’s Bucky,” Kate says.

Clint looks up. “There were—”

“Others,” Steve finishes, nodding. “Before Bucky. But he was the best.”

“The best at what?” asks Kate, practically reading Clint’s mind.

“The Winter Soldier was an assassin for a nazi organization called Hydra,” Steve explains delicately, sorting through all of the papers closest to him. He appears to know what they all mean. “Hydra got its start in the second World War, and like an infection, it continued to grow even after. They lurked in the shadows and started to gain a cult-like following. Bucky joined the army in ‘61, and well, died during a mission in ‘62. But he hadn't, not in the way it counts. He had been taken into captivity by Hydra and became a brainwashed killing machine who didn’t even know his own name.”

“How is that possible—” Kate starts.

“Bucky hadn’t been the first Winter Soldier, but he was the last. Up until then no other Winter Soldier had acted positively to the serum, or finished the training, or died not too long after they started active duty. But Bucky lasted. For forty seven years.”

“Wait,” Clint chokes out, but Steve continues.

“When they found my body in 2008, I joined SHIELD as Captain America and became an agent. I helped take down Hydra, saved Bucky, and then SHIELD shut down, never to be heard from again.”

They must be wearing twin faces of shock. Kate speaks first while Clint tries not to hyperventilate. “You’re the real Captain America? The one from those war posters in the 60s?”

“Yes.”

Kate presses a hand to her forehead. “Jesus Christ.”

This explains everything that was odd about Bucky, Clint thinks. The arm, the languages. His off days where it’s like he accidentally entered factory reset mode. For nearly fifty years, Bucky had been nothing more than a machine, an asset. Now, he was out of his time, his brain working like a fork in a blender, and was in an underground fighting ring because he had no other options. I don’t even technically exist, he had said. And then, you don’t know what I’ve done.

And now he’s gone.

Clint, suddenly steady and sober, stares at Steve. “You said you don’t think they want to kill him. What does any of this have to do with that?”

Steve manages to hold his gaze. “Hydra wouldn’t kill their greatest weapon.”

Beside Clint, Kate startles, leaning forward. “You’re not saying—”

“I believe Hydra has infiltrated the government, and is very likely the root of the accords.”

~

Steve leaves at 5am and promises to return in a few hours. He doesn’t explain where he is going.

Clint has about as much faith in him as he does with Nick Fury at this point, but lets him leave all the same. What more could he lose?

He looks warily at Kate over his coffee. She looks more put together than he does, and that’s saying something. Her hair sits high on her head in a sloppy bun, likely still wet from the rain, and makeup is smeared down her face. It looks like she’s wearing pajamas, with sweatpants tucked into her rain boots and a t-shirt she probably stole from Clint.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” Clint whispers after a long stretch of silence.

Kate frowns at him. “Don’t be sorry, dumbass.”

“I just—“

“You didn’t just anything, okay?” Kate reaches across the table and grabs his hand. “I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine, right Hawkeye?”

Clint sniffs, looking down at their hands. His chest tightens and constricts. “I don’t know what we’re getting into, here.” Steve talked of reinforcements and Hydra with some sort of optimism, like the fight isn’t over yet.

Like there’s still hope.

“It’s not like we did back then, either,” says Kate. “I didn’t expect to become your sidekick when you broke into my house.”

“You’re not my sidekick, Katie.”

She looks away, her gaze far off. “You got that right.”

More silence falls. Clint tries to keep his shit together, forcing himself to drink more coffee. Kate leaves the kitchen to take Lucky outside as the clock on the microwave approaches 6am.

She returns, hair once again wet and drooping sadly to one side of her head. Lucky shakes the water off right next to Clint, then wanders back into the living room to go back to sleep on the couch that is still pressed up against the wall. Clint is reading Barney’s letter again.

“I wouldn’t mind, you know.”

Clint looks up as she sits down, shedding her coat once more. Kate motions to the letter. “You could leave. I wouldn’t mind.”

He stares at her. “I would mind.” Clint couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t see Katie every day. He needs her to tell him when he’s being stupid, or take care of him when he’s sick. No one makes mac n’ cheese quite like she does, or rolls their eyes so hard it must give them a headache. No one to hold his hand or hug him in exactly the right way or share his bed after long nights. The only other person who could ever come close won’t be coming home anytime soon.

“You deserve to be somewhere with Bucky where you can both exist. You have the opportunity, don’t you want to go before it’s too late?”

“It’s already too late.”

“You heard what Steve said!”

Clint rubs his face, releasing a breath that sends a shake through his body. The truth is that he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. What if they do something, something crazy and stupid and definitely illegal and Clint spends the rest of his sad life in a prison, or worse. All for a ghost.

But doesn’t Bucky deserve that? The fighting chance? The what if?

Clint doesn’t even know how long it’s been since Bucky was taken into custody. Had Fury waited? Or was Clint the first to get the news? There were too many variables, none of it made sense—

“What if I don’t deserve it?” asks Clint after a while. Kate’s face softens as she lifts herself from the chair and rounds the table, wrapping her arms around Clint’s shoulders.

“You, Clint Barton,” she whispers to his hair, “deserve a happy ending most of all.”

~

By 11am, Steve still has not returned. Clint paces worriedly around the apartment, takes two showers, digs through the duffel bag holding all of their supplies, takes out his hearing aids, and sits stock still in the middle of all of Bucky’s papers. Knowing what he now knows about the Winter Soldier, some things click into place. There’s a pack of papers connected by a ring at the corner that’s just full of names and dates, a few censored here and there. Victims, Clint realizes, enemies of Hydra that the Winter Soldier targeted. There are thousands of names.

Clint’s stomach stirs uncomfortably. He sets the packet down and moves to stand, feeling ready for this third shower, when Kate, sitting on the couch, looks over at the front door. Clint follows her gaze, but doesn’t see anything. He looks back over at her as she signs wait, her palms up towards her and fingers wiggling. She is up and moving to the door before Clint can respond.

As she opens the door Clint lets himself slide back onto the floor, his feet tucked underneath him. Kate is stepping back and letting Steve in quickly, followed by two women. Kate is talking hurriedly to them, her mouth moving too quickly to read and her eyes looking between their new arrivals. Clint looks back down at the papers, too tired to get up and sort things out.

A pillow hits the side of his head. When he looks up, Kate is looking at him expectantly, Steve looks awkward, and the women are hard to read. Tall dark and beautiful has her arms folded and a blank expression on her face. The second, with defined muscles and big curly hair, looks like she’s judging Clint. Kate, looking small between the two women, runs her pointer finger across her forehead then places her right hand over her left and wiggles her fingers. After a pause and a glance to the second woman, she slots her fingers together and keeps her thumbs pointed up, moving her hands around in a circle.

Ah. So Steve really had called in the reinforcements, whatever that means. Clint was having a hard time keeping up.

The Black Widow says something, and Miss America begins to respond, but Kate cuts her off and starts to rattle on about whatever it is.

Clint lets out a long exhale, stands, carefully steps over all of the papers, pushes past Steve, heading into the bathroom.

His head hurts.

~

His heart hurts.

This is what’s on his mind after the third shower, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. His blonde hair is disheveled despite being fresh from a shower, and his eyes are red and rimmed with heavy bags. It’s been less than twenty four hour since he’s seen Fury, but it feels like several lifetimes. From finding out that your sort-of boyfriend is as good as dead, to hearing that he used to work for a nazi organization and grew up in the 50s, everything was starting to pile up on Clint’s shoulders.

Clint was starting to feel very, very overwhelmed.

There was hope, supposedly, for Bucky. Steve seemed to think so.

What had Barney said, when they were kids?

Make everything something to hit with, and hit them until they stop.

Clint lets out a long sigh, slipping in his hearing aids and pulling on a t-shirt and sweatpants that don’t fit him right, but are better than nothing.

“Alright,” Clint says as he enter the kitchen. Kate pauses mid coffee pour, her eyebrows raising and disappearing behind her bangs. She scrambles as the mug overflows and spills onto the table, swearing loudly. “How are we doing this?”

-

It can’t tell exactly how much time passes.

Sometimes they say the words, sometimes they don’t.

Either way, everything is foggy. It fades in and out, having lost the energy to fight long ago. There are flashes of, of things, of people and places and sounds. A dark and old apartment filled with nothing except a mattress and some boxes fades into a pleasant living room with pictures of fuzzy faces and a tv that just shows static, a low voice saying something about dancing and arrows and haircuts.

It shakes its head, trying to clear its brain of the fog, the concrete floor coming into focus for a moment underneath it before turning into an ugly green carpet that smells like rosemary and home. This time a woman’s voice is singing something high and sweet that makes it long to crawl into her arms and fall asleep.

It screams, loud enough that it pulls it out of the mist, banging the metal fist onto the floor. It screams so loud that it is sure someone will come to shut it up, to put a bullet in its head to get it over with.

But no one does.

~

There is a time when they try to activate The Asset, but when they say the words, all it can do is bring two fingers to its chin and make a motion pulling them down and away from its face until they inject something that forces it back into the fog.

~

Bucky thinks a lot about the choices he’s made up to this point.

There was a walk home, from, somewhere, he doesn’t remember. An alleyway, a man with a badge and a uniform and a gun that didn’t fire real bullets. Someone in a pristine lab coat saying the words, but, no, that doesn’t make sense, Hydra went down in—

You spend the better part of your life double and triple checking locks, looking underneath beds, taking the long way home, and obsessively honing your self defence skills, and where does that get you?

He’s clearly in a cell of some sort, but whether or not this is the sort of treatment that enhanced people usually get upon arrest is unclear. Instead of bars there is a heavy metal door, and there is no window or bed. All he has is the light in the ceiling and the occasional grunt that comes through the door. He’s pretty sure he had killed the first few people they sent in, but he had been in full Winter Soldier mode, so he’s not totally sure. Whoever had activated him hadn’t known how to turn it off, so he spent some time in an odd state of limbo where he was activated with no purpose, turning him into a foggy mess that didn’t know who to kill or who to trust. Eventually he ran out of steam and they started trying different things on him, like saying the code words and injecting him with something that makes him become loose and pliant, or, once, knocks him straight out.

He wishes they’d just kill him already. Isn’t that what they do to enhanced anyway?

Whoever is running this operation clearly doesn’t understand how the Winter Soldier works. They’re trying to figure that out, what gets him going and what stops it, and just what his limits are. Why had he been arrested just to become a test subject, left to practically rot away in this fucking cell? Or why hasn’t he been killed?

Bucky thumps his head uselessly against the door. He wonders if anyone outside it can hear him.

He shouldn’t have joined the fucking army.

-

Natasha Romanov takes her coffee black. America Chavez likes hers with only a little milk and cinnamon. Kate, per usual, makes hers with lots of milk and sugar. Steve Rogers does not drink coffee, but somehow finds bags of tea hidden in Clint’s cupboards and drinks that instead.

They all manage to fit in Clint’s kitchen. Kate, America, Steve, and Natasha at the table and Clint on the counter, Lucky underneath the table at Kate’s feet. They’re going on thirty hours of whatever it is they’re doing, talking, planning, something. They walk back and forth between the kitchen and the living room every once in a while, looking for something, anything, they can use to figure out exactly what it is that they’re going to do.

Steve explains that he had to visit the facility and steal some files, which is how he figured out how to contact Natasha and America.

“Fury doesn’t know you’re here?” asks Kate.

He takes a long sip of his tea and shakes his head. Steve looks over at Clint on the counter, then says, “I worry that he wouldn’t think it would be worth it. This isn’t the first fighter that’s been arrested, and it will hardly be the last.”

Clint forces himself to look up at the ceiling rather than at Steve’s sad face. Seventy five arrow holes in the kitchen, and twenty two are on the ceiling. He counts them now, each one a tap on the counter.

One, two, three, four…

“There’s not much we can do without the resources at the facility,” Natasha points out. “The combined forces of Stark’s tech and Fury’s information would do us wonders.”

America wanders out of her chair, bringing her mug with her into the living room. “I don’t get how Fury got our information. I certainly didn’t give it to him.” She moves along the edge of papers that Clint has created. They’ve hardly made a dent, even if they’ve already moved a decent amount of papers into the room. Pages that appear to be health updates with locations blacked out, or army files that declare Sergeant James Barnes KIA.

“Why don’t we just get in and get into Stark’s shit then?” Kate keeps her eyes on America through the doorway, her hands nervously fiddling with her own mug.

...fifteen, sixteen, seventeen...

“You’ve seen the security at the damn place, it’s nearly impossible to get in without being detected, much less get in and get out undetected,” Natasha says plainly, as if it’s obvious.

...nineteen, twenty, twenty one…

“There are twenty two points of entry, fifteen exits,” America calls from the living room. “I don’t see why we can’t shut a few down for a little while.”

Clint looks away from the ceiling, over at Kate. She’s looking back at him, and without missing a beat, raises a hand to point at him, then moves her hand down away from her chin. He just nods, hopping off the counter and moving into the living room, where America is crouched over one of the pages.

“There’s nothing we can do that Stark wouldn’t notice immediately,” says Steve.

There’s a paper that America is holding. Every single word is censored, except for a single photo in the top right corner of an empty street.

“Why don’t we just ask him?”

Clint can practically hear all of the heads turning towards him. Steve starts, “Ask—”

“Stark.”

Heavy silence. Lucky’s panting fills it. Then,

“That could—”

“He wouldn’t—”

Steve and Natasha start to talk over each other, Steve adamantly refusing to believe that Tony would help while Natasha makes a case for Clint. America looks over at Clint and gives him a lopsided smile. “They’ll never give in to each other, they’re both too stubborn.”

Clint thinks back to the time he watched Captain America tapout during a fight with Black Widow. “I’m not so sure.”

The paper America was holding lands back on top of something about a man named Helmut Zemo. Clint’s looked at it already, anyway.

“Stark seems like the type of guy who would get a kick out of helping our wayward cause,” Clint continues, moving back into the kitchen and taking the seat that America has abandoned. He takes a drink from Kate’s cup even if he prefers his coffee black. He’s starting to feel like he needs a nap. A nap and a house far, far away from Bed Stuy. “So, why don’t we just ask him. Walk right up to that tower of his, knock on the door, and ask.”

Waving a hand, Kate comes to his defense. “He has a point.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows smugly at Steve. He looks at her for a long minute, some sort of internal turmoil, before he dips his head and says, “fine.”

From inside the living room, America tosses a fist in the air. “Now we’re cooking.”

And with that, Clint stands, leaving the kitchen, walking through the living room, and retreating to his lonely room. He doesn’t need to look to know Lucky has followed, jumping onto the bed and looking up at Clint sadly, as if he is wondering where their third party is.

Clint crouches at the edge of the bed where Lucky lies, his one eye trained on Clint. He runs a hand through Lucky’s fur and rubs behind his ear, his tongue falling out the side of his mouth with a low huff. “I miss him, too,” Clint whispers. He feels like crying but can’t, his body tired of it. Lucky sits up enough press his nose into Clint’s eye, then his tongue against his cheek, as if sensing the imaginary tears that are falling. “We’ll get him back,” Clint promises, to Lucky and to himself, petting the dog once more before removing his hearing aids and crawling into bed, wondering if it truly smells like Bucky, or if he is imagining it.

When Kate slips in beside him, sometime later, Clint realizes that he couldn’t live without Bucky as much as he could not live without Kate.

~

Clint is sitting on a roof somewhere, a younger, clean cut Bucky Barnes beside him. His hair is cut to army regulation but still styled immaculately, and is donned in the same fancy greens Clint had seen in the picture earlier, but the sniper rifle in his hands suggests that he’s in combat . When Clint looks down he sees his bow in his hands, a single arrow sitting innocently on the ledge of the building that they are on.

There’s a cityscape in front of them, but it fades in and out, too hard to make out any details.

“Where are we?” asks Clint, his voice sounding muted and warbled, even in his own head. The young Bucky beside him looks through the scope on his rifle.

“A mission, of course.” He certainly sounds like the Bucky that Clint knows, but there is a smirk in his voice, a hint of playfulness and youth. “Didn’t you read my file?”

Clint startles, grabbing the arrow from the ledge and looking over the edge of the building. Something finally comes into focus, a single door on a building across the street. There are no people on the foggy streets, no one to enter the building and no one to leave it. When Clint looks over at Bucky, he is no longer looking through the rifle and is instead sitting back, his feet kicked up with his arms raised behind his head, all too relaxed.

“A mission,” Clint repeats. With one arrow? “I don’t—”

“Hush,” says Bucky suddenly, sitting up and looking through the scope. Clint looks too, then stands suddenly, shocked at what he sees.

Bucky, the version that Clint knows with long hair and a scruffy face and a metal arm, walks out of the building. He’s nearly moving in slow motion, face blank as he moves forward. He’s dressed all in black, with weapons strapped across his body, and Clint realizes that he’s looking at the Winter Soldier.

Young Bucky pulls Clint back down by his sleeve. “You’ll blow our cover,” he hisses, face twisted into something angry and unrecognizable. “Aren’t you going to take the shot?”

Clint means to grab at Young Bucky’s shoulder, but his hand goes right through him. “I can’t,” Clint pleads, looking into the cold blue eyes of the young man that Clint doesn’t know at all. “He’s still in there.” Bucky rolls his eyes, huffing and lifting his rifle.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” he mutters, looking down the scope just for a moment before pulling the trigger.

There is a shot that rings through the air and Clint shouts, throwing out his arm, but he is falling suddenly, over the edge and away from the Bucky that Clint doesn’t know.

He wakes up before he can hit the ground.

~

For a moment Clint just feels someone beside him, and wonders if the last day and a half have been a dream. But Kate’s hair is longer and darker than Bucky’s, splayed out on the pillow beside her head. Lucky is sitting patiently by the door, looking back and forth between the bed and the door, his mouth hanging open.

Clint lets out a long breath that he didn’t know he had been holding, his heart beat steadying into something that makes it easier for him to set his feet on the carpet, put his hearing aids in, and open the door. It’s only once Lucky is rushing out of the bedroom and to the front door that Clint notices the sound of incessant knocking.

It’s hard to say how much time has passed since Clint abandoned the others for his bedroom, but sunlight is spilling through the curtains when it had been dark when he fell asleep, so something tells him it hasn’t been an absurdly long time. Natasha and America being sprawled over the furniture that's crowded together adds to the theory. Steve is nowhere to be seen.

“Wha—”

Tony Stark is already rambling as he steps through the open door and around Clint. “About damn time,” Tony is saying, carrying a cardboard box filled with electronics, “I’ve been knocking for, what, ten minutes?”

“You know I’m deaf right—”

“And at this time of day, no less” he continues, stepping into the kitchen and setting the box on the table. “This isn’t usually the sort of thing I’d do but Stars and Stripes put on his puppy face begged for my assistance.”

Clint stares at Tony. He hadn’t really expected him to be on their side, much less randomly show up to his apartment. “Where’s Steve?” asks Clint skeptically.

Tony waves a hand, pulling out a device that looks like a miniature satellite. “Has to check in with some official government people every morning since he’s on the enhanced list.”

“So that's where he went yesterday morning. He wasn’t just getting…” Clint pauses, looking awkwardly at Tony. “Things.”

“I am well aware that the star spangled man with a plan snuck into the facility.” Clint doesn’t get the reference, but Tony is continuing before he can even ask. “That man doesn’t have an ounce of stealth in that ridiculous body.”

The sound of Tony taking everything out of the box and rambling on about Steve taking what doesn’t belong to him finally wake someone else up, a disheveled Natasha stepping into the kitchen. She takes one look at Stark, heaves a long sigh, then moves to the counter to begin making more coffee. “You miss me, Miss Romanov?” Tony says, raising his eyebrows at her back. Clint takes the seat next to Tony, glancing over all of the equipment he has taken out. Several computers, the thing that’s shaped like a satellite, and a pile of things that just look like junk to Clint.

“Do you think you can find him?” asks Clint.

Shrugging, Tony grabs a cord from one of the computers and reaches around Natasha to plug it in next to the coffee machine. She glares at him as he responds, “Not sure. We tried to put a tracker in that arm of his forever ago, but he destroyed it as soon as he was out of my sight. He would never be found if he didn’t want to.”

Clint thinks back to that first night they met, when he had found one of the fifteen exits from the facility and Bucky had stopped to question him. They had fumbled around each other, neither one of them knowing exactly what to do. Bucky had been pissed off and worried that Clint was going to turn him in, and Clint had been afraid and flustered.

That was months ago.

Look at us now, Clint thinks, rubbing his forehead and glancing over at Tony. Nothing remains of Bucky in the apartment, nothing except that stupid fucking file. No pictures, because Bucky refused to take them. No notes, no traces, nothing to be found, just like Tony says.

“Is it a lost cause?”

Stark looks up, studying Clint. He takes him in, the whole mess of him. Clint can’t tell if there is pity hidden in his gaze.

“Be honest,” continues Clint.

He rubs his facial hair, glancing back down at his unfinished computer setup, then up at the ceiling, before Tony finally settles on Clint again. Over his shoulder, Natasha’s eyes flick around Tony’s person, the shoulders, his hands and feet, analyzing his body language. Finally, Tony says, “I think I can find him. Whether or not he’ll be sane isn’t something I can guarantee.”

That’s enough for Clint. Hope, something he had been trying to shove away, starts to bubble in his chest. Tony Stark, of all people, was giving him hope.

Clint leans back in his chair, letting the feeling settle and his shoulders loosen. Tony was going to find Bucky, they were going to come up with a plan. And then what?

Barney didn’t answer the phone when Clint called hours ago, and had not called back. Clint hadn’t left a message, either, but he didn’t even know what to say. There was promise of a house, a haven far away from New York. Big open fields for Lucky, places for targets for him and Kate. A home for Bucky where he would never have to worry about what may be hiding around the corner. “I’ll be right back,” Clint mutters while Tony takes a breath from talking to Natasha as she sits down. He can feel her careful gaze on him as he reenters the living room and goes back into his bedroom.

Kate is still asleep. He doesn’t bother waking her as he sits on the edge of the bed, digging around the blankets and looking for his cell phone. It’s nearly dead, so he plugs it into the wall and leans in close as he punches in the numbers he has memorized at this point.

It rings for a few seconds. Clint’s leg bounces nervously.

“Y’ello?”

Pause. Clint didn’t think he’d get this far.

“Barney?”

“...Clint?”

He has to mentally slap himself. “Yeah, yeah it’s me. I called earlier, but…”

“Jesus Christ Clint, what time is it over there?”

Clint glances at the clock. 6:38am. “Early. Been a long few days.”

There’s some noise on the other side of the phone, like a gust of wind is blowing past Barney. It’s loud, enough so that it makes Clint pull his ear away from the phone for a moment.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” says Barney. He doesn’t sound sorry, but continues, “so are you calling me this early in the morning just to say hi?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “You know why I’m calling.”

“No need to get snarky. You’re talking to your brother for the first time in years and this is the thanks I get?”

“Barney, please. I told you I’ve had a long few days.”

Another stretch of silence. More wind hits Barney’s phone, but nothing loud enough to hurt. He finally says, “well, it’s like I said. It’s yours if you want it.”

He wants it. So desperately, so much that he can feel it in his bones. Clint grabs a fistful of the blanket and closes his eyes, trying to ground himself. If they can just get Bucky, Stark could figure out how to get them there—

“I need some details, first.”

“Three bedrooms, two baths, two floors. A basement for… storage, if you need that. A barn full of junk. All furnished, mostly old stuff that we found for sale around the area. In Ireland, on land built for farming, though I can’t imagine that interests you or your lady.”

Clint looks over at where Kate is on the bed, one arm tossed over her eyes and the other outstretched towards him. He delicately picks up her hand as Barney tells him all about the place they could run away to. She doesn’t want that, he recalls, and sucks in a tight breath. He, Bucky, and Lucky, in a farmhouse in Ireland, both of them away from their best friends.

“She won’t be coming,” says Clint, can practically feel the sadness dripping in his voice. She has a life here, in school, with friends and America Chavez.

“Bad breakup making you wanna run away?”

“What? No! She’s my best friend, and she has a life outside of me.”

“Doesn’t matter to me. So, I’ll mail you the address—”

“There’s not really time for that. If this all goes well, I’ll be there in a few days.”

Another sound on Barney’s end, not wind this time, and not very loud. Clint suspects that Barney accidentally knocked something over. “What the fuck are you getting yourself into?”

“I’ll explain another time.”

“Does this have anything to do with work?”

“No. Well, maybe. In a roundabout way.”

Barney sounds a little out of breath, his voice louder and probably closer to the receiver. “I swear to God, Clint, be careful.” That wasn’t how he expected the sentence to end, but Barney is continuing before Clint can get a word in. “I’m a shitty brother but that doesn't mean I want you dead. Do you know what you’re getting into?”

“Careful, Barn.”

“Do you?” Barney says, more forceful this time. 

Does he? Clint doesn’t know. Tony’s working on locating Bucky. Where they go from there is to be determined. He’s holding on to that hope, that they can figure this out, and maybe live to tell the tale. “It’s like, ah, hide and seek,” Clint breathes. “We’re seeking, right now. Hiding is... well, it’s somewhere down the line.”

For as stupid as Clint once considered Barney, he seems to understand. “Don’t hit so hard that it becomes an issue.”

“I’m going to try not to.”

After a few seconds, Barney questions, “is it worth it, Clint?”

Clint answers without hesitation. “Yes.”

“Well then, I’ll take your word for it. You got an email or something? I can figure out how to get that address to you without… You know.”

He lists off an email that he stopped checking years ago, the hope that had been sitting in his chest shifting into something more like desire. Clint is no longer just hoping for the best— action is settling into his bones and muscles and blood, ready to do this, whatever this is.

“I gotta go, Clint.”

“Alright.”

Barney hesitates, says, “good luck,” and hangs up.

That checks out with how he remembers Barney. Clint exhales, setting his phone on the nightstand and shifting so he lies next to Kate. Her arm is resting across her chest and her eyes are open, trained on the ceiling. Their hands are still linked. His hands are big and scarred, while hers are thin and delicate, the nails painted purple.

“Did you hear very much?”

Kate stares up at the ceiling, waving a hand. “A little.” She sniffs, finally rolling onto her side to look at him. “Enough.”

The silence that settles between them is comfortable, but can hardly be considered silence. Tony can be heard talking in the other room, occasionally America, apparently awake, or Natasha butting in. 

“I’ll miss you,” Kate says lightly, blue eyes searching Clint’s face.

“I’m not…” Clint means to finish with leaving yet, but he chokes on his words. Clearing his throat and knocking their foreheads together, he whispers instead, “I don’t want to leave you.”

“You’re running away from this stupid country with the guy you’re head over heels for, you shouldn’t be thinking of me.” Her voice doesn’t waver as she says it, but for a moment Clint can see through the chinks in her well built armour, the way her eyes flicker with worry and her lips pressing firmly together.

“You know I love you, right Katie?” It’s not the first time he’s ever said it, not by a long shot, but he feels the need to remind her, suddenly.

Kate reaches forward with her left hand, the one not holding Clint’s, brushing back his hair with a delicate touch. “If you love something, let it go, right?”

Clint scoffs through a smile, pressing his hand into her face and twisting so he’s on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Kate shifts beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Their hands do not separate even once.

Sixteen arrow holes in the ceiling. He doesn’t bother counting them.

“For what it’s worth, I love you too.”

It’s worth everything.

He has nothing to say to that, so they slip into quiet once more. Clint thinks of the Bucky shaped hole in his heart, of the love that was, is, blossoming there, and where they will go after this whole thing blows over, assuming it does. When they find where Bucky is being kept, when they come up with a plan, when they break him out of there, when, when, when…

Just as Clint starts to think in if, there is a knock at the door. Kate lifts up her head, most of her hair stuck to the side of her face. Clint busies himself with pulling the hairs away carefully as Kate calls, “what?”

Steve says something behind the door that is muffled enough for Clint not to catch it, but Kate does. She presses her hand to her forehead and closes her eyes, shouting back, “alright, we’ll be back out in a second.” Clint follows when she sits up, pressing her mouth to the back of Clint’s hand. “Stark got everything set up, time to get to work.”

Clint just nods, watching as she slips out of bed, their hands coming apart at long last. Their fingers fall away from each other without any attention or fanfare. Clint wonders if maybe there should have been.

~

They all look like shit, Clint notes once they gather in the kitchen. Tony takes up most of the table space, so Kate, Natasha, and America sit further back in their chairs with matching perplexed looks, coffee cups held close to their chests. Steve leans in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, letting Clint take a spot on the counter. What surface Tony hasn’t taken over is covered in papers that Tony and Steve have deemed important, or, rather, readable, snippets of information slipping through the cracks here and there.

They’re going to run out of coffee soon.

“If your theory is true, that Hydra is running the government and started the accords, that still doesn’t tell us where they could have a base.” Tony rubs his forehead, looking over his computer at Steve. “Who's to say they’re not just keeping him in a police station?”

“They wouldn’t do that, not with…” A dangerous weapon. “Not with Bucky.”

“It’s been two days,” Natasha points out, “why are we assuming they’re even in this country?”

“Hydra wouldn’t risk getting him out of the country, not yet at least,” Steve swears, looking confident.

Clint can feel his heart beat in his ears. “It’s not like the police have a missing persons case on their hands,” he says, bitterly. “No one except us knew he existed.”

“And Hydra, apparently,” America interjects, looking pointedly at Steve from behind her mug. “We’re working off a lot of assumptions, maybe he’s just arrested and sitting in a jail somewhere?”

“That’s what Fury seemed to think,” Clint recalls. Fury had said something about death’s row and government custody. At that point, Bucky is as good as dead.

He didn’t know what was worse— the thought of Bucky arrested, a death sentence awaiting him, or having Hydra in control, turning him back into the Winter Soldier.  

“What I don’t understand,” says Kate, “is why Hydra, an organization that you supposedly brought down,” she points at Steve, not unacccusingly but not mean either, “suddenly reappears ten years later with a personal vendetta out for enhanced people.”

Steve opens his mouth, but Natasha cuts in before he can say anything. “‘Cut off one head, two more will take its place’,” she recites, ignoring everyone’s watchful gaze. “That’s Hydra’s slogan. They’re based on the principle that it’s impossible to get rid of them all.”

“Like the worst case of bedbugs you’ve ever seen,” replies Tony. Clint can’t tell how seriously he’s taking the situation.

Natasha twists in her chair to look at Steve, ignoring Tony’s comment. “Ten years ago, you wiped out most of Hydra, when you pulled Bucky out of the brainwashing. A few years later, the accords are put in place, and SHIELD, the government organization in charge of handling the enhanced, whose poster boy is their worst enemy, and his best friend is Hydra’s greatest weapon, goes down with the ship. Hydra, who has infiltrated our government, uses the accords to start taking down its greatest threats.”

“But that’s me,” Steve says, visibly confused. “I was just put on the watch list, not put in a prison or killed like they do with nearly everyone else.”

The pieces start to fall into place in Clint’s brain. “They didn’t execute or imprison Steve because they knew that he would know Bucky’s whereabouts.”

Tony stops typing, sitting straight and stock still as he stares at Clint. “Are you saying—”

“Bucky is the reason for the accords.” Clint’s voice sounds so quiet in his own head that he’s not sure anyone else hears it. There is a moment, just a millisecond for the pin to drop. Everyone runs the revelation over in their heads, and then, movement. Steve presses a hand to his face and promptly turns away and out of the room. Natasha manages to find a spot on the table for his coffee, moving swiftly after him. Tony leans back in his chair, a perplexed look gracing his features, speechless for maybe the first time ever. America presses her fingers to her temples and squeezes her eyes shut. Kate, her mouth hanging open, looks worriedly at Clint.

Clint cannot find it within himself to feel anything.

~

“You call that a shot?” Bucky laughs, leaning over the ledge to look down at the busy street. A group of pigeons investigate the apple slice that Clint just threw at them, pecking at it incessantly.

“Oh please, that was perfect and you know it.” Clint reaches for the plate of sliced apples that sits on the ground between them, grabbing and slipping one into his mouth this time, instead of down onto the street for the pigeons. “I’d like to see you do better.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows and gives Clint a sly smirk. “Pick a target, baby, I’ll hit it every time.”

The smirk slips into a warm laugh as Clint shoves at his shoulder. “Shut up.” His teasing tone can’t hide the pink of his cheeks. Clint doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, to Bucky. Still, he leans forward and to the side a little, enough to press their shoulders together. “That brick, the one that’s lighter than all the other ones.” Clint points to the building next door, stretching his arm across Bucky’s body. Sure enough, there is a pink brick amongst dark red ones. “Think you could hit that with your eyes closed?”

A scoff slips out of Bucky’s mouth, close to Clint’s ear. They’re nearly on top of each other, now, comfortable and knowing. “Obviously.”

Bucky grabs one of the apple slices, breaking it in half. He holds the piece in his right hand, shifting his shoulder back and raising his arm. Clint, on his left side, hovers close, pressing his mouth to the soft bit of skin behind Bucky’s ear. He stills, arm still in the air but not stiff like he’s tense. Just unmoving.

“Aren’t you going to take the shot?” Clint teases.

Their lips connect in a second, Bucky’s arm lowering and wrapping around Clint’s neck, placing him nicely in the crook of his elbow. “I can’t,” Bucky jokes, pulling away for a moment to look into Clint’s eyes. Blue meets blue, warm and inviting. “Not with you there, asshole.”

They both taste like apples, but that’s no surprise, mouths slipping together once again. “Fine, I’ll do it,” says Clint between their breaths, left hand moving up to Bucky’s hand that’s still holding the apple piece, reaching around him and tossing the slice without bothering to look. Bucky turns his head just as the apple connects with the pink brick and falls into a garbage can below.

Bucky laughs, something high and sweet, his hand at the back of Clint’s neck pressing into his hair and bringing their mouths together once more. Clint loses himself in Bucky’s touch, in the warm hand on the back of his head and the nudge of his nose against Clint’s cheek. He throws an arm out, holding onto the ledge of the building so he does not slip any further into Bucky than he already has.

Clint would not mind hitting the ground, if this is what falling feels like.

~

New York feels oddly quiet and lonely.

It’s nearing 8am, meaning the streets will start to get busy as people begin their commute to work, but for now, there isn’t much more than a dozen cars on the street at a time and one or two people leaving buildings. 

Clint rests his elbows on the ledge, both of his legs tucked up underneath him. The rain stopped sometime while he was asleep, he thinks, leaving behind a cloudy sky and the murky sort of heat that warns of the summer to come. Nothing like summer in Bed Stuy, Clint thinks bitterly, when the air conditioning in his apartment doesn’t work and all the tenants of the building gather up here on the roof to grill food and pretend that the world isn’t falling apart around them.

Maybe he’s just being pessimistic.

He groans, loudly enough to startle a pigeon that had settled a few feet away, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes so hard he sees white spots. Clint should have known that it was too good to last. He shouldn’t have gotten so attached, he shouldn’t have kissed him, he shouldn’t have taken Bucky out for a beer, he shouldn’t have let Kate take him to the Initiative. There were so many moments, so many times where if it had stopped, they would not be where they are now. Bucky would not be in the hands of Hydra, or the government, or whoever, and Clint would not be sitting by himself on the roof of his building, thinking about this.

Yet, he wouldn’t take any of it back. Every touch, every kiss, was worth it.

“God,” Clint mutters, pulling his hands away from his face and staring up at the grey clouds, squinting and focusing on the flickering spots that remain. “This is the worst.”

“I’m sorry,” calls someone. Clint whips around, one hand going to touch a hearing aid as he stares at Steve.

“Not very many people can sneak up on me,” he says bitterly, thinking of how often Bucky did and turning back to look over the ledge. Steve must take that as an invitation to approach, stopping next to Clint but not sitting down. “Stark said you’re not stealthy.”

“Tony doesn’t know me very well.”

Clint looks up and over at Steve, raising his eyebrows. Steve returns the gaze, no pity in his eyes. He repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Sniffing, Clint wipes at his face and averts his eyes. “You lost him too.”

Steve apparently has nothing to say to that, moving on. “He doesn’t like to talk about you, you know.” Clint doesn’t. “You’re like something sacred to him.”

He’s careful with his words, saying doesn’t instead of didn’t, clinging to hope like Clint clings to their memories. Clint doesn’t know what to say to him, so lets his words settle in his brain. Something sacred. His mouth tastes like apples.

“But, he had said that you guys were planning on… running away together.”

Clint scoffs. Hopeful is the word that comes to mind. They were hopeful, that they’d figure out a way to get Bucky out of the country and to Barney’s house. Hopeful and blissfully falling in love.

The ground doesn’t feel so nice.

“And Kate had said, that you’d do it, if you figured out how.”

So that’s where he’s going with this.

Clint rubs his face and speaks into his hands instead of Steve. “I don’t know how much faith I have in myself to get us there.”

“You’re not alone in this. Tony’s going to track him down, America, Nat, and I are some of the best hand to hand fighters in the Initiative that aren’t Bucky, and, well, you know Kate. You don’t need me to tell you that she has your six.”

When Clint looks over at Steve once more, his hand is extended. “What about you?” Clint asks, once he has had a moment to stare at the hand. “We make it out of this, we get Bucky and I to Europe. What do the rest of you guys do?”

Steve doesn’t lower his hand, but looks pensive before he answers. “Take down a regime, expose Hydra for everything that they are and what they’ve done to this country. Maybe go on vacation.”

With that, Clint take’s Steve’s hand, pulling himself up until they’re eye to eye. “I think we’ve earned one, Captain.”

~

It takes three days.

Clint receives an email on the second day from a user that is just a string of letters and numbers, the contents of the email just names of books, which Clint pieces together to be the coordinates for the house once he searches for them online and does some digging. Tony stays in the apartment for the most part, sending Kate or America to his tower to get something if he needs it. Steve leaves every morning and always returns around noon, ready to help Clint and Natasha sort through all of Bucky’s files. One night, the same day Barney emails, the three fighters and Tony have to go to the facility to participate in the Initiative, returning battered and bruised but with duffels and backpacks containing tactical gear, jumping back into it without another word. They found a system that works, all the way up until the point that Stark makes the call. 

Apparently Tony had been digging through the government’s data files, how he got access to those Clint doesn’t know, when he had found a secure folder hidden in another series of folders. Natasha had left that morning with Steve, so they aren’t around when Tony finally says, “I think I found it.”

America, who was sitting beside Stark, bolts up and out of her chair so quickly that she becomes a blur of red, white, and blue, the papers on the counter going flying. Clint scrambles to catch them as Kate hurries over to Tony as well. “Found what,” America says, leaning over Tony’s shoulder to look at the screen.

“Evidence of Hydra in the United States government, what do you think?” Tony looks up and over the computer to focus on Clint, who has very purposefully been keeping his movements to fix the papers on the counter controlled and calm. “If I can get into this, I can figure out where he is, or find someone who does, at least.”

Slowly, Clint meets his gaze. “Are you one hundred percent positive?”

Be honest, Clint had said four days ago, when Tony first arrived. He looks the same way he had then, rubbing his facial hair pensively, looking anywhere but at Clint, then settling on him. “If this file is what I think it is, and if it contains the information that I hope it will… then, yes. One hundred percent.”

Over Tony’s shoulder, Kate’s face slips into something like relief. Whether it’s for Clint or just for the fact that the whole ordeal will be over soon, he can’t tell for sure.

America nudges Tony. “Well, get at it Stark, we’re don’t exactly have a ton of time.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Steve and Nat to get back?” Kate asks, eyes moving between Tony and Clint.

“Yes, let’s.” Tony pushes his chair away from the table, stretching as he stands. “First, nap, then I’ll expose our corrupt government and a nazi organization.” He waves a finger at Clint as he moves into the living room. “And hopefully save your boyfriend along the way.”

With that, Tony promptly walks to the couch, which is back in the middle of the room where it belongs, and crashes.

Kate lowers herself into the chair next to America, crossing one leg over the other and leaning an elbow on the table. “He’s certainly nothing like I expected him to be,” she notes.

“You get used to him,” replies America, shooting Kate a look. It’s Clint’s turn to look between them, raising his eyebrows. Catching Kate’s eye, he signs cute, a smile tugging at his lips. She glares at him, raising her hand and pulling all of her fingers together in front of her mouth, telling him to shut up. Her cheeks are a suspicious shade of pink.

It’s only 8am so Clint tries to busy himself while they wait for Natasha and Steve to return. The sink is leaking again so he fixes it while Kate and America chat at the table. The sink doesn’t take very long so he takes Lucky on a walk, one of the few times he has bothered leaving the apartment, but he’s back before ten, so he sits by himself on the roof and tries not to think about Bucky.

When that doesn’t work he heads back to the apartment, Kate and America still at the table, unmoved. He walks right past them, through the living room and into his bedroom, stopping at the foot of his bed and crouching to grab the duffel bag from where it sits underneath the bed. The contents rattle as he sets it on the bed, pulling out his bow and an arrow.

He crawls on top of the unmade bed, settling on his back in the middle, face up towards the ceiling. Counting to sixteen over and over, Clint begins to lose track of time. The bow in one hand and the arrow in the other.

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…

Clint twists his body and raises the bow, pulling back his arm holding the air, pressing uncomfortably into the mattress, taking the shot.

Seventeen arrow holes in the ceiling of the bedroom.

The arrow sticks in the ceiling, reverbing a few times before coming to a stop. Clint stares at it, sighing as he lays back down fully on the bed, lying on his stomach and shoving his face into the pillow.

Just as he begins to relax, his heartbeat slowing down and thoughts turning to a more manageable topic (whether or not he should do laundry), Kate calls his name. Rolling over and bringing his pillow with him, Clint tosses his arms across it to press it further into his face. It does a decent job at muffling the frustrated scream that falls out of his mouth.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t make him feel any better.

Slowly pulling himself up, Clint starts to feel as if he had been sleeping for twenty hours, rather than lying down and staring at the ceiling for forty minutes. He stands on the bed, pulling the arrow from the ceiling before jumping down and putting the arrow and the duffel back where they belong, under the bed.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Natasha says as Clint steps out of the room. It takes him a moment to realize that she isn’t talking to him, but rather to Stark, who is still laying on the couch, but his eyes are open and squinting at the redhead leaning over the back and staring down at him. Steve is beside her, but isn’t looking at Tony. He talks over his shoulder to Kate in the kitchen, a slight frown gracing his features.

If they heard Clint in the bedroom they don’t say anything as he moves into the kitchen. The clock on the microwave says it’s 11:12am, so Steve and Natasha are back earlier than usual.

“Have you told them yet?” asks Clint as he grabs the bag of bread from where it sits on top of the fridge.

“Well,” America starts.

“Told us what?” Steve cuts in abruptly, bringing an end to he and Kate’s conversation.

Tony appears from behind the couch, tossing his legs over the side and standing. “Hold your horses, soldier.” He takes a long, agonizing moment to stretch, his back popping audibly. Clint puts the bread in the toaster just as Tony finishes, continuing, “I may have found some Hydra files while perusing through Government and old SHIELD files. Give me a little while to get into them, and I can hopefully find your guy in a few hours.”

The frown that Steve had been wearing slips into something akin to determination. “And you were taking a nap?” he says, mostly joking. Tony shoot him a look, stepping around him and into the kitchen. The toaster ticks away.

Natasha trails behind Tony as he steps into the kitchen and sits in his usual spot. Steve stares at her back, watching her movements carefully. She leans over Stark as he sits down and opens all of his computers, eyes trained on the screen directly in front of him. Kate huffs, standing and stepping into Clint’s space, squinting her eyes as she looks through him. There’s nothing she can’t see and doesn’t know already, so he just raises his eyebrows at her and grabs the toast when it pops up. She points at him, taps her right pointer finger to the left with a slight shake of the head, moves her thumb from underneath her chin to underneath her hand, hooks her finger and moves it away from her hand, then points at herself. You cannot hide from me.

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint mutters, stepping around her and getting into the fridge. “I know.”

Toast with jam tastes good when you’ve hardly eaten in five days.

Tony glances up at the five of them. “I’d suggest making some plans, if you haven’t already. As soon as I open this thing, I imagine it won’t be long before they figure out someone is snooping where they shouldn’t be.”

They all look at each other, as if waiting for someone to move first. Then, they’re all moving, Natasha stepping away from Tony and beginning to dig through one of the drawers. America appears next to Kate and drags her away towards the living room, followed closely by Steve. 

Clint shoves the rest of the toast into his mouth, barely tasting it as he chews and swallows. He opens the drawer closes to him, pulling out a pen and notepad. Natasha takes it when he passes it to her, looking at him, not through him like Kate did, but certainly strongly and intensely enough to make his stomach stir. When she breaks her stare, stepping around him and into the living room, he feels inclined to join.

~

By 4pm, they have a plan.

By 6, a location.

Tony finds documents detailing a complicated route to a maximum security prison in Connecticut. Google says that when the accords came into place they transferred civilian prisoners elsewhere, renovating the prison for enhanced. It was mysteriously never filled and disappeared into history, replaced instead by the more practical Raft (Clint had always believed the Raft to be a myth. Steve confirms that its existence is very, very real). There has supposedly been activity around the old prison; lights on around the area, trucks that move from the location to the city at routine times, and people decked out in gear hovering around the place. Tony matches this convoy to the one talked about in the Hydra files, used for transporting The Asset. No one has to speak up or check the files to know that that is referring to Bucky.

From there they break, agreeing to meet at Stark Tower in an hour and a half. Kate stays with Clint, and Tony takes Lucky, promising to take good care of him in the short amount of time he will be away from them. 

Kate comes out of the bedroom donned in her purple jumpsuit, sans shoes and some clothes tossed over her shoulder, tugging at the belt around her hips, possibly fitting more snug than it had years ago. “You know, I had hoped that the first time I put this thing on it would be in better circumstances. And that maybe I’d have lost weight.”

“We’re not as spry as we used to be,” says Clint, stretching and cracking his back. He digs around in the duffel bag, finding and passing Kate her gloves. She stuffs them into the top of the suit, where her arm meets her chest, part of them poking out of the hole on her shoulder. Her hair falls across one side of her shoulder, pushed back by the purple headband. Clint feels about six years younger, for a moment, watching Kate reach around him to dig around in the bag. They’ve done this, get ready to do something heroic and dangerous, thousands of times.

“It’s probably too dark for these, right?” She holds up the purple sunglasses, the small smile she saves for Clint gracing her mouth. “What about you?”

Clint’s own pair are in her other hand. “Too dark,” he agrees, but takes them and slips them into his quiver, which sits in the bottom of the bag next to hers. They can’t take them out, not yet.

The sound of the chair beside him scraping against the floor forces him to look over at her. She pokes his chest, right at the midpoint of the arrow as it starts to point down. “Are you ready, Hawkeye?”

He meets her eye. “Are you ready, Hawkeye?”

“Clint.”

“I don’t know, ready for what?”

“For… all of it. The fight. Seeing Bucky. Running away.”

Clint taps his hand on his thigh to keep it from shaking. “Do you think I should pack another bag, or something?”

She snorts. “A duffel bag full of pointy sticks from the paleolithic era is hardly enough to run away—” Kate cuts herself off, exhaling and looking at the clock on the microwave. “If you see Bucky, like that, you know what to do. You won’t freeze?”

“No.” His voice wavers as he says it.

Kate pats his face affectionately despite the wary look on her face. “I’ll take good care of the apartment. I’ll write, or call, whatever we can do...” She stands, suddenly, stepping out of the kitchen and into the living room. When she returns, not long after, her hands are full of picture frames. A small pile of sticky notes sit on top.

Gingerly, she sets them into the bag, between their arrows and quivers. Clint stands, pulling her into his arms and pressing his mouth to the side of her face. It feels final, even though they have a few hours left.

Ten minutes later, they have t-shirts and jeans thrown over their tactical gear, Clint’s hands stuffed in his jacket pockets and the duffel bag hanging from Kate’s shoulder. The keys are in her hand as he takes one last glance around the apartment. The crack in the mirror, the remaining sticky notes on the nightstand, three hundred and twenty eight arrow holes. Old furniture that has somehow remained comfortable, and a TV that's broken too many times. “Don’t redecorate too much,” Clint chokes out as Kate locks the door behind them.

She bumps his shoulder with her own. “I told you I’ll take good care of it.”

Clint smiles at her, his first one in hours, and knows that she will.

-

A far away sound wakes Bucky up.

It’s not close, not yet, at least. But it was loud enough to startle Bucky’s well trained ears. He pulls himself up from the floor, stumbling to the door until he can steady himself by pressing his hands against it. Hair hangs in front of his eyes as he focuses on what may lie beyond the walls of this cell. Sounds, loud sounds, yelling, maybe, or screaming? The haze in his mind begins to clear, his left hand scratching hard enough at the door to leave scrapes, but nothing substantial enough to get him out. He groans, shoving his shoulder against the door. There isn’t much strength left in him, it’s been a while since they’ve fed him but longer since they’ve activated him.

The screech of the metal hand on the door almost masks another sound coming from outside the door. This one is close, and repeated, over and over and over, getting louder—

Bucky takes a long, staggered step back as the familiar sound of metal creaking fills his ears, the door swinging open. It’s not one of the usual agents they send in like he expects. A small, balding man rushes in, his white labcoat stained with blood on his arms. Another explosion comes from somewhere, louder now that the door is open and close enough that the walls shakes and dust falls from the ceiling. Bucky is startled enough to not immediately attack the scientist or rush around him to the door, but barely has a chance to step forward before the man is speaking.

“Желание, cемнадцать—”

A scream slips past Bucky’s mouth, his hands immediately covering his ears instead of to the neck of the scientist like he wishes he could do. Not again, I’m too tired—

“—oдин, tоварный вагон,” finishes the scientist.

“готов соблюдать,” responds The Asset, its’ hands falling to its’ sides.

The scientist just manages to get out the word kill before an arrow pierces his skull, his body collapsing pathetically to the floor. The Asset barely spares a glance at the body as it steps over it.

Past the doorway and in the hallway, a man stands nearly up against the wall, his arm drawn back and an arrow pointed at The Asset. Blood runs down one side of his face, soaking his blonde hair. The Asset can’t find any other external injuries, so it goes for the hands first, lunging forward to knock over the man and grab at the fingers with the metal hand.

He’s a surprisingly good fighter, though, taking The Asset by surprise. “Bucky!” he says through gritted teeth, grabbing The Asset’s flesh hand and shoving it away, rolling until he is on top, a knee pressed to The Asset’s gut. It’s only incapacitated for a moment or two, something in its brain stuttering before it can reach up and grasp the side of the man’s head, the bloodied side, digging its’ fingers into whatever it finds there. The man shouts, the hand that had been holding The Asset’s neck automatically going to grasp at it’s wrist, tugging it away until something small, purple, and bloody goes with it. The hearing aid lands on the floor a few feet away from them.

Kill echoes through The Asset’s mind as its bloodied hand moves back and around the man while he is distracted, grabbing an arrow from the quiver on his back and pulling it from the sheath.

The man takes one look at the arrow that The Asset has pulled, his eyes widening as he drops the bow and tugs out the other hearing aid just as The Asset registers the light click that the arrow emits before it explodes.

It doesn’t explode, it realizes, not really, but the sound it makes is so loud that The Asset’s eyes roll back into its head, hands going back to its ears as they had before, why had I been doing that in the first place is Clint okay—

The man’s face appears in The Asset’s line of sight from where it lies prone on the floor, ringing so loud in its ears that it could be vibrating. His mouth moves, but The Asset can’t hear it. Kill uttered again, but when The Asset lifts its metal hand it makes no move to attack, lightly brushing the back of it against the man’s neck. The Asset expects him to smile, for some reason, something soft and warm and saved only for him, but he doesn’t. Instead he grabs the bow from where he had dropped it nearby, retrieves his hearing aids, stuffing them into a pocket, then hauls The Asset up. Again, it moves to kill, like it had been told, but it just presses two fingers to its chin, pulling them down.

He holds up the hand that is holding loosely to the bow and isn’t holding up The Asset, moving his hand up and down like he’s knocking on a door, then repeats the move that The Asset had done. Yes, cute.

Kill, The Asset tries to form the words in its mouth but can’t, and its metal hand isn’t moving like how it wants. The man isn’t paying enough attention to it as he forces them around a corner, promptly dropping The Asset and raising his bow towards something it cannot see as its head connects with the floor.

~

The next thing Bucky knows, he’s leaning against Clint’s shoulder, face pressed to his back. They’re outside, he thinks, up against a wall as Clint looks around a corner, an arrow notched but not drawn back. “Clint,” he mutters, lips pressed to the leathery fabric of Clint’s shirt. Bucky’s mouth tastes like copper and his ears are ringing, distant sounds of an alarm and yelling muffled like there is cotton stuffed in there. Despite all of that, the worst feeling is that of his head, like someone had taken a fork and had mashed to their heart’s content. “Clint,” Bucky repeats, with more force, his bloodstained right hand pressing at Clint’s side.

Clint leans, just a little, into Bucky’s touch, but does not acknowledge his voice. The last he had known, Bucky was in a hazy Winter Soldier mode, the sonic arrow throwing him into a state of disrepair. Bucky tries to roll his head to the side, just a little, to get a better look at Clint’s face, but he’s a good few inches taller than Bucky is, so it’s a harder feat than it should be. Blood is running down the side of his head that Bucky is on, from a cut or gash that must be hidden in his blonde hair. His cheekbone is bruised, and there’s a cut on his lip, but other than that…

There’s blood, dry and crusted over on the skin behind Clint’s ear, but no familiar purple block underneath the crimson. “Oh,” Bucky groans, feeling stupid. The hand that was pressed to Clint’s side creeps up to the shoulder that Bucky isn’t leaning on. In morse, Bucky taps, H-E-R-E.

Without missing a beat, Clint’s head whips around, eyes brightening. He pushes them away from the corner, closer to the middle of the wall. “Christ,” he breathes, strong hands clutching at Bucky’s shoulders, then up to his neck and face. Bucky tries not to collapse when his grip loosens, but focuses on Clint’s slightly muffled words. “I thought I had lost you.” His voice is slightly warped, as he struggles to hear his own voice.

“I’m harder to get rid of than this,” Bucky says weakly. His throat feels like sandpaper as he speaks, and wonders if Clint can even hear him. Both of his hands hold up their thumbs, moving down and out towards Clint, then two fingers posed like a claw connecting with his fist. Try hard.

That’s enough for Clint, his shoulders hunching to lean down to press his mouth to the side of Bucky’s head. It doesn’t last long before he pulls away, and Clint’s stubble scratches the side of his face, but Bucky relishes in it. The first real, loving touch he’s felt in… who knows how long.

Clint seems to force himself to turn away, back to where he had been before Bucky woke up. “I’m waiting for a signal from Kate or America, that’ll decide the route we take. Steve—”

“Steve,” Bucky sighs, but Clint continues without pause.

“—and Nat will meet us somewhere out there,” he motions to what looks like some sort of courtyard, agents and vehicles rushing between buildings, foolishly ignoring the wall where they hide, “to provide backup and distraction. Then... through the woods, meetup with Stark. I’ll explain once we’re there.”

Bucky doesn’t bother responding, knowing he wouldn’t hear. Instead he focuses on something else, forces his thoughts away while Clint waits for the signal. Nat is a name he doesn’t recognize, but America must be referring to Miss America. And Stark, as in Tony? Tony Stark? Helping them? He can’t imagine he and Steve ever getting along long enough for them to come up with an escape plan, yet…

Something lights up the sky above the base. It takes Bucky a moment to realize that it’s a bright, glimmering star.

Clint doesn’t have to look twice, reaching back and finding one of Bucky’s hands before breaking off into a sprint, right into the courtyard where their enemies wait. It’s not long before they stop paying attention to the giant star in the sky and instead turn their focus to the man running through them with their prisoner. Clint’s no good with just one hand, Bucky realizes, wiggling his fingers until Clint gets the hint and lets go, knocking an arrow and letting it fly, a small explosion lighting up trucks not too far away. Bucky grabs a gun from someone as they pass, remembering how to use it without a second thought as he shoots a man between the eyes. There is no satisfaction as he pulls the trigger.

They stop abruptly at a tall fence, their backs up against it as more men flood out from the east building.

“Hydra,” Clint says, loudly so both of them can hear it.

“That makes sense,” Bucky mutters, mostly to himself. He’d be dead by now, if he had been actually arrested. Or worse, rotting away in the raft. Clint, despite the impending doom in front of them, wears a stoic expression.

This, Bucky knows, is better than both Hydra and the American government combined. They gave a valiant effort.

“Anytime now, please.” Clint’s eyes are turned up towards the prison watch towers, looking at something Bucky can’t focus on.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, but before he can stumble through some sort of apology that Clint won’t even hear, a heavy clang ceases most of the action in front of them. He drops his gun as he automatically raises his metal arm to catch the shield as it rikoshet’s off of the side of the closest Hydra agent’s head.

“For once I’m glad to see you throwing this.” Bucky doesn’t need to look to know Steve has landed beside them. Clint continues shooting, either ignoring Steve’s new presence or not noticing him. They fall into each other’s arms, Steve letting out a quiet “Buck.”

The stupid Captain America uniform feels like it always does, smelling like sweat and blood and smoke, feeling rough on Bucky’s face. Yet it feels soft, compared to everything else he’s felt in… however long he’s been here. Feels like how it did in the 60s during the war, how it felt when they fought on a highway, then a helicarrier, and then in a glorified boxing ring. Bucky breathes it in, relishes in the familiarness.

“Hate to interrupt boys, but you need to get moving.”

Bucky looks up at the voice behind Steve. The Black Widow is shooting at agents and the tires of cars, a gun in each hand, sparing quick glances over at them between fires.

“Nat,” Bucky realizes.

“Natasha, actually,” she muses, all too casual for the situation. Steve looks at her, pulling away but still holding Bucky steady. Natasha doesn’t look at them, even though she has the opportunity to as she reloads one of her guns. It seems intentional. “Clint, take Bucky out of here and get to the rendezvous point, we’ll meet you there.”

“He can’t hear you,” he says, wincing as Steve reaches around him to cover them with the shield. The agents or whoever they are are getting closer, and there’s only four of them, Bucky weakened and Clint without his ears. Whey they haven’t just tossed a grenade at them is anyone’s guess. “He seemed to think that this was the best route, that America had somehow—”

The fence rattles behind them. Bucky is the only one who turns and looks, startled by the glowing hands and eyes that await him. America’s face is lit up with the glow from her hands and her jacket, red lips quirked up in a smile. “Hey, soldier.”

Beside America, Kate is knocking an arrow and shooting it between the holes in the fence. One of the watchtowers explodes.

“Took you long enough,” Steve grits out. The explosion forces Clint to turn his head and look at everyone who has joined them, though he doesn’t seem surprised.

“We got a little caught up,” calls Kate. There is an ugly gash across her nose, another next to her lip. One of the metal loops in the fence breaks under America’s glowing pull, others following suit. She successfully pulls apart the fence and creates a chink large enough for them to fit through, stepping back as the light fades from her person.

“Vamos,” America hisses. Natasha is the first one in, followed by Bucky, who grabs the back of Clint’s shirt, Steve bringing up the rear, covering their six. Once past the fence they start running, apparently knowing which routes to take. There are others, following them, but Natasha and Clint tag team in taking them down, running as they shoot. The woods are thick and dark, the only light coming from the moon poking through the treetops and America’s glowing fists as she occasionally sends a blast behind them.

Bucky stumbles. Steve is quick to catch him by the shoulders, forcing him to keep moving.

There comes a point when the shooting stops, all of the lackeys dead or giving up, and the trees start to thin until they come to a clearing, slowing to a walk. A quinjet sits there, turned off and non threatening. Natasha and Steve get to it first, Clint slowing to match Bucky’s staggering pace, wrapping an arm around his waist. His expression is stony as he gets a long, good look at Bucky’s face, possibly his first since… before.

It’s enough to stop Clint in his tracks, pressing a dirty hand to the side of Bucky’s face. It feels like earlier, he thinks. But the danger has passed. At least for a little while.

Clint’s eyes are soft as he looks at Bucky. “I had…” he trails off, stuttering, mouth moving uselessly. The hand holding Bucky’s side tightens, speaking the words that Clint cannot. Bucky lets his own hands slip up to the back of Clint’s head, pulling him down and pressing their mouths together at long last.

“It’s okay,” Bucky breathes into Clint’s mouth when they separate. “I love you.”

It feels good to say it aloud, even if Bucky isn’t totally sure Clint can hear it. He repeats the words, over and over, liking the way they feel in his mouth. Like a breath of fresh air, or a weight lifted off his shoulders that had never really been a weight in the first place. A comfortable presence, a source of light in the growing darkness.

He must know, or sense it somehow. Clint is laughing, despite the situation, pulling Bucky flush against his chest into a hug. He doesn’t say anything, just presses his cold nose to the side of Bucky’s head.

It’s enough.

“Come on, kids! We’re running on borrowed time,” Tony calls from the open door to the quinjet.

They kiss once more before Bucky grab’s Clint’s bicep and hurries them into the back of the quinjet. The others are all strapped in along the walls already, Natasha and Steve on one side, Kate and America on the other. Most surprising, Lucky sits in the copilot seat beside Tony, his head tipped back and his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Clint lets go of Bucky when he steps forward, sitting down beside Kate and digging around the bag at his feet.

Lucky pants happily when Bucky rubs behind his ear. “I missed you too, buddy.”

Tony taps some buttons on his dashboard. “We got a three hour ride ahead of us, my robo-friend. You may want to get caught up.”

He’s right, Bucky hates to admit, returning to the cockpit and placing himself delicately next to Clint. His whole body aches, even the shitty seating in the quinjet feels comfortable. The jets rumble beneath them as Bucky buckles his seatbelt.

“So,” Clint starts, his head tipped to the side as he inserts a different pair of hearing aids, these ones a normal tan color. One stands out amongst the blood behind his ear. “It’s been about five days, give or take.”

“It’s felt like way more,” he confesses, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Bucky was barely functioning for most of it.

“What did they do to you?” Kate asks.

Bucky sucks in a shaky breath. “They activated me, struggled to figure out how to turn me off… No one seemed to really know how to properly handle me.”

Steve leans forward a bit, the straps of the seatbelt constricting against his chest. “They were supposed to be moving you soon, probably to someone with more expertise. We took down most of, if not all, of the agents who knew how you worked way back when.”

“Why now?”

“We don’t know what changed, but we discovered that Hydra has been hiding in our government, poisoning it, starting the accords as a way to get to you.”

“To me?”

Natasha nods grimly. She crosses her arms and looks downward, continuing, “they must’ve wanted you to take out other enhanced. A means to an end.”

“So now what?”

“The good news is that we can use this to put an end to the accords, at least within the next few years. I have some of the Hydra files.” Tony waves a hand high enough that Bucky can see it from where they sit. “Explaining the secret underground mutant fight club might be a bit harder to work around.”

Something nudges his thigh. Bucky looks over at Clint, whose gaze is unreadable. “Tony’s taking you and I to my brother’s house. Remember? The one we talked about?”

Bucky does remember. The place where the past doesn’t matter.

His gaze falls on Steve, who nods encouragingly. “You and Clint go to Ireland, live without worry. America, Kate, and Tony are going to work on bringing down the accords with Fury, back in New York.”

“What about you?” Bucky likes to think that his voice doesn’t waver as he says it.

“Nat and I have plans… elsewhere.”

There’s something Steve isn’t saying, but he also isn’t one to lie. Bucky trusts him.

They’re finally going to get their later, Bucky realizes, looking back over at Clint. His chest tightens at the sight of him, bloodied and bruised but smiling. There is no part of Bucky that doesn’t want to go with him, to wake up next to him every morning and waste their days together, with nothing to worry about except for a broken lightbulb, or when they need to get groceries next.

Bucky looks back at Steve, worriedly.

“I’ll be okay, Buck. It’s not the sixties, I can fend for myself these days.”

“And if you don’t think he can, rest easy knowing that I’ll keep him out of trouble,” Natasha adds, her sly smile somehow reassuring the unease settling in Bucky’s heart.

The hand on Bucky’s thigh shifts until it finds purchase in his own, their fingers intertwining. Clint looks at him like he’s worth it.

Maybe he is.

“Alright,” he starts, Clint’s mouth on his before he can even really begin.

~

The quinjet lands in what looks like a field, rolling hills surrounded by thick forests. A house sits in the middle of the peaceful land, an old barn sitting behind it. The place looks old and well-lived in, miscellaneous objects lying around on the porch and outside the barn. Bucky stands on the edge of the ramp, watching as the sun begins to creep over the trees. It’s earlier in Ireland than it is in Connecticut, and colder, yet not enough so for it to feel too bad yet.

Steve steps up from behind, squeezing Bucky’s shoulder affectionately. “You know, if someone told me sixty years ago that Bucky Barnes is settling down, I would’ve called them crazy.”

Bucky laughs lightly. “You and me both pal. And hey, you’ve got a lady of your own.”

“Miracle of miracles.”

They slot together once more, Steve’s arms wrapping around Bucky’s shoulders, his metal hand pressing at the small of Steve’s back. The hug lingers, not rushed as it had been when he first arrived in the courtyard of the Hydra prison, but they eventually pull away. “You take care of him,” says Steve. “I’ve been around him enough these past few days to know he needs you.”

Bucky steps off the ramp and onto the grass. He takes a moment to breathe in the fresh air, focusing on the feeling of the light breeze that pushes strands of his hair into his eyes. For nearly the first time in his life as Bucky Barnes, there are no towering buildings or honking cars to disturb the peace.

Kate and Clint talk a few feet away, near the wood fence and waist high grass, using a mixture of their voices and sign language, Lucky going back and forth between running around the two of them and trying to get into the house. Bucky feels a sudden sense of fondness. “I need him, too.”

Understanding, Steve nods. “I’ll write,” he promises.

Bucky takes a step, turning and walking backwards as he speaks to Steve. “Don’t do anything stupid!”

The smile on Steve’s face is golden. “How can I?” His voice is high and there is laughter bubbling beneath the surface. “You’re taking all the stupid with you!”

Conversation between Kate and Clint stops once Bucky reaches them. It doesn’t appear to be his fault, just the air of time running out. She stands on her toes, hands on either side of Clint’s head, pressing her lips to his forehead. “Your happy ending, Hawkeye.”

Clint’s hands hold onto her wrists as she settles back onto flat footing. “Now go get yours, Hawkeye.”

She smiles, up at Clint then over at Bucky. “Thank you,” Kate says earnestly. Bucky can’t tell which one of them she is referring to. “For everything.”

Lucky rushes over, licking her face when she crouches down to wrap her arms around his scruffy neck. “Good boy, good boy,” she mutters into his collar. Bucky only just catches it, meaning Clint probably didn’t.

With a final smile and a wave, she moves back up the hill, towards the quinjet where the others stand at the base of the ramp, watching. Bucky picks up the duffel bag from the ground, slinging it over his shoulder and averting his gaze. Clint takes his hand, tugging him along to follow Lucky to the porch.

“Are you worried?” Bucky asks. Clint glances over his shoulder at him, shrugging.

“No. Not anymore.”

They reach the porch and walk up the few steps, old wood creaking beneath them. Lucky waits patiently by the door.

Clint looks up and around the porch, at the peeling siding and broken light that hangs over them. Bucky looks behind him, at the quinjet as the jets start up. He feels inclined to wave, even if there are no windows they could see them from.

“Are you?”

He tears his eyes away from the quinjet as it takes off. Clint squeezes Bucky’s hand, his gaze careful and calculating.

“What?”

“Worried. Are you worried?”

When Bucky looks back over at where the quinjet was, where they had been standing less than two minutes ago, there is nothing there to show for it. Your past wouldn’t matter.

“No,” Bucky says, and means it.

That reassures Clint, settles and straightens his shoulders. “Good. Cause that was your last chance to run for the hills. Now you have to look at this ugly mug everyday.” He gives Bucky a goofy grin, showing off his slightly crooked teeth, bruised face, and heavy stubble. Despite that, Bucky knows that he is beautiful.

“Ah, it’s not so bad.”

Clint crouches, letting go of Bucky’s hand and pulling up one of the floorboards, finding a ring of keys. “Yeah, well, I love you too.” His tone is joking but his smile tells Bucky it reigns true. He straightens, pulling out a particular key and putting it into the lock, twisting and pushing as the door creaks open. Lucky doesn’t hesitate to slip inside and explore, Clint following soon after.

The entryway is visible, stairs leading up to the second level, open doors on either wall, one leading to a living room and kitchen, the other to a bedroom. A rug on the floor, picture frames containing photos that Bucky can’t make out from where he stands. A homey, warm and welcoming place. Bucky hasn’t been in one of those since before the war, not counting Clint’s apartment, which had a sense of a self made home, Clint and Kate adapting to the city life and crafting a place for themselves. This house was built to be a home, a real one, with a wife and kids and a dog.

Well, they have one of those things.

Clint reappears from the door to the right. “You coming?”

Pulling himself out of the fog, Bucky nods fervently. He takes a long stride forward, crossing the threshold, out of the cold and into their home, where Clint is waiting for him.

.Epilogue.

“We are not special.

We are not crap or trash, either.

We just are.

We just are, and what happens just happens.

And God says, “No, that’s not right.”

Yeah, well. Whatever. 

You can’t teach God anything.”

 —Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Bucky wakes slowly and languidly, letting his eyes adjust to the sunlight drifting through the crack in the curtains and to the hand that is wrapped around his neck.

It’s non-threatening, of course, Clint’s left arm tossed over Bucky’s chest and his hand caressing his neck lightly, thumb resting right underneath his jaw. Their legs are pressed together and Lucky is peacefully asleep on Clint’s side, unaware of Bucky slowly pulling himself out of bed.

Clint’s hand falls limply onto the bed once Bucky retreats. He places a long kiss to the side of Clint’s head, into his blonde hair near a scar that is just beginning to heal, then leaves the bedroom, beginning his usual morning routine. Shrug on clothes, head downstairs, add a few layers as the mornings grow colder, resist the instinct to wear a glove.

The sun is just beginning to rise and the cold morning air is leaving a dewey fog over the grass.

Lucky follows him out of the house, trailing behind while Bucky circles it a few times and checks for any signs of bugging or intrusion, in bushes and in the miscellaneous objects on the porch, his tail wagging all the same. He does his own business as Bucky counts all the things in the barn, firewood and targets and tools and other various machinery, returning when Bucky moves to go inside when he finds nothing amiss.

Inside, Bucky checks the windows, cabinets, smoke alarms, chairs, and pretty much everything else he can think of, satisfied when nothing unusual turns up. He digs around in the fridge, taking a moment to look at all the things they have hanging on it. A newspaper clipping with the headline ACCORDS THE RESULT OF NAZI INFULTRATION? VICE PRESIDENT PLEADS GUILTY! next to a postcard with Wish You Were Here! written over the New York skyline. It is signed xoxo Kate as she had once done with all of the sticky notes in Clint’s apartment (the ones that currently hang around the mirror in their bathroom), but is now accompanied by the neat signature of America Chavez. Steve and Nat write letters, but don’t disclose their location, though Bucky suspects they move around a lot, wary of the lasting effects of Hydra and the accords. Every once in a while Tony Stark calls the landline that’s connected to the wall and asks if their “tv” needs to be repaired or tuned up. Bucky always tells him no, he can do it himself, thank you.

Clint says that Tony is probably lonely, with the Initiative shut down. Bucky is inclined to agree.

A letter from Barney also hangs proudly on the fridge. A new one, written just a few weeks ago, the old one in a drawer somewhere where it will inevitably be forgotten. He details faking his death and running away from the tracksuit Draculas, living here with a woman named Simone and her kids, but moving recently after the boys grew up. He figured it was time to reconnect with his brother— but had not been anticipating a boyfriend instead of Kate. Either way, Barney signed the letter with a promise to write again.

Bucky’s not sure if he trusts Barney to follow up on that promise, but the house is nice and has felt more like home than the apartment he had in New York ever did.

He compensates Lucky by feeding him some leftover meatloaf and rubbing his belly affectionately, then leads them back upstairs where Clint still sleeps. He’s on his side now, his back to Bucky’s side of the bed and the window. The clock on the bedside table tells Bucky that he’s been gone for an hour and twenty eight minutes.

The routine gets shorter every day.

Carefully and quietly Bucky removes all of his layers, back down to his t-shirt and boxers again. Lucky hops up while Bucky slips back into the pleasantly warm bed, pressing his front to Clint’s back, cold nose at the nape of his neck.

“Jesus,” Clint breathes as he shudders, keeping his eyes closed but shifting so Bucky can fully wrap himself around him. “How’s the perimeter?” His voice is teasing, but mostly clouded with sleep.

“The same.” He presses his mouth close to Clint’s ear so he can hear him without the hearing aids. “Cold,” Bucky adds, his arm moving over Clint’s waist and finding his hands, the left arm moving up and under their pillows. “Autumn is almost here.”

Clint huffs, moving his head back slightly so it connects briefly with Bucky’s, then turns to look at him, their faces close. “We’ll be okay.”

[nevereatsoggywieners]

Party Princess // Sweet Pea x Reader (ft ex! Reggie)

Warnings: Swearing, underage drinking, partying, making out

Prompt: @sluttyforsweetpea : Hi! I’d like to make a request for a writing prompt if it’s not any trouble. Can you do no. 60 (If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were trying to seduce me.) with Sweet Pea.

Find the prompts here

Word count: 2,000

Reggie Mantle’s parties were known for being the loudest, wildest, and most regrettable in the whole town, of course, this never stopped anyone from attending. Tonight lived up to its legacy as you walked in and immediately felt the bass thump throughout your body and saw people making out in any dark corner they could find.

It didn’t take long for your wandering eyes eventually landed on Sweet Pea. He was a transfer from Southside High, and you had the pleasure of being the one to sure him and his friends around on their first day. That day, you walked into school, determined to show him, along with the others, that Riverdale was more than stuck up snobs who hated anyone that wasn’t like them. That was until he opened his mouth.

“We don’t need your pity, princess.” He said condescendingly, smirking at your extended hand after you had introduced yourself to him and two other transfers. The smaller Serpent with pink colored hair jabbed him in the ribs and shook your hand.

“I’m sorry about him, he gets angry when he hasn’t had his nap. I’m Toni.” She gave you a warm smile. You gave them the tour of the school, trying to resist going off on him as he teasingly asked you where the best make-out spots were. You were definitely less than excited when you saw that your schedules were nearly identical.

But that was a few weeks ago and since then you two had warmed up to each other, almost suspiciously so. He got on your nerves and always made jokes about you being privileged and pretentious, but also took it upon himself to make racy comments anytime you wore anything remotely revealing and brush his fingers on your thigh during class.

You were drawn out of your hormonal flashback as you heard Toni calling your name. You made your way over to Fangs, Toni, and Sweet Pea, maneuvering past the crowd of dancing bodies. You finally you reached the group, greeting them with a smile, but before could even open your mouth to say hi, Sweet Pea already something to say.

“Wow, didn’t know little miss perfect went to parties like this?” He teased, eyebrow raised as he sipped his drink. Normally you would have retorted that you weren’t perfect or point out that this was a Northside party, but something about the way the music and alcohol running through your body made you want to screw with him a little bit.

“Reg and I go way back, it’d basically be a sin if I didn’t show up.” You said nonchalantly, loving the confused looks on the Serpents’ faces. Sweet Pea, in particular, seemed the most surprised waving his hands to stop you, almost spilling his drink.

“Woah woah woah. You and Reggie were a thing?” He was leaned forward in anticipation, brows knitted together, lips slightly agape in disbelief. Something about the way he was letting his emotions show so plainly on his face a devilish smile dance its way onto yours.

“I never said that. ” You shrugged your shoulders. He wasn’t wrong, technically. You and Reggie had been on and off last year before deciding it was better to just end it. It wasn’t anything serious and you two remained friends with no hard feelings. “It was a casual fling like a million years ago.” You understated and felt arms snake around your shoulders.

“It was literally last year and I was your first.” You turned to see the topic of conversation, making kissy faces at you as he said the second part. You laughed and shrugged him off of you. “Hey, you need a drink.” He gestured to your almost empty cup.

“Whatever inflates your ego, Reg. And you’re right, I do.” You let him lead you to the kitchen, completely missing the pissed look on Pea’s face. You and Reggie chatted for a little before he left to play in a “life or death” match of beer pong with the rest of the basketball team.

You sat on the counter, watching everyone dance, directing a few green faces to the restrooms and scooting over to let people view the variety of drinks people had brought. Eventually, Toni walked up to you and hopped up onto the counter.

“You know, I think it’s really cool that you’re friends with your ex.” She said and gazed up at you to gauge your reaction. If you were slightly more sober you’d be able to tell she was sent over to gather information, but unfortunately, your vision remained a little blurry and the ground still wavered a touch under your feet.

You laughed and leaned your head on the cabinets above you. “I mean, I don’t even know if I’d consider him an ex, like we’ve been friends since forever and yeah we made out, had sex a few times but we weren’t ever official before we cut it off. I don’t even know why I’m telling you so much, I’m sorry.” You giggled into your cup, finished the rest of it and grabbed a water bottle.

“Wow, and you’re able to control your drinking, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with such balance in their life!” The girl said dramatically, making you laugh. “Looks like your BFF is back. See you around.” She slugged your shoulder and walked back to her friends

You could tell by the look on Reg’s face that they had lost. And pretty badly, based on the way he nearly stumbled into the fridge on his way over to you. “Tough game?” You asked and handed him a water.

“The toughest!” He said, a little too loudly, slurring the words together as he opened the drink. “They were making them left and right and all the guys were like ‘Reggie! You got this!’ but honest Y/N… I didn’t and there was this hot girl there and she saw me miss like the easiest shots.” He said with immense excitement and emotion.

Reggie reminded you of a little kid when he was drunk, getting worked up over the littlest things. “Sounds terrible, bud.” You patted his back and he leaned his head on your shoulder. “You know how you’re like the bestest best friend, ex-girlfriend ever and would do anything for me?” he batted his lashes, trying to seem innocent.

You found your eyes wandering around, catching on Sweet Pea’s, the boy was staring at you from across the room, with a look you couldn’t decipher. Chills went down your spine as you thought about how long he was looking at you like that. “What do you want?” You said playfully bitter, shrugging your friend off your shoulder, suddenly hyper-aware of how affectionate you were being.

“Come dance with meeee.” He drew out the last word as he dragged you to your feet and to the living room being used as a dancefloor before you could even protest. He grabbed your hands and swung them back and forth, spun you, dipped you, practically did anything he could to convince you to move on your own.

The two of you danced and laughed together for what felt like ages before a bump and grind song came on. Your hips slowed to the beat, dancing without a care. Reggie put his hands on your hips, you smiled and watched him change his own rhythm to match the music. However, your time was short lived before you felt a hand on your shoulder.

You turned around to see Sweet Pea practically glaring down at you. “We need to talk.” He declared, dragging you off the dancefloor. You heard Reggie encouraging you to ‘get it’ from where you left him. You rolled your eyes at his suggestive comment and yanked your arm away from your captor. “What the hell is your problem, Pea?” You said in a hushed, but angry tone.

“Oh, my problem? What about your problem? You know he’s obviously trying to get in your pants, right?” The Serpent accused, crossing his arms over his puffed out chest. However, his demeanor changed from annoyed to mischievous before you could even blink, as he took steps forward. “Although, I’m sure you did know that, I saw you look at me right before you two started dancing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me.”

You backed up, trying to get more space between you two, something about him made you not able to think straight. Probably his cologne. You decided as you back collided with the wall. You and Reggie using each other to make others jealous was definitely not unheard of, but there was no way you had been doing that just now.

“Oh my god, keep dreaming! You know nothing about Reggie and I’s friendship. Hell, you didn’t even know we were friends until, what? Three hours ago?” You snapped back, advancing forward until you were almost flush the boy’s chest. You didn’t realize how close you were until your hand brushed his when you tried to push him out of your way, which failed, of course.

“E-Either way it doesn’t matter, because it’s really none of your business.” You stated, your voice wavering. The look in his eyes changed, the glint that was there previous left and was filled was a newer darkness that made your knees weak.

Again, you felt yourself being whisked away, down a hall and to your left, to what you know was the bathroom. A small line of people shouted in protest was the door slammed and locked by Sweet Pea. “Let’s cut the shit, Princess. I’ve been flirting with you since I got to this stupid school and I can’t take it anymore so you need to tell me right here, right now if you and Reggie are boning.” He declared.

Your heart raced as you shook your head. Your mouth opened to formally answer his question but his serpent jacket was already on the floor and his mouth was already on yours before you could even get a syllable out. Your surprised moan got lost on his lips as you also began to instinctively shed layers.

His hands were immediately placed just under your shirt, resting on your hips, pulling you closer. Yours were more ravenous as they explored, tugged and ruined his hair. He tasted like mint and alcohol and smelled like gasoline and cologne and felt like heaven. You were so absorbed in his… everything when Toni busted in.

“I so called it!” Her excited voice caused you two to jump apart. “I knew the second you said you were friends with Reggie, there was no way Pea would be able to last another day without… this!” She gestured to your shirt askew and his hair sticking up in every direction. “Fangs owes me like twenty bucks now, so thanks, but, FP says he needs us at the Wyrm ASAP. So wrap it up and fix yourself.” She rambled before closing the door behind her.

Sweet Pea removed his hands from your body and took a step back to fully process everything that was happening. You? You just leaned against the counter and admired your work. Your lip gloss was smeared on his now swollen lips, his hair was a mess, and his cheeks were a few shades darker. You were certain you looked just as bad, if not worse.

He began to frantically grab his stuff, now nervous and panicked. “Wait, you’re really gonna leave, just like that?” You asked, a sting of pain in your heart.

“Oh baby, you’re insane if you think we’re not doing this again.” He said, kissing your lips with a smile before walking out the door.

AN: I wrote this while waiting for my illegally downloaded Spiderman to finish downloading onto my flashdrive so this is the work of a criminal but ANYWAY I honestly had to much fun writing Reggie omg sorry also this took so long for me to actually post omg sorry pt 2.

taglist: @hiighdeex3 @isaaclahys  @chaarrlieeeeee @lolabean1998 @miniwroetofreezymd

[madamrogersstorytelling]

Pretty Hard Kick

Platonic!Paul ”Jesus” Rovia/Reader + Paul ”Jesus” Rovia/Aaron

Winter Celebration

I’m here again, with yet another request for the first official event or celebration of this blog. This one was requested by @missmarcheline for our dearest ninja boy Jesus. She also asked could there be either Daryl or Aaron, and since I’ve had major Jaaron feels recently and I just simply love Aaron, he was the one who I decided to let join in. I hope you like this!

Words: 2605

25. ”I think we’re stuck here for a while”

40. ”Don’t laugh at my majestic sweater”

48. ”I didn’t want you to be alone”

60. Someone comes over as a friend but leaves as a loved one

You weren’t as blind as you sometimes let people think. You had seen very clearly how they were looking at each other, what it meant that Jesus left Hilltop. Nowadays he asked you to join him, he thought it’d be good for you to train with someone whose skills were quite similar to yours. So, you and Aaron spent the days punching and kicking each other while Jesus watched and guided you.

Before leaving Alexandria to live in Hilltop, you had befriended with Jesus. Now he was one of the closest friends you had ever had and you didn’t lie when you said that he knew you so well. So well it occasionally made you a bit angry. But more than that, it made you feel happy and safe; he was the first one to know if something was wrong, protecting you, agreeing with you, someone you could tell everything to... You had started to think that maybe you were somehow connected. It felt so natural to be his friend, to be with him.

Even so natural that you wore the ugliest Christmas sweater you had found during one scavenging trip without telling anyone. Thanks to the lord for big backpacks...

He had been a bit down for days. You knew it was because of all the stress he felt, how he thought he wasn’t supposed to be the leader. You had tried everything to cheer him up, but he was so busy that the only time you could do that was either during meals or in the evenings when he came to you and had this late night talk with you. Those late night talks were already a tradition. Something you appreciated. Loved, actually. He was always encouraging you, not matter what. He wrapped his arms around you and told you would make it. That everything was still okay, that no matter what, he was there for and with you.

And every time you believed him. Every time it felt just as safe in his embrace.

But when he was quieter than usual, still saying those words he always did but still distant, you decided you had to do something.

So, you wore the sweater to make him laugh. You missed his laughter. And because you knew Aaron would be there, since you were supposed to train again, it was even more perfect. He had someone to laugh with.

Maybe finally... he’d find the happiness he deserved.

You weren’t going to try to push. You’d let the chemistry, the situation do its magic. As Jesus’ friend you weren’t going to push Aaron against him and see what happened, that would’ve been mean. He wasn’t one of those who worked like that. He believed in chemistry, mutual understanding. You were going to let it happen if it was going to.

It started as tittering but it was harder and harder for him to refrain a laugh. He let it out just by the gates of Hilltop when he met you and covered his face with his right hand. ”Y/N, what on earth are you wearing?”

You smiled proudly, even though you knew the sweater was ugly. ”Don’t laugh at my majestic sweater,” you said, changing your voice a bit.

He was chuckling at you, walked closer and wrapped his arm around you. ”No, I’m not laughing. I’m saving you from other people’s laughs.”

You made a sound like a hurt puppy. ”But Paul, they were already laughing at me,” you sounded like a small child this time. You got out of the gates (pretty sure you were still able to hear giggles) and he let go of you, trusting you’d follow him.

You were one of the only people still calling him Paul sometimes. He felt like people might have forgotten his name really wasn’t Jesus. Technically. He liked this habit of yours, it made him feel warm inside. He stood there for a while, chuckling from the depths of his chest.

”Why am I your friend exactly?”

Your mouth fell open. You knew he was joking, but you played along. ”Hey! The real question is, why am I your friend? Hmm?”

He came to turn you around and started to push you towards the woods, held his hand between your shoulder blades. Listening to your giggles, he still pushed you and found himself smiling.

You were so silly he couldn’t help but love you.

It was braver than before, but you were going to meet closer to Hilltop than before. Aaron had told he’d be out of Alexandria for days this time, so training closer to Hilltop wasn’t hard. You had told him the place, and he promised the two of you he’d be there.

Just like Jesus, Aaron was one of your closest friends. You had been one of Rick’s group and met Aaron as he got you inside Alexandria’s tall walls. A lot had happened since that day. You had lost many, found many. Those days were far back. The world had changed a lot.

He was there before you two. Jesus was no longer pushing you, he had stopped when you stopped giggling. Greetings were always warm hugs and pats on the shoulders, and these moments with the two of them made you happier than anything back in Hilltop.

You were even happier when Aaron punched and kicked you. Not literally, of course, but he sometimes hit pretty hard. So did you; you had more than once ran to him to make sure he was fine when he fell down, holding his nose and groaned. Usually he was just fine. He thought it was funny, playing around. Jesus had learned to read his body language and was able to tell when he was acting. You tried to learn the same skill.

No matter how skilled you two already were, you couldn’t hold it against Jesus for too long. Not even together. He was quickly having the upper hand. Aaron got distracted by your ugly sweater, was still laughing at it and not only laughing, he even told it was the best he had ever seen.

You were even more proud of it at that moment.

You were sure it’d scare walkers away, you wouldn’t have to kill them.

But Aaron was dangerous when he got distracted. Instead of kicking Jesus, he kicked you. Hard, really hard this time.

He screamed louder than you when you fell on the grass, holding your leg. Jesus was just as quickly reacting to what happened.

Not only did Aaron kick you, but in his panic he almost hit your face with his metal hand. Jesus was between you and the hand quickly and stopped him.

”Y/N, are you okay?” he asked after turning from Aaron to you.

”Yeah... Yeah, I am...” You knew that acting brave wasn’t even more necessary than screaming would have been embarrassing.

”Are you sure? It was a pretty hard kick,” Aaron frowned in discomfort but didn’t dare to touch you, as if he was afraid he’d make everything worse. He was usually pretty confident, grown to be even more during these past few years, but moments like this always made him feel so bad that he panicked easily.

But luckily Jesus was calm like a rock. He placed his hand against your shoulder as you dropped yourself properly on the grass. ”Can you walk?”

You were able to feel how your leg hurt. It probably wasn’t broken, but Aaron was right, the kick had been hard.

”I think we’re stuck here for a while,” you said, eyes watering when Jesus touched your leg. It was an automatic reaction your body decided was the best for the moment. Jesus looked sorry and tried to smile to you soothingly.

You could hear that Aaron was swallowing and taking a deep breath.

”I’m very sorry, Y/N...”

You turned to face him and saw how he was still frowning and looked so sorry, blinking and biting the inside of his lower lip.

”Hey,” you reached for his hand with your own, ”you didn’t break me. It’s just a leg. I’m lucky it was you and not a walker.”

Aaron sighed, but let you have his hand.

Jesus looked at him quickly but his attention was then back at you, your leg he was examining. You tried not to hiss in pain.

”We should not stay here, it’ll be dark in a few hours,” he said, setting your leg down; not on the ground but on his own lap as he sat down on the grass. ”We’ll get you back to Hilltop, Y/N.”

”I’ll help,” Aaron said immediately, like he wasn’t even thinking about going back to Alexandria after this.

Both you and Jesus turned to look at him, but Jesus was the one talking.

”Are you sure? You could go -”

”No, I can’t. Couldn’t live with myself if I left now,” during the last sentence he turned to Jesus from you and bit the inside of his lip again.

Jesus nodded. ”Okay...” He looked at Aaron and then turned to you, this time setting your leg down on the grass. You hissed. ”How bad is it?”

”I think it’s not broken... Maybe just twisted or something...” You looked up at him. Wasn’t it supposed to be you asking him how bad it was? But you knew he was asking about the pain and not the condition of your leg.

”No, you’re right, it’s not broken. You didn’t kick that hard,” Jesus turned to Aaron to ease his mind, but Aaron got out a relieved sound and nothing more.

Jesus stood up and gave Aaron’s shoulder a pat as if to get him up as well. You sat up and let them help you, with standing at first and then with walking.

”Did you walk all the way down here?” Jesus asked Aaron, looking past you to see him.

”No, I have a horse. Y/N can ride and we’ll walk,” he suggested.

”Sounds good,” Jesus was left alone to hold you up. You were able to stand on your own and turned to look at him.

”This is embarrassing...”

He breathed out and brushed a stubborn lock of hair from in front of your eyes. ”Embarrassing? Things like this happen to better ones too. Don’t feel embarrassed. He didn’t mean any harm.”

”I know. Thank you.”

”Save the thanks until we have gotten your leg properly checked. I will sit with you for a long while tonight.”

You almost thanked him again, but knew he had set a trap and just pressed your head on his shoulder. He hummed and stroked your hair a little.

Aaron’s horse was brown and very nice, it understood your pain and didn’t even try to escape when you struggled with getting on the saddle. With Jesus’ help it was a bit easier. Aaron walked the horse, and Jesus walked beside him, even though they both knew just well that you would’ve been fine on your own. But it was nice. You leaned down, placed your head against the horse’s neck and looked down at the men, closing your eyes.

They thought you fell asleep. Partly you were, but you still heard them talking about friends, home, boyfriends... Aaron talked about loosing Eric. And somehow you felt this was the situation doing its magic.

You actually thanked Aaron for kicking you.

You were back at Hilltop faster than you thought you’d be, the gates opened, and you opened your eyes. Aaron helped you down, but you got stubborn.

”Y/N, the infirmary would be the best place - ”

You cut Jesus’ sentence before he even started it properly. ”No, I want my own bed. Please, Jesus...”

”How about you take Y/N back to the house, and I’ll get Enid? I’ll be on my way back to Alexandria after that, so...”

”Aaron, don’t be a fool!” You breathed out. ”Of course you’ll stay. You won’t get far before dark and this is my fault you even had to come here.”

”Technically, it was my fault...”

”Aaron, stop playing wise. I don’t want you to be alone. And I won’t let you be alone. There’s room for you too. We can get Enid there later, I’m not dying.”

It took a few seconds full of staring, but Aaron eventually gave in. He gave his horse to Tara, who was more than happy and surprised to see him and promised to go and get Enid, and helped Jesus to get you back to the house.

”I really like your sweater, Y/N,” Aaron said as you walked.

Jesus laughed as if he had remembered the ugly piece of clothing again. You felt him gazing at you, your worn out sweater that had probably once had a smiling reindeer on it.

”Oh, shut up,” you hit Aaron with your hand you held around him.

The stairs felt endless, but the boys carefully set you down on the couch after what felt like minutes full of frustrating torture.

”Do you need anything? Enid will probably bring painkillers, but anything else?” Jesus asked as he crouched next to the couch by your face.

It was an instinctive reaction, but your hand found his cheek. He leaned against it and smiled to you.

You took a quick glance at Aaron to see where he was. He probably wouldn’t hear you if you whispered, so you took the risk.

”I didn’t want you to be alone, either, Jesus.”

”I’m not alone. And I’m not leaving you alone,” he said with similar, whispering voice.

You shook your head. ”I didn’t mean it like that. What we have is special, but you deserve happiness. And I know you know that deep inside... you want it. You want him. I saw how you looked at each other. I... I heard what you talked about.”

For a second, he looked almost startled. But he knew he couldn’t hide anything from you, so he looked down at the floor and then up at your eyes again. But you were smiling.

”Go, talk to him. I can wait for Enid by myself. Go,” you gave him a smile when he got up, squeezed your shoulder and left you alone. You bit down on your lip as you looked at him for as long as you could until he disappeared.

That night you had probably the best talks ever. Your leg wasn’t broken, Enid had bandaged it, and you were curled up on the couch with your boys, the two people you loved the most in the world. And they loved you.

Aaron left the next morning. You heard a promise of coming back and seeing each other soon when he was saying his goodbyes to Jesus. He had already hugged you a small while back.

You tried to sit up to be more comfortable, but your gaze landed on them. You felt a sudden warmth in your chest.

You saw a quick but meaningful kiss, a bit shy but still very sure.

And Jesus wasn’t feeling down when he had gotten someone like Aaron and you gave him a reason to stay out of the leader business for a while. Not that you were needy, but you acted like your leg was hurting more than it actually was and you wouldn’t be fine on your own when someone came to ask for Jesus. So he had to tell them he had to take care of you. You heard more of his laughter than in weeks, and he thanked you for pushing him.

You had done it after all. Even when you didn’t mean to.

****

Tag List: @padfootagain @billyrvsso @jennareedus @mamaraptor @suchatinyinfinity @delicatelilyflower @whostheblondegirl

[secretagentspydetectiveninja]

And so I continue on my epic re-read of that nonsense royalty AU mixed with a teen movie except gayer-- uh, I mean, Misadventures

Chapter 6 here we go

I already remember that when I wrote this chapter I wanted to throw my laptop out of the window because it was impossible, so now I’m scared

Kim actually doing exercise in this fic was me directly calling myself out for lazing around all day

He tries to get out of detention by pulling the “but I’m a prince!” card ashfskdjhkf that won’t work on Lady Mendeleiev!!

Speaking of, I’ve had Ms Bustier called “Lady Caline” in this thing but Mendeleiev’s still referred to by her surname? Can’t remember what I was thinking tbh

Kim you dumb idiot, the nobles aren’t moving out of the way because you’re royalty, they’re moving out of the way because MENDELEIEV IS WITH YOU

Ohhhh my god stop accusing your own classmate of murder, I think Alix would have much more than a detention if she’d fricking killed someone

Sidenote: Alix did not deserve detention. The rules didn’t say anything about rollerskates so she did nothing wrong and this was very unfair

And there’s me showing off how much research on cobras I did lmao

...I’ll be honest, 90% of the reason I wrote this fic was because I wanted Kim to have to walk with a book on his head

goddammit you know when you notice symbolism in your writing that wasn’t there before? this fic is hecking doing it already. striking a BALANCE between being a stupid idiot and being a thoughtful goodbean is legit a running theme in this thing, and,, that’s,, their detention,,,sdskgkjf

I’m the noble who fell off the balancing beam. it’s me

Kim... I’m going to hit you on the head with that book I s2g STOP BEING A JERK

the symbolism gahhh I’m dying, he needs to be more patient and less reckless just like his life skjdhksjd sjdghbsjfhsk laksjflad

How did Mireille end up in detention, you ask? Simple. Aurore framed her. Those two have a real hecked up relationship in this thing and oh boy it’ll take a front seat in the sequel if I ever write it

well dammit now I ship Kim with Mireille I mean they held hands

“If someone doesn’t get over here to help me finish this stupid thing right now, I will throw this book at someone’s face hard enough to send their teeth into the back of their brain.” pls... alix... hit ME with the book I’m begging you

I’m. having an allergic reaction to Kim’s crush on Alix. I know what happens later in the fic and I’m already breaking out in hives

Chapter 7 is called “90% chance of death” which is an accurate statistic to describe the mortality rate of reading it

I MADE A NINO AND POTATOES REFERENCE OH MY GOD I TAKE BACK EVERYTHING BAD I EVER SAID ABOUT THIS FIC, IT’S PERFECT NOW

This reads like a game of Civilization and yet I hadn’t even played it yet at the point when I wrote this part

MAX W O W HAVE SOME FAITH IN KIM OKAY, HE’S A DICK AT THE MOMENT BUT HE’LL GET BETTER

And Kim stop trying to be tsundere, you’re so bad at it. everyone knows the real tsundere in this fic is Alix,

There’s me showing off about knowledge I learned on wikipedia again

“That would be the coolest way to die. Agonizing death by snake bite. I would love that.” Juleka you can’t just SAY that to Alix oh my god do you even know what happens in chapter 25???

Kim being good at archery is 100% a shoutout to Dark Cupid btw also he’s a sagittarius like me and I’ll fight you on this

Max just got bored and straight-up left the sports day lmaooo that’s the biggest mood

I can’t wait for chapter 60 where the Other sports day happens and it’s like the total inverse of this one

YES ALIX, GO OFF

she’s highkey lying. she cannot order someone’s execution, she may be a pharaoh but she really doesn’t have much power lol, she just pretends she does so people will let her do what she wants

only chapter 7 and Kim’s already crying over something dumb (aka the threat of being eaten alive by a venomous cobra)? nice

“I guess me suddenly storming in here and lowkey threatening to kill you may have been overboard” uh yeah, you don’t say?? he kinda deserved it tho lmao

I love how Kim’s all like “ayy there’s plenty of other cute girls at this school for me to fall for!” when the two people at school he falls for next are both BOYS

alright chapter 8 now baby, and yes the title “Chick???” makes perfect sense in context I swear

Oh here’s one of those boys already! Kim’s crush on Adrikins is so damn obvious I love it

The umbrella scene happened except with a parasol

the whole “you four seem to make a good group” thing was me thinking how Marinette/Adrien/Alya/Nino is a god-tier ot4

oh god I want to hug Nath

OKAY OKAY SO. Nath and Alix don’t make friends until like chapter 44 or something, but the reason she knew already that he liked Marinette was because Juleka told her in the snek scene earlier, and then Alix used this knowledge to force people into giving her chocolate

Alya your gaydar is so broken... almost none of the girls in your class are straight

I’m also going to hug Alix, I know what it’s like to be a confused baby aro -- in fact I was at the time I was writing this skdjfhksdjhgkjf

Kim’s homework was just me typing out a bunch of intelligent-sounding words I remember seeing in Crusader Kings II tbh

MAX YOU PRECIOUS GAY BEAN, GIVE IT LIKE 20 MORE CHAPTERS OKAY

ohohoho chapter 9 here we go

noooo Alya noooo don’t trust Theo!!! you’ll find out why in like chapter 47 but just!! don’t trust him!!!!!!

Alya I s2g... of course Marinette likes girls, she’s bi af

Chloe and Sabrina are wlw too... please fix your gaydar I’m begging you

same with Rose, good grief, she really does love Juleka omg

I love how I called the kingdom of Couffaine “mysterious” and “distant” because I hadn’t decided where it was yet, because I’ll have you know that for the sequel I’ve decided it’s the non-distant and non-mysterious Orkney Isles

Alya just knocks on Juleka’s door like “YO ARE YOU A LESBIAN?” skdjhkjsdhg I’m sobbing

No Alya, Couffaine isn’t a morbid kingdom, Juleka’s just really goth. Couffaine is just like how Scotland really is lol

Kim wtf you can’t just ditch Max like that good grief...

and there I go teaching the readers about geography, because that’s definitely what normal people talk about in their conversations

Alix’s ringtone is definitely a rickroll by the way

I love that these characters are in fact completely aware that they’re idiots who should not be in charge of a country, what they’re unaware of is all that precious, precious character development heading their way nyehehhehehe >:D

Look... I know I said I was having an allergic reaction but hugs with height differences are Very Important to me so just this once I’ll let it slide

Phew, chapter 10, and then I’ll stop because holy shoot I need time to process the ridiculousness of this mess

oh my god Kim literally burning the letters his parents send him in order to avoid his responsibilities is?? such a mood?? I’m basically doing that myself right now

This is the only time Emperor Gabriel even has any lines until like almost the last chapter lol

anD IT’S FULL OF FORESHADOWING OH MY GOD ADRIENNNNN

btw Chloe’s oracle question was “will I marry Adrien?” and of course the answer was no, so that’s why she was upset lol (idk what Marinette’s question was, I didn’t think of one oops)

more geography lessons!!!

Max being irrationally mad at Alix’s country having a higher GDP than his was inspired by him being mad about losing the gaming tournament to Marinette in the Gamer episode, by the way

Alix... is a reptile scalie I’m gonna regret saying that aren’t I

I love how her oracle question is literally just a stealth “I’m aroace, right?” and that makes the irony of the next bit so much funnier omg, poor Kim lmao I was so so cruel

(also I finally fixed that inconsistency... Fu said he was 186, but technically everyone in this fic is about a year or two older than they are in the show at the beginning, so he should be 187 instead)

Kim has just accepted that he’s going to die young by doing something reckless and stupid, that’s such a gen z mood wow

I’m genuinely losing brain cells because of Kim right now, I’m contracting the bubonic plague as I type, I’ve already lost 3 years off my life and so has Master Fu,,,, ask a sensible question you idiot

No Kim, it won’t be CPR, she really will kiss you, you’ll just know okay... now if you’ll excuse me I need to go bang my head against a brick wall for several hours

[darhwolf]

all

1: 6 of the songs you listen to most?dunno lol probably any of the 4 songs from Courtney Barnett that I have on my phone (Elevator Operator, Depreston, Nobody Really Cares if You Don’t go to the Party, and Debbie Downer). Dunno lol

2: If you could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?Well there’s a few people so... @lifecankindofsuck @annoyinglyoptimisticbread @gerards-slutty-jacket, or Markimoo 

3: Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 23, give me line 17.The moat surrounds your fortress, preventing enemies from

4: What do you think about most?Uhhh such a fucking odd queston I honestly have no clue my mind jumps around a lot

5: What does your latest text message from someone else say?Imma not include group chats so... some shit from sprint about texting in the UK. I don’t get texted a lot :/

6: Do you sleep with or without clothes on?I prefer without but I usually wear pajamas

7: What’s your strangest talent?I can slap my thighs really fast I dunno lol

8: Girls… (finish the sentence); Boys… (finish the sentence)With the first thing that comes to my head?Girls just wanna have funBoys will be boys

9: Ever had a poem or song written about you?Nope and it’ll probs never happen so whatever ¯\_(:/)_/¯

10: When is the last time you played the air guitar?Never rip

11: Do you have any strange phobias?None that are out of the ordinary

12: Ever stuck a foreign object up your nose?A Q-Tip with vaseline

13: What’s your religion?I don’t have one

14: If you are outside, what are you most likely doing?prbably sitting on a bench alone being lonely lol

15: Do you prefer to be behind the camera or in front of it?behind

16: Simple but extremely complex. Favorite band?The Beatles

17: What was the last lie you told?I think it was something my dad got angry at me for and then a waiter came up and I faked a smile for the waiter if you call that lying

18: Do you believe in karma?Sometimes

19: What does your URL mean?Absolutely fucking nothing lmao

20: What is your greatest weakness; your greatest strength?Weakness? my cripplingly low self esteem. Strength? My desire to help people

21: Who is your celebrity crush?Probably Maisie Williams. Used to be Ariana Grande cuz she’s absolutely adorable

22: Have you ever gone skinny dipping?No but it sounds like fun

23: How do you vent your anger?profane language lmao

24: Do you have a collection of anything?not really no. but I do have all 50 state coins

25: Do you prefer talking on the phone or video chatting online?Video chatting as long as the other person can hold the conversation

26: Are you happy with the person you’ve become?physically? hell fucking no. Mentally? nope. Emotionally? still no rip. But I am happy that I can help people with their problems.

27: What’s a sound you hate; sound you love?hate? crying. (human crying not baby crying) it makes me cry too ;-;Love? uhhhhhhh rain

28: What’s your biggest “what if”?What if I never actually find an s/o?

29: Do you believe in ghosts? How about aliens?I want to believe

30: Stick your right arm out; what do you touch first? Do the same with your left arm.The wall. A rocking chair

31: Smell the air. What do you smell?Cotton (from my blanket)

32: What’s the worst place you have ever been to?I dunno lol

33: Choose: East Coast or West Coast?West coast, but I’m going to the East coast for College. West cost is more progressive I believe

34: Most attractive singer of your opposite gender?Ariana Grande I guess

35: To you, what is the meaning of life?It’s 42. I’m too lazy to give a full explanation or something like that

36: Define Art.Uhh I dunno lmao

37: Do you believe in luck?Yeah. Either Luck or RNGesus

38: What’s the weather like right now?Sunny

39: What time is it?6:33 PM

40: Do you drive? If so, have you ever crashed?Yes. No

41: What was the last book you read?Pet Semetary

42: Do you like the smell of gasoline?it’s OK. Too much and I hate it.

43: Do you have any nicknames?Mom, Dad, A-Dog (from my uncle)

44: What was the last film you saw?Gremlins. In theaters? A Quiet Place

45: What’s the worst injury you’ve ever had?Smacking my head on a piano bench corner (3 stitches needed)

46: Have you ever caught a butterfly?yes

47: Do you have any obsessions right now?nope

48: What’s your sexual orientation?Sexual orientation? Het. but romantic orientation is bi

49: Ever had a rumour spread about you?Nope

50: Do you believe in magic?Hell yeah or something like that

51: Do you tend to hold grudges against people who have done you wrong?Nah. Unless they were especially awful

52: What is your astrological sign?Aquarius or Aries

53: Do you save money or spend it?Save

54: What’s the last thing you purchased?some micro transaction

55: Love or lust?Love

56: In a relationship?I feckin wish

57: How many relationships have you had?technically, none. One was long distance puppy love, the other wasn’t a relationship

58: Can you touch your nose with your tongue?yes

59: Where were you yesterday?In Heathrow airport

60: Is there anything pink within 10 feet of you?Eraser tops

61: Are you wearing socks right now?nope

62: What’s your favourite animal?DOGGOS

63: What is your secret weapon to get someone to like you?Wait I have a secret weapon? oooh tell me

64: Where is your best friend?I uhhhhhh @annoyinglyoptimisticbread and @lifecankindofsuck and @gerards-slutty-jacket hey where are you

65: Give me your top 5 favourite blogs on Tumblr.NO SPECIFIC ORDER @annoyinglyoptimisticbread @lifecankindofsuck @gerards-slutty-jacket @umbrellas-and-raincoats @30-minute-memes

66: What is your heritage?Germany I think or something

67: What were you doing last night at 12AM?Sleeping lmao

68: What do you think is Satan’s last name?Phillips. I dunno some casual last name

69: Be honest. Ever gotten yourself off?Yes many times lmao. Has anybody else gotten me off? nah. never probably gonna happen either lmao

70: Are you the kind of friend you would want to have as a friend?yesssssss somebody I could actually like pull aside to talk about shit in my life

71: You are walking down the street on your way to work. There is a dog drowning in the canal on the side of the street. Your boss has told you if you are late one more time you get fired. What do you do?Fuck yeah the doggo and I are in this shit together now

72: You are at the doctor’s office and she has just informed you that you have approximately one month to live. a) Do you tell anyone/everyone you are going to die? b) What do you do with your remaining days? c) Would you be afraid?a. Yes.b. I don’t know ;-;c. yes

73: You can only have one of these things; trust or love.Can I not fucking choose this kinda question is hard on me

74: What’s a song that always makes you happy when you hear it?I dunno

75: What are the last four digits in your cell phone number?8119

76: In your opinion, what makes a great relationship?Trust, communication (bitches fucking love communication), and actual love between the two (or more) partners

77: How can I win your heart?I don’t know this is too difficult of a question I guess just talk to me I don’t fucking know

78: Can insanity bring on more creativity?kinda maybe

79: What is the single best decision you have made in your life so far?I dunno lmao

80: What size shoes do you wear?don’t remember too lazy to check

81: What would you want to be written on your tombstone?I dunno leave it up to my family

82: What is your favourite word?Banana

83: Give me the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word; heart.love

84: What is a saying you say a lot?I dunno lmao

85: What’s the last song you listened to?Probably Elevator Operator

86: Basic question; what’s your favourite colour/colours?a dark blue like rain I don’t know what shade exactly it is

87: What is your current desktop picture?EEVEES!

88: If you could press a button and make anyone in the world instantaneously explode, who would it be?Some shit named Diego. He was a dick to me all throughout middle school and never apologized once

89: What would be a question you’d be afraid to tell the truth on?Do you have depression?

90: One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by MUMMIES. The mummies aren’t really doing anything, they’re just standing around your bed. What do you do?Sit and wait, but get ready for something to happen

91: You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What is that power?Invisibility. You can actually do a LOT of good with invisibility like if somebody tries to rob a bank, you walk in, invisible, with a gun and reveal yourself only to shoot them or something like that

92: You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?Eating a birthday cake I guess I dunno :/

93: You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?FUCKING EVERYTHING ABOUT MY DEPRESSION AND SHIT

94: You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. Who would it be?Why music celeb?But it would be Ariana Grande

95: You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?Fuckin Japan cuz it’s so cool

96: Do you have any relatives in jail?nope

97: Have you ever thrown up in the car?yeah lol

98: Ever been on a plane?many many times

99: If the whole world were listening to you right now, what would you say?“Hey stop fucking each other over and lets focus on not fucking making the human race go extinct mmkay?”@annoyinglyoptimisticbread THANKS FOR THE ASK

[folkmetalfan]

Upon request I am doing these NSFW asks 😌1:When did you lose your virginity? 18 2: Rough sex or soft sex? Both, variety is the spice of life 3: Do you have any unusual kinks/fetishes? Not really "unusual" 4: Weirdest place you’ve had sex? I guess it's a tie between the kitchen floor and the laundry room floor 5: Favourite sex position? From behind or me on top 6: Do you like to be dominant or submissive? It's like 80/20 in favor of being submissive 7: Have you ever had any one night stands? Only 3. Technically 2 I guess 8: Sex on the bed, couch or the floor? All 3! 9: Have you ever had sex in a public place? No but I wanna 10: Have you ever been caught masturbating? Yes and it always leads to them jumping on me 😋 11: What does your favourite sexy underwear look like? Black lace with real details 12: How often do you have sex? 3 times a day when I'm with my bf 13: Is there anybody right now you’d like to have sex with? Plenty 14: Do you prefer giving or receiving oral sex? Both really 15: Most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you during sex? My ex accidentally shoved it in my ass and I just burst out in tears because it hurt so fucking bad. We had to stop and I couldn't keep myself together for like 10 minutes 16: A song you’d listen to during hard/rough/kinky sex? Honestly I'm not sure 17: A song you’d listen to during soft/slow/passionate sex? Anything by the weeknd or redbone by childish gambino 18: Are you into dressing up for sex? Hell yuhh 19: Would you prefer sex in the bath or sex in the shower? Shower 20: If you could have sex with anyone right now, who would it be? 🤔 if I were single it'd be one of my mutuals 21: Have you ever had a threesome? If not, would you? No but I would love to 22: Do you/would you use sex toys? I have in the past and am looking forward to again 23: Have you ever sent someone a dirty text/picture? Yes 24: Would you have sex with your best friend? Nah 25: Is there anything you do after sex? (for example, smoke, eat, drink) sometimes I get a snack or water 26: Something that will never fail to get you horny? Boys w long hair 27: Early morning sex or late night sex? Both 28: Favourite body part on the opposite sex? I love hands, like a nice set of strong looking hands idk 29: Favourite body part on the same sex? Girls with pretty hair are neat 30: Something that you have hidden in your room that you don’t want anyone to find: lube I suppose 31: Weirdest sexual act some has performed [or tried to perform] on/with you: Hmmm idk really 32: Have you ever tasted yourself? [If no, would you?] [If yes, what did you think?] yes, it is good? Idk what to say about this 33: Is it ever okay to not use a condom: I don't remember the last time I used one, don't take my advice on safe sex kids 34: A food that you would like to use during a sexual experience: whipped cream 35: Worst possible time to get horny: there is no bad time 36: Do you like it when your sexual partner moans? Ofc 37: How much fapping is too much fapping: if your crotch is getting like sore and red it's time to find another hobby for a bit 38: Best sexual complement you ever got: "best pussy I've ever had" 39: Favorite foreplay activities: I love to tease and build up anticipation until he can't take it anymore and throws me down on the bed 40: What do you wear to bed? Depending on the temperature and stuff usually a t shirt and shorts but if it's cold I'll wear comfy pants and socks 41: When was the first time you masturbated: last night 42: Do you have any nude/masturbating pictures/video of yourself? Yes 43: Have you ever/when was the last time you had sex outside? Never 44: Have/would you ever have sex in public? I would 45: Have/would you ever had a threesome? I would 46: What is one random object you’ve used to masturbate? Hair brush 47: Do you watch gay/lesbian porn? why/why not? Yes, it's got 48: Do you like oral sex? (why/why not) who doesn't? 49: How do you feel about tattoos on someone you are interested in? Love em 😍 50: How would you feel about taking someones virginity? Done it, prefer someone with more experience to play with 51: Is there any food you would NOT recommend using during a sexual encounter? Idk i would think something that would make you real sticky would kinda suck 52: Would you rather be a pornstar or a prostitute? Porn star 53: Do you watch porn? Yes 54: Have you ever been called a freak? Why? Yes. Tbh I didn't think I was that much of a freak but I have been called one so 55: Do you feel comfortable going “commando”? Not really it feels so weird 56: Would you have a problem with going down on someone if they hadn’t shaved their pubic hair? Nope 57: If you could give yourself head, would you? Yes 58: Booty or Boobs? Boobs but a nice butt is cool too 59: Have you ever cheated on someone? (Why?) nope 60: If you were the other sex for a day, what are five things you would do? Umm I guess I would play with my new toy 😂, revel in male privilege, see if I could get a date with a girl, umm I'm not sure what else 61: have you ever watched someone masturbate? Yes 62: has anyone ever watched you masturbate? Yes 63. Have you ever had an erection and someone noticed? Since I don't get erections I will go with no 64. What is your method of masturbation? (ie. toys, clitorial, prostate) clitoral 65. What is your bra/penis size? Depends on the band size but I can go between a C, D, or DD 66. What is the strangest thing you have ever put up your vagina/anus? I don't really put strange things up there 67. When was the last time you masturbated? Last night 68. When was the last time you had sex? Last week 69. When was the last time you watched porn? Last night 70. Have you ever bought a sex toy? If so, which one did you buy last? First sex toy? If not, which one do you plan on buying when you do? I've had them bought for me. Vibrating dildos and just regular vibrators 71. Guys:Circumsized? N/a 72. Which not-genital part of your body do you like being touched? My waist 73. Which genital part of your body do you like being touched? My butt 74. Girls:Are you able to achieve orgasm just through breast stimulation? I can really get going but not cross the finish line 75. Have you anonymously sent a sexual ask to someone on tumblr? Yes 76. When was the last time you have had a wet dream? Never? 77. Which wet dream was your favorite? N/a 78. Is there a friend you would willingly have sex with? Yes 79. Is there a celebrity/character you would willingly have sex with? Yes. Thor aka Chris Hemsworth 80. Favorite sexual position? From behind, girl on top 81. Do you like being called a slut or whore in bed?hell yuh 82. Are you into any BDSM? Yes 83. Have you ever wanted to have sex with someone but knew you couldnt for any reason? Why? Yes. I'm taken and he lives in a different country. 84. Do you like dirty talk? Again, who doesn't?! 85. Are you loud or quiet during sex? Masturbation? I am quiet because I have to be but I'd be loud if I could 86. Have you ever been inturrepted during sex or masturbation? Who/what? Yes. My bf live at home and every now and again there will be a knock at the door while we are doing something 87. What kind of porn do you like to watch? Anything that turns me on really 88. Have you ever confessed to someone that you got an erection over them? What about masturbated to them? No 89. Have you ever masturbated because your sexual partner wasn’t there when you needed them? Of course 90. Have you ever had a one night stand? Do you still keep in contact with them? 3. I talked to the first guy a lot leading up to it but after the night was over we never talked again. The second guy I took his virginity and we talked and hooked up twice but we haven't talked in like almost a year. The third guy we talked for a few hours and then he came and picked me up and he pulled one of those "I'll text you tomorrow" things (they won't ever really text you 😂) and so a few days later I told him he could have just said he only wanted sex I was fine with that and then he asked if me and my roommate wanted a threesome and that's when I stopped replying 91. Have you ever had a friends with benefits? Are they still beneficial? Not really no

[sierrabinondo]

my first tour.

i’m currently sitting in a ford e350 riding down I-95 back to new jersey, to hurriedly clean out the rental van we took for my band’s first tour ever and drop it off at bandago. we’ve been up since 8:30 am, not an unusual time for us, but we’re running on about 5-6 hours of sleep. that’s the average amount of sleep we’ve been able to squeeze in every night of tour. nine nights straight away from home, a gig almost every night. and of course, as physically exhausting as it was, it was a week that changed us and challenged ourselves as musicians.

8/12 - asbury park, nj

day one was our jersey hometown show in asbury. boy it was stressful at first, and absolutely sweltering outside from the humidity. i was so stressed because i was in a panic (when aren’t i lol) dealing with a sinus infection. anyone who knows me knows i’m a nervous wreck. i am a perfectionist, and i loathe not performing at my best; i try really hard to be perfect. i was flushing out my sinuses every hour and inhaling my humidifier that resembles a mini-nutri bullet if they came in white and also had a vaporizer tank inside. i looked pretty ridiculous sitting behind merch like this but i wasn’t taking any chances. i needed to take whatever measures i could possible to avoid a poor performance. there were a good amount of friends and people who came out to support us and i didn’t want to let them down. i was also really excited to see funeral attire, the band we went on tour with, and for people to see the progress we made in the month and a half we took to rigorously prepare for tour.

the asbury show ended up being really great, and a couple people said it was the best they’ve ever seen us. i felt overjoyed to hear such awesome feedback. i was also just really happy i could get our tourmates and close friends in funeral attire a show in asbury park. we sold out of pretty much all of our ramen shirts, which i was hoping to save for the rest of tour, but we ended up having enough to sell at least one ramen shirt a day to somebody. it was also really cool seeing like five people walking around the venue with ramen shirts on lmao

8/13 - long island, ny

and so our week of tour began- my sinus infection lessened but it persisted. the next day was long island, and we were looking forward to reuniting with our friends in i dreamt the sea who graciously put the show together for us. all of tour, whenever we played a bar with a juke box i spent $2 to play “smooth” by carlos santana featuring rob thomas and it was worth the allocated cost of $4 for all of tour. the show was a ton of fun. however i strangely sang worse than i did the day before- which was weird, and frustrating, since i felt the symptoms of my sinus infection less than i had in asbury. i was extremely upset. but i was surrounded by friends and i tried really hard to put on a brave face. all the bands we played with were super nice and liked us a lot, we made new friends and people who came out to the show dug us a lot too. we finally got to gig with u blue who are also a blue swan-eque band. so i guess even though i sucked, we did something right.

as we were getting ready to leave to go crash at my close friend jenni’s house in bellimore, our van’s battery died. bandago mentioned when we picked up our van earlier in the day that the battery had died the day before, but all they advised was that we drive the van around for a half hour or more once we began our rental. they didn’t mention anything about being wary of the battery beyond that. kelly and cassidy straight up saved us and gave us a super quick jump, and we were on our way finally. jenni was the first friend we crashed with and she really treated us to a nice sleep and some delicious bagels. so glad i could get to see her for the first time in a while too.

8/14 - nazareth, pa

the next day we headed out as quickly as possible to make our way to PA. something i feared on this tour was that we would lose our personal belongings, or have something stolen from us. this did happen - our tour photographer julie’s power strip was stolen in long island. fortunately, we were able to help her replace it. what had happened as we arrived to PA and stopped at walmart, was that i magically lost my phone somewhere between holding it in my hand walking out of the store, and sitting down to leave for our hotel. i was pretty much convinced it was gone or stolen. we ripped apart the entire van to try to find it, ran back inside walmart to see if i put it down somewhere, and even walked back to a spot we had the van parked in for a few minutes. i was convinced i was going to spend all of tour without a goddamn phone. and then, it occurred to me- maybe check… the garbage? and christ almighty. in a swath of basura juice, there was my phone. i ran back inside walmart to scrub the SHIT out of the case and carefully wash the phone itself and we finally made our way to check in at the days hotel in allentown, PA.

seriously- if you have a band of 5+ people, and/or if you are willing to spare the expense, buy hotel rooms for whatever nights you don’t have somewhere to crash for free any night of tour. i realize this isn’t feasible for 2+ week stints, or for people who literally do this for a living, but it was amazing to have beds to sleep in and free breakfast every morning for about $12-$15 a person. i actually don’t know if we would have been as healthy and happy without having that convenience. hotwire was how chris donis from funeral attire and i booked rooms, and the rates started at about $60 plus fees and tax per night. and it was fun crashing in hotels.

we met up with our friends in funeral attire and ethan from whittled down who was doing merch for most of the tour for a quick swim before the show in nazareth. we love hanging out with those guys. my obnoxious laugh is probably amplified by 10 dB just being around them. seriously almost pissed myself laughing in the pool because the guys were playing chicken and then ethan was doing kick flips into the pool with the life-saving device hanging by the pool the size of a massive surfboard. but POOL TIME was over around 3:30 pm because we had to get ready to head to the next venue, which was stehly’s bakery in nazareth a town over.

playing stehly’s was sick. small place, but they give each band member at least one free treat of some sort. i got a couple kiffles- little pastry dough roll-ups filled with fruit jellies- they were soooo cute and so good. i also caved to a helping of six potato and onion pierogies after the show. the only concerning thing was that after the first band jetsam played - awesome instrumental prog doom band - we soon realized that the show didn’t have a sound guy. there was a small PA set up, and we had mics and mic stands missing. the confusion pushed us quite a bit behind schedule but enough people at the show were resourceful and helpful enough to keep the show moving. i felt like i didn’t play an awesome set, and we also had some technical difficulties with our click track/Interlude mixer, but the funeral attire guys still had very nice things to say about us, so i trust them haha.

i was frustrated with how i totally blew my performance in long island, when we had a decent amount of people watching us, and then had a great show the next day. i actually don’t care about playing to a room of few people; i consider any opportunity to play to any amount of people of equal worth to another. so when i blow one show but not the other, i feel regret for not winning over potential fans we could have had, had i just been a better vocalist.

8/15 - philadelphia, pa

so then imagine my absolute blind rage, when we played the barbary in philly the next day, and we played our worst show all of tour. we were truly looking forward to this show and we were so devastated afterwards. my top most anticipated three shows were asbury, philly and cambridge. we love playing philly, we had some great bands on this bill we like a lot, and we actually had people coming out for us.

we were just making sure that the band on before us had almost all their gear off before we could load on, it was a really small stage. but the sound guy beckoned for us over the PA to start loading on regardless. we barely got a line check and it set the precedent for the whole set. ryan was starting to have volume issues with the volume levels on the mixer, and then because our individual levels were out of whack one of us would be louder than the other, or too loud to hear the drums. it was a straight up mess. and i didn’t know if we would win over anyone at the show anyways, but i just wanted to play well enough to have their respect. i put a lot of pressure on ourselves. i put a lot of pressure on myself.

when i have a bad set and i can’t deal with the disappointment i tend to shut down. even if i try my absolute best, even if people tell us we were still good - i just, i don’t believe them. it feels like they’re just being polite or i’m being lied to. it’s pretty pathetic of myself and sad; it’s something i need to work on. i actually wrote the small verse of lyrics in the intro of this tour about that. i just don’t think with all the experience of singing and performing i have that error is excusable anymore. after taking my best friend laura to her car i started chugging alcohol. i told myself before tour i wouldn’t drink until the last day to keep my throat in a healthy condition - whoops. i was so pissed i didn’t care and we had the next day off anyways; figured if i chugged water before bed i’d be fine. and i was right.

even when we had bad shows, my favorite perk each night was just getting to see funeral attire play every night. their song “joy” is one of my favorite all-time songs. the drowned god, blueroom and flowercrown were awesome too. oh! and a super fun thing we did was place enormous orders for cheesesteaks and had them delivered to the venue. we got guest lists this show and two free drink tickets each too. not gonna lie, it felt cool haha. we also explored a bit and FINALLY did our nine month-overdue interview with our friend brandon from audio addiction.

8/16 - day off at delaware water gap, days hotel in allentown, pa 

the next day, our day off, marked the halfway point for our tour. the original plan was hershey, but we did delaware water gap instead. it was a much better plan. we started the day with the whole tour together at cracker barrel. we then started to head up to delaware water gap, specifically milford, PA to check out hackers falls and milford beach. this day started out as absolute dog shit for me because i was dealing with a kinda heavy personal issue at home. didn’t anticipate i’d have anything to worry about in this regard, and my mental health has been worsening over the course of this year. so imagine at this point how hard it was for me to hide behind my hair and not be upset the whole morning. i’m also a horrible liar so i was fucked if i wanted to lie and say it was seasonal allergies fucking up my face lmfao

on top of that, we were super behind schedule for del water gap. we were all supposed to go jump in the waterfalls together, but we couldn’t find the specific waterfall we wanted to jump in. and the one we did find, the one i sort of swam in, it turned out that the trail to the bottom of the waterfall was closed off- which i believe had a more ideal swimming hole-type area. oh! and the worst part! we kept forgetting funeral attire had a commercial van for this tour. and one of the roads linked to where we were, PA-209, doesn’t allow commercial vehicles to travel through. so on top of me dealing with shit at home and now feeling like i was immensely inconveniencing my friends, i felt like an asshole. on my fucking day off lmao

but to my pleasant surprise it ended up being fine, and insanely fun. funeral attire didn’t get to chill at the waterfall with us but we made our way to milford beach and hung out there for the remainder of the day. thank god it was still open we didn’t get there until 5:30 pm. a bunch of us were swimming, couple of the guys just read or laid in the grass, and a few of the guys were throwing around a baseball. some of them swam across the river and back, the other side of the river was new jersey haha.

that night we got together to drink VERY heavily and hang out. that was probably one of my favorite highlights of the tour. at this point i was feeling much better. i shared a fat bottle of some pink moscato with julie. by the way, it was so sick having another girl on tour. not just because julie is talented but is also a great friend and was just an awesome presence to have for the week. her and donis helped me a lot on this day, if it wasn’t for them i don’t know i would have gotten through it.

my band partied hard for the first night all tour. funeral attire has the absolute strength and stomachs to drink most nights and then still play amazing sets every day- we’re not there at least not yet haha. holy fuck i made it halfway through this post and haven’t mentioned TIKI TIME??? TIKI TIM???

so funeral attire kept a couple sweet luau decorations from the long island venue hahaha and one of them said tiki time- can’t say i can truly encapsulate what tiki time is in a short explanation. tiki time was when we drank, but tiki time was also sort of the entire tour??? so i might be beat for explaining it well haha.

so we got super drunk and sang to old fueled by ramen/myspace emo bands, and my bandmate jaime and i played a four-way battle of magic the gathering with frankie and fez from funeral attire. i had my ass handed to me but i’m still learning anyways, it was fun regardless. it was really cool getting to know the guys in funeral attire better, i was already pretty close with donis but i feel like i got the chance to actually talk and hang with everyone.

arguably one of the funniest moments on tour - my bandmate joe got absolutely TRASHED. he somehow managed to get lost lmao or jaime had to escort him back to our hotel room late in the night. and even after joe was safe with us he woke up at 6 in the morning when housekeeping came walking in so he got up to shoo them away hahaha and THEN- he PANICKED because he realized he didn’t take a room key when he walked out the room and shut the door HAHA so he called ALL of us SEVEN times, he also accidentally called the jam room in howelll LMAO and finally as he’s on the phone with our friend ed, ed was just like “ask for help” so joe pulled aside an employee. and as that employee was approaching to help and joe turned the door knob, the door OPENED. the poor kid was sooo hung over the entire next day.

8/17 - brooklyn, ny

the second half of tour began with our drive out to brooklyn and nursing poor joe back to health. both bands arrived to brooklyn around the same time. we briefly went to a dog park, and then went to a big thrift shop where bren bought the sickest light pink leather jacket. after about an hour or so of walking around, we realized we were out of ideas of shit to do until showtime in about eight hours. we were all hungry as hell, but half of us wanted ramen or pizza. so we split up - my bandmates went to pizza, and julie and i went to ramen with funeral attire and ethan. we went to zamurai ramen which was absolutely fantastic. the prices were reasonable, too.

muchmore’s was a cool spot- a handful of my good friends came out too, it was awesome to see them and have some comfort from familiar faces. bartees cox jr was one of my most anticipated artists we were to play with on tour, and just, wow. originally his whole band stay inside was to play, but when he could only play solo i knew in my gut i still needed him on the show. what an exemplary musician of genuine talent, he truly stole the show. his voice, god. some people just sing, and some people make you feel by way of singing- i truly felt what he was singing. it’s people like him that inspire me.

well UNFORTUNATELY, i blew it at this show again too. and it felt horrible for me, considering my bandmates still played well and we promised we wouldn’t let the philly set happen again. i hate when i encourage everyone to play their best but can’t even set a good precedent for everyone. i was insanely upset, but i suppressed the urge to despair. 

after the show we crashed with jaime’s friends tim and erica who - holy shit - really pulled out all the stops for us. we had to pay $79 to park the van in the city, but even in a small lower manhattan apartment they were able to make us feel so goddamn comfortable. beds for everyone, a dinner table set for all of us and incredibly nice wine. i wasn’t going to eat but holy shit i COULD NOT turn down what tim made for us - this like, primavera white wine bowtie pasta and some DUMB thicc succulent pork. holy shit it was some of the best pork i have ever had. they also gave us breakfast for the next morning. what ANGELS

8/18 - manchester, nh

as we awoke we geared up for what would be our longest drive all tour - manhattan to manchester, new hampshire. we had at least six hours of driving to kill in time for load in at 5. we took this opportunity to watch selena- aka one of the best movies ever. the rain all day was real inconvenient, but we were excited to now be in funeral attire’s neck of the woods- new england that is. this also meant we were in the final stretch of tour; the dread was starting to set in.

this show ended up being one of our favorites. we had an enormous stage! it was fun to perform on and i felt like i personally had a great performance. it was cool to look around and see my bandmates looking super content and as into it as i was. the bands we played with were all awesome, we also played with a cool touring package (glass half empty and crafter). i was so excited to check out pinnacle, i really love their sound and their vocalist is so sick. damnit i just remembered i forgot to buy a shirt from pinnacle. I DIGRESS-

so funeral attire showed us mr. mac’s in manchester, a spot with over a dozen kinds of mac and cheese. i wanted to get the lobster one but i ended up getting jalapeño cheddar. woooOOOOOOOW it was GOOD - but of course i could only eat a little bit due to the fact i had to sing and also, milk products and my body are not a good mix anymore :—–) so i saved the rest for later and ate some while watching funeral attire’s set hahaha. julie got the carbonara which had like three different white cheeses and bacon, i almost got that one originally but we both just swapped bites. hiiiighly recommend going if you’re ever playing bungalow bar and grill or going to a show there!

8/19 - cambridge, ma

our second-to-last show was in cambridge, MA- it’s like boston’s brooklyn. rob kindly put us up for the night in his basement, and after we packed up we went to explore cambridge. to my very nice and pleasant surprise there was a GODDAMN H MART - an asian supermarket - with a food court. so we ate lunch there! i got a poké bowl, couple of the guys got ramen and sushi, and julie had this amazing dark curry. we also tried café nero, really great coffee/espresso spot that is also a chain and i straight up just had no idea. there was a bao place (super soft dumplings, kinda look like lil sandwiches) next door that julie and i grabbed baos to eat at. i got the MIT and- oh christ i forget the name of the other one- but the MIT had lamb, lettuce, sesame seeds, pickled onions and spicy mayo, and the other had most of the same ingredients but with crispy tofu. soooo delicious. the guys also bought a couple records at a shop across the street from the venue.

the venue we played was out of the blue too art gallery, an art gallery that hosts shows. AND THEY HAD AN ALASKAN MALAMUTE WALKING AROUND NAMED XO. the biggest malamute i’ve ever seen, xo was so cute. had colored feathers in her fur too. this show was funeral attire’s hometown show, so we met a lot of the musicians they’re most friendly with and they were all so kind. i wanted to get oldsoul on the show so badly and donis and jess from oldsoul made it happen, just such a wonderful band. i got hooked on em from their litter box sessions, jess has such an incredible voice. and the best part was they were all so nice, ugh. rainsound and newfield were awesome too, we got to talk to the rainsound guys a good amount. i didn’t do so hot this night - i hit a difficult note but still botched a bunch of other things - but honestly i was having such a great night so it didn’t even matter. and it was cool to see people who love funeral attire as much as i do singing the words.

8/20 - attleboro, ma

for the last night of tour frankie put us up, we left his place around noon to go back to café nero and get coffee and breakfast before checking in to our last hotel. by chance, hotelwire’s best deal was the holiday inn in mansfield, MA and holy SHIT- they upgraded our room so that we had a sofa with a pull out bed AND THE ROOM WAS MASSIVE. it was bigger than my boyfriend’s apartment in asbury park. two fluffy queen sized beds, that sofa bed, huge flat screen TV, spacious bathroom AND the sliding door in the room gave access right to the pool and jacuzzi area. we went for a quick dip in the jacuzzi and swam before we each had to quickly take real actually showers for the first time in two days. we managed to all somehow get ready within less than two hours and make it in time for load in at 5 pm, doors were at 6 pm

the last venue was cool - it was another art gallery, patterson creations. it was really nice and brand new inside. after both us and funeral attire loaded in we still didn’t have set time info, but going by the event page we assumed we at least were going on third - so minus jaime and ryan who already grabbed pizza across the street from the venue, we drove to north providence quickly to get hot dogs at olneyville new york system. it’s funeral attire’s favorite place to get hot dogs. we all pretty much ordered the way they do which is two hot dogs all the way, that comes with ground beef, mustard, celery salt and onions. i was hesitant to get two hot dogs but i was glad i did, because the one definitely wouldn’t have been enough. well, i WAS glad i did, until i got a very unpleasant phone call ha ha ha

jaime calls me as everyone is still finishing their food, and he says- “the door guy just approached me and said that… you guys need to get back here because we’re supposed to go on second.” holy shit i YELLED lmao. somehow, every other band but us and funeral attire got schedules, and we were supposed to go on at 7:05!!! it was 6:25 when jaime called me and we were twenty minutes away!!!

we quickly settled our bills and donis took me, my bandmates and julie back to the venue right away. we tried to get bands to switch but they couldn’t. thankfully the promoter was able to swap us with another band, so we had some additional time to get ready. i knew the promoter wouldn’t have done that to us out of malice, super nice guy. i had just wished we had the info prior to doors. we never go out for food if we know we have to play extremely soon. i don’t even eat less than three hours before i sing. i was losing my goddamn mind afraid of blowing our set on the last day of tour.

and i diiiiid ha ha ha as great as we started out, i blew almost the entire set. everyone also lost each other a couple times. because of the fear of fucking up royally we also completely abandoned the mixer for the interlude tracks, which we had to do several times over the course of tour. however usually we’d keep it hooked up so that ryan could hear the clicks, this time we didn’t use them at all but ryan’s tempo was still fine.

i was devastated our last set of tour went the way it did and i just couldn’t suppress the disappointment this time. i immediately inhaled a glass of wine at the bar and disappeared for a bit. as grateful and proud i was that we had just finished our first tour ever, i felt an overwhelming sense of failure. if i’m not consistently performing every night, am i fit to do this long term? am i costing the progress of our band? i worked so hard to be the best i could before we left. extra band practices and singing lessons. i did my best to proactively be aware of breathing technique while singing. is this just not in the cards for me? am i wasting my time and my bandmates time? it’s not a waste of time if it’s something i love, but am i an idiot to keep going? i know change doesn’t happen overnight, but i’ve been at this for so goddamn long now. even if i had confidence on stage to mask any evidence of error, my imperfect performance is still up for criticism. and that’s fair. i’m just afraid i’m sabotaging my own band.

after i was done cradling a box of tissues and watching newfield, i gathered my bandmates and my friend ben (we actually met on this site years ago lmfao he’s from worcester nearby the venue) to go get shit to mix alcohol with for after the show. i was also insanely depressed that funeral attire had to go home right after the show for work early the next day, so no post-show celebratory hangs. we had this stupid huge hotel room to have tiki time in and no funeral attire, we could have fit all twelve of us so comfortably.

but the saving grace of the night was singing flowers with funeral attire. what a FUn number but in all seriousness, my second favorite funeral attire song. their split with i dreamt the sea, the split that song is from, is sooo great. that perked me up a lot. 

after we parted ways with funeral attire we picked up a fat order of taco bell and went back to the hotel to eat, sad drink and watch the lion king. we spent the night sitting around in our new funeral attire merch just shooting the shit, and drinking until we fell asleep. we were easily dreading going back home, but hopeful for what the fall will bring for us as a band and to get back to EP 3 planning.

i know we’ll get to do this again. i just hate that i don’t know when right now. had some pretty bad financial scares on the road, and felt so tired i passed out in the van constantly, but i could sincerely do this forever.

i guess i also should maybe attribute some credit to the fact that chris donis and i booked this tour without any help from any booking company. no guarantees but we at least got something every night. i really don’t know what i would have done without him. i also realized maybe i have more ability as someone in the industry than i think. i feel slightly more knowledgeable now.

now that we know what it’s like to be on the road gigging every night, we can be sooo much more prepared next time. and i’m hoping to redeem myself, and i hope i can be better than ever. jeremiah was right when i called him last night crying - i’m an infinitely better vocalist than i was a year ago. i just hope our progress as a band now is enough to show people we have what it takes.

[storybycorey]

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

Finale posted tomorrow!  

We’ve made it from A-Y, and I know some of you have been waiting for the whole thing to be posted before reading, so thought I’d gather it all together in anticipation of the finale tomorrow at 7 PM!

Each of the letters up to this point have been approx. 200 words, but Z is close to 2700 words, so I promise it will be a satisfying end to our alphabet!

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet, Letters A-Y

author: @storybycorey

rating: PG-13

wordcount (so far): 4612

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days.  Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him.  Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things.  He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably.  Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting.  On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer.  The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back.  With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise.  His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they're getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days.  Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal.  But Dana is an enigma.  He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free.  It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know.  He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really.  But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse.  The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly.  Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls?  Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas?  He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.  

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between.  He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife?  Girlfriend?”  

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes.  Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice.  He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried.  Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away?  Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.  

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha.  Spin the Globe it was called.  They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away.  He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head.  Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully.  Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe.  Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder.  That was more extraordinary than any adventure.”

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire.  He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand.  It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip.  He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket.  The nice thing about it?  She doesn’t even pretend not to want it.  She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in.  They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub.  She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years.  Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy.   He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it.  It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks.  He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars... 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres.  Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this:  In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. 

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks.  It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure.  Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.  

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.  

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.  

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully.  He’s not sure what else he expected.  Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.  

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day.  He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes?  Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe...”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.”   He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.  

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then.  Tomorrow...”

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

N is for No

He's scared of the word no, its finality. No, Mulder, it would never work. No, Mulder, we’re better as friends. No, Mulder, I don’t love… The word no could mean the end of everything. Of all he's seen, how absurd that two small letters could paralyze him like that. 

He walks through Violent Crimes once, overhears Scully talking to another agent from across the room. Rick Channing could be a television news anchor—hair coiffed and teeth so white they sparkle.

Mulder rolls his eyes. Scully doesn’t roll her eyes though; instead, she smiles as they talk.  She giggles.  Bile rises in his throat.

No, Mulder, I’ve fallen for someone else…

He should leave, but Channing’s next words stop him cold. “How about drinks, Dana? Maybe dinner?”  

She blushes, flustered, before scanning the room, eyes finding Mulder’s despite the way he hides halfway behind a partition.  

“Thank you, Rick, but no. I’m already…”  She smiles gently at him—him Mulder, not him Rick— “No,” she says again, then excuses herself down the hall.  

He stands there, rooted in place, decides no is the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.

O is for Opal

His birthstone is opal.  Not that he’d ever have cared, but one Christmas, he and Samantha received birthstone gifts—a topaz necklace for Sam and an opal-inlaid pocketknife for him. He still has that pocketknife, has rubbed his thumb across the smooth, cool handle countless times over the years.

Scully’s skin reminds him of that handle—the soft blue of her veins beneath translucent pink skin. She glows. He knows she’d scoff if he told her that, tell him human beings can’t glow, don’t be ridiculous. But she does—she glows just like an opal.

The pearly finish of his pocketknife is worn-down and soft by now, but her skin, he knows, is infinitely softer.  Her hand, her cheek—the safe parts of her body he’s been allowed to touch—they don’t even compare to the decades-old trinket.  He can’t imagine how much softer the more dangerous parts of her body must be.  The thought keeps him up at night, much more consistently than his nightmares do.

P is for Plum

Scully goes on kicks sometimes—bee pollen, yogurt, one month she sprinkled wheat germ into everything she got her hands on, his coffee included.

Fresh fruit is her latest. Oranges, nectarines, plums, oh, plums. There’s no neat way to eat a plum, though she tries, napkin laid out beneath her at the desk. The juice though. Drippy and sticky on her chin—his eyes try their best not to ogle, but usually fail.  

She walks around sometimes, cupping a hand to catch the drips, and once, as she reaches across his body for a book, a drop splashes directly onto his forearm.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, quickly swiping at his skin with her thumb.  How that same thumb winds up being sucked between his lips is a mystery, though probably has something to do with the way he acts sometimes before thinking. His tongue traces the sweetened ridges of her thumbprint as she chokes out a gasp, half-eaten plum forgotten.  

“No takebacks, Scully,” he mumbles as a joke, trying to laugh it off as he comes to his senses and releases her. Her cheeks stay pink for a good twenty minutes after that, and parts of him stay hard for an even better twenty beyond that.

Q is for Quest

This job of theirs, it’s more than a job.  More than a career path.  It’s a downright quest.  

He feels a bit like Don Quixote at times, Scully his faithful Sancho Panza, the two of them out there dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe. There’s a sort of nobility to what they do, and he likes that.  

Sometimes though, he wonders whether the aliens are really windmills, whether the consortium is nothing but a barber’s basin balanced on his much too gullible head. Whether Scully is not Sancho, but Dulcinea— out-of-reach and much too beautiful for his files and his basement, his second-hand coffee table and his worn leather couch.  

He sometimes can’t believe she’s still here, chasing windmills, slaying bad guys, at times even taking the time to clean out his fridge. She deserves the most elegant of thrones, yet sits happily beside him on that old leather couch, Monday nights, Tuesday nights, sometimes even weekends.  It astounds him really.  

And when she nudges his knee with her own, smiles at him with that smile that makes him think soon isn’t so far away, that’s when he really believes—that being with her is not such an impossible dream after all.

R is for Rebel

Dana Scully is a rebel.  She tries to hide it, acts all prim and proper, but beneath her stern, pursed lips and buttoned-up suits, there’s a troublemaker lurking.  It’s what endeared him to her on their very first case, the way she laughed with him in the rain, the way, regardless of her orders, she listened to him and formed her own opinion.

He sees glimpses of that rebel from time to time, when she scarfs down pizza in a Motel 6 despite her no-carb diet, when she gets that gleam in her eye as they sneak onto restricted government property.

His favorite bit of rebelliousness though is her new stance on hotel-room consorting. They’ve fallen into a routine lately, of watching movies together on polyester bedspreads, of dropping off before the credits roll, of pretending I’m too tired to go back to my room is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable excuse to stay.  

Each time it happens, the morning sun finds them a bit closer together than the last— hands touching, next toes and shins, most recently her hair brushed his cheek as she snuggled against the pillow.

His rumpled, sleepy little rebel.  She’s a rebel on her own terms though, he knows this. And he’s being as patient as he can be.

S is for Sexy

She’s sexy, unbelievably so. It took him a while to admit that to himself.  For the longest time, he blamed his body’s reaction to her on their constant proximity, her perfume, the fact that he was suffering a longer-than-usual dry spell… But no, what it really comes down to is that Dana Katherine Scully is sexy as hell.

Even back in the beginning, when her suits hid her body and her hair did that swoop-y sort of thing up near the front.  Even in the middle, when she was thinner than she should’ve been, when cancer stole her color but didn’t steal her soul. And then there’s today. Today when there’s no mistaking the black lace of her lingerie each time she leans across the desk, not two but three buttons undone at her clavicle. Today when she murmurs thoughtfully, “I think you may be right, Mulder,” tongue wetting her lips as she reads aloud from his book on mystical apparitions.

What really gets him though, is that despite her hair or her lips or even her lingerie, the sexiest part of her isn’t on the outside at all; it’s what lies beneath—that intangible something that makes her Scully. That’s the part he fell in love with, shoulder pads and all.

T is for Toes

She’s got cute little toes.  She’s got cute little everything really, but her toes are especially cute, pale pink polish adorning each one.  She sits one night, curled on his couch, those cute little toes just inches from his leg.

“Wanna stretch out?” he asks, patting his thighs, and amazingly, within seconds, there are two small feet lying warm in his lap.

He gives them a tickle, but she kicks at his hand. He tries again, this time pressing a thumb to her arch. No kick, only an appreciative hum.  It’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins massaging in earnest.  

Her eyes slip shut, her head tilts back, a low groan rumbles from her throat. He massages her cute little toes for an hour, counts each contented sigh that slips from her lips (thirty-four to be exact). The movie they’d been watching fades slowly to black, and she ends things finally, with a shy, quiet chuckle and an I should probably get going.  

As she heads down the hall, he jokes from his doorway, “The masseuse is available every night, double sessions on weekends…”

She rewards him with an arched brow, murmuring, “Careful, I may just take you up on that…” before stepping onto the elevator.

U is for Umpteen

“Umpteen’s not a word, Mulder,” she tells him, eyes rolling, “It has no specified value.”  

She’s got a point of course.  They don’t have umpteen case summaries to submit; they have twelve.  But umpteen is most definitely a word.  

Umpteen’s how many times he’s forgotten his point because her lips are too distracting.  Umpteen’s how many fantasies he’s had about sliding his hands through her hair.  Umpteen’s how many times she’s walked out the door, how many times he’s kept from going after her, how many times he’s sat in his car beneath her window and longed for her with a ferocity that scares him shitless. Umpteen’s how many times he’s wanted to kiss her.  It’s also how many times he hasn’t…

He chuckles, dipping his chin, “You’re right, Scully. We’ve got twelve summaries to do, not umpteen...”

Umpteen is how many times he’s said her name, it’s how many times what he’s really wanted to say was I love you.

V is for Volume

They fight over the volume control in cars. He likes louder, she likes softer (I can’t think over the noise she says).  He usually lets her win. 

Their relationship has its own volume control, he’s realized.  There are times when it’s loud, blaring even, arguments at every turn.  Other times it’s low—murmurs in a conference room, end of the day farewells in a darkened parking garage. Mostly it’s somewhere between.  They talk and they banter and they discuss, in basements, in rental cars, in random police stations across America. 

Sometimes though, lately especially, she lowers the dial even further, turns it all the way over to the left.  Soft.  The very softest. His name on her lips those rare times he holds her. Her blush and shy murmured stop when he pays her a compliment. The slight gasp he feels more than hears when his fingertips brush over her arm, her cheek, the curve of her hip.

It makes him want to do away with loud altogether, to turn off the music and the voices and the noise and listen only to the sound of her breathing, to tell her "It's quiet now, Scully. I’m ready when you are."

W is for Wristwatch

This job has done a number on his wardrobe.  Jackets, slacks, shoes—all gone the way of the incinerator—either damaged beyond acceptable FBI standards or outright destroyed.  Scully’s hasn’t fared much better (she still pouts over a favorite pair of heels ruined two years ago). All part of the territory, he reasons.

His shattered wristwatch on a recent case was a blow though; he loved that watch.  

There’s a package on his desk the day after, wrapped so precisely, he needn’t even guess whom it’s from.  

“Scully,” he protests, but she stops him.

“Just open it, Mulder.”

It’s a watch—of course it’s a watch—a beautiful one, silver links and a detailed, intricate face. “You didn’t need—” he begins, but she interrupts him again.  

“It was my father’s,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her voice softens, “I’ve held onto it since… Here, let me.” She takes the watch, fastens it around his wrist. There are tears in her eyes.

“It looks good,” she whispers, “It brings out your… It looks nice—you’ve got nice forearms, Mulder, and this accentuates—”

He takes hold of her hand, gives it a squeeze until she meets his eyes.  “Thank you,” he tells her, “I love it.”  

There’s no way this watch lands in the incinerator. He’ll protect it with his life if he has to.

X is for X-Files

The basement office often feels more like home to him than home does.  It’s his secret hideaway, and despite the odds, he thinks it’s become hers, too.  They’ve created their own little world down here—a cozy, paranormal universe—and Scully’s as much a part of that universe as he is.

She shines like the sun, trails glittery stardust behind her like a comet. His beautiful, perplexing riddle of a partner.  It’s funny really, but despite the hundreds of files that surround them, Scully remains his biggest mystery.  She’s the very definition of an X-File.  It floors him that she chooses this life, that she’s willing to be his sun, his moon, his whole damn galaxy, day after day after day.

There was a time he couldn’t have imagined not seeking the truth.  These days though? These days he’s beginning to believe he’s been searching in all the wrong places.  

The truth can’t be found in Bellefleur, Oregon or in Kroner, Kansas, in forests or in sewers or in fields.  The truth—the real truth— exists in ink-blue eyes and rosebud lips, in the skeptical arch of an eyebrow and the soft, shy murmur of his name.

It exists right down here in the basement office, sitting not two feet across the desk from him.

Y is for Yawn

She yawns as he speaks, but it doesn’t bother him. Things feel sleepy—dreamy— tonight.

It’s been an odd few days apart from one another, he across the pond and she…He’s not even sure what she’s been doing, doesn’t know that he wants to.  All he knows is that she’s here, now, pressed to his side and yawning, proving to him once again how fate works.

It’s hard not to babble when he feels this good; he’s drunk on the smell of her, on the heaviness of her thigh pressed to his.

“And that says a lot… a lot, a lot, a lot…” Babbling, more babbling, until he feels the smallest, sweetest weight at his shoulder, sees lashes splayed softly against warm, flushed cheeks. The perfection of the moment strikes him, of her here on his couch instead of in a hospital room, instead of in a temple, instead of anywhere else she could be at this point in her life.  

He touches her hair—he can’t bear not to—covers her with a blanket to keep away the chill.  Allowing himself one last glance, he counts slowly to ten (slowly, so slowly), before making his own sleepy way to the bedroom.

Z posted tomorrow night (9/25) at 7PM EST!

[megaphonemonday]

why do the yankees always win? - ch. 6

chapter summary: All good things pt. 2

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | read on ao3

Any time Ginny’d let herself imagine her first season in the majors, she’d tried to keep a level head. She was, at heart, a realist. She knew what she was capable of, but almost more importantly, she knew what the world would decide she was capable of. So, she didn’t imagine what it would be like to throw the last out of Game 7 of the World Series; she wasn’t a closer and no manager in their right mind would put her in that spot. Honestly, she didn’t really even dream of making it to the World Series; as long as the Padres didn’t trade her, it seemed like a pipe dream.

Much as she tried to temper her expectations, keep them low, she never once stooped to thinking that she’d end her first season on the DL, kept from even shagging balls during batting practice by her worry wart of a manager and teammates. She definitely didn’t think that Amelia would have abandoned her or that her brother would have lied to get more money out of her. 

And yet, here she is.

On the other hand, though, there was no way she would have even thought to imagine Mike Lawson. 

Or that she’d practically be living with him, pretty happy in spite of all the other bullshit in her life. 

Ginny’s not sure how, but he’s become the person she trusts the most in her life. 

Which is ridiculous. How is her best friend a 36-year-old car salesman?

To be fair, Mike seems as lost on that front as she is. 

One, day, he looked down at her in bemusement. They were sprawled on his couch, Ginny tucked under his arm as they both failed to pay attention to the documentary playing on Mike’s flatscreen. Blip could make fun of her all he wanted, but Ken Burns was boring.

“I’m not convinced this isn’t the set up for your off-season reality show,” he teased, a funny little frown on his face. 

“That’d be a pretty boring show. Are people just supposed to watch us watching TV?”

“C’mon, think about it,” he said, pulling her foot into his lap and starting to knead. Like he didn’t know exactly how hard that made it for Ginny to think. “People love to see celebrities being regular humans. And I’m sure more would love to keep up with your recovery. Only makes sense for someone to try and capitalize on that. ‘Ginny Baker: On the Ball’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Don’t think someone hasn’t already tried,” she muttered back, trying hard not to encourage him. But then Mike’s hands were dancing up her legs and the reality of her life, televised or not, went out the window for the time being. 

But she can’t avoid it forever. 

With Amelia gone, Ginny’s been forced to field most of the business side of the Ginny Baker Brand herself. Eliot’s been as helpful as he can, continuing to take care of her social media presence and a lot of her scheduling, but since he’s not an agent, he’s technically not allowed to negotiate contracts for her. 

That’s all on Ginny. 

She is reasonably sure a couple separate networks have floated ideas for reality shows, but hasn’t brought herself to look over any of the proposals. 

She should really look into hiring a new agent. 

Every time she starts to stress about it, though, unwilling to admit that maybe Amelia is out of her life for good, Mike swoops in and helps her relax. Gets her to take her mind off things for a while until she’s in a better headspace. 

Which can be difficult. 

What? It’s not her fault that it can be hard to think when she’s around Mike. 

Which, on the one hand is such a fucking relief Ginny sometimes wants to scream. 

On the other, it leads to phone calls like the one she’s currently on with her mother. 

“I just think you should have told me that you were seeing someone, Ginny Bean,” comes Janet’s worried voice over the connection. Ginny suppresses the urge to roll her eyes before remembering that her mother’s all the way in North Carolina and can’t see her. She rolls her eyes. “I mean, to find out from Mrs. Hutchinson down the street because she’d been reading Us Weekly...”

“Mom,” Ginny groans, trying to remember if Us Weekly is the one that ran the pictures of her with her hand in Mike’s back pocket or if that was something else. She’s pretty sure it doesn’t actually matter since the pictures are apparently telling enough that her mom has broken their biweekly phone call rule to chew her out about this. Slumping to the counter, too tired to hold herself up and deal with her mom at the same time, she grimaces when her bad elbow comes down too hard on the surface. In fits and starts, the joint is getting better, but not with the speed or ease that she wants. “It’s not like that. Mike was just helping me out while I had to wear the sling.”

Janet snorts, and Ginny wonders why she even bothers. “So you’re not living with this man?”

Well. While there is technically still a room in Ginny’s name at the Omni, she hasn’t seen the inside of it for more than a few hours at a time in weeks. 

“I’m staying with him, mom. It’s not like we moved in together.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re dating someone and didn’t tell me.”

There wasn’t much Ginny could say to that. She could say that she and Mike weren’t dating, but more and more, that was starting to feel like a lie. And not a lie that she wants to tell.  

She hasn’t had many boyfriends in her life, but Mike Lawson is better than all of them. And has stuck around longer, too. 

Ginny sighs down the line and bites the bullet. “Fine. I should have told you and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“I accept your apology,” Janet replies primly before shifting to what must be her real reason for calling. “Now, when am I going to meet him?”

There’s a ringing in Ginny’s ears. She has to shake her head hard to get it to quiet. “Meet him?” she finally rasps. 

“Yes, meet him,” her mom echoes, like it should be obvious. “I think I have a right to meet my daughter’s boyfriend. Particularly if you’re living—oh, I’m sorry—staying with him. Are you two coming for Thanksgiving?”

They’re hardly even into October. Ginny’d thought she’d have weeks to plan an excuse for not going home to Tarboro. An important appointment with her doctor, maybe, or some event for the front office. Because while she hasn’t even asked yet if Kevin will be in attendance, the prospect of a long weekend with her mother and Will is more than enough to make her want to stay far, far away. 

To make matters worse, Mike picks that moment to walk in the front door, laden with grocery bags, his tie hanging loose from his neck. The soft grin he shoots her has Ginny letting her guard down, which is never a good thing when her mom is involved. 

Scrambling to come up with something, she replies, “I don’t think so? The doctors haven’t cleared me to travel without a team physician, yet.” 

And they never would. Ginny Baker might be an investment for the Padres, but it's just a bad case of tendinitis. 

Her mom’s disappointed huff isn’t a victory, but it sounds so much like one to Ginny’s ears. “All right,” she sighs. “But you better be coming home for Christmas.”

Ginny makes placating sounds without promising anything, doing her best to get off the call without giving her mom any fuel for their next argument. There’s a 60% chance she’s unsuccessful given Janet Baker’s hum of disapproval when they finally say goodbye, but she can’t bring herself to care. 

Ginny groans and slumps all the way down, her forehead landing on the kitchen counter. 

“Your mom?” Mike chuckles. There’s a quiet clink next to her ear, which, when she lifts her head, proves itself to be a hard cider he’d begrudgingly made room for in his fridge.

“How’d you know?” she drawls back, pushing her hair off her forehead and giving it a ruffle for good measure before grabbing the cold bottle. “Was it the tone she always says I get or the attitude that needs an adjustment?”

It’s nice to have someone to complain about her mom to. As understanding as Blip and Evelyn are, they both lucked out in the parental lottery. Neither of them really understand what a truly tense relationship with a parent is like. 

But Mike? Mike understands. 

She realized this when he overheard a call that ended with a terse, “Yeah, okay. Fine. I’ll call you later,” and nearly fifteen minutes of silent fuming as Ginny tried to rein in her temper. When it became clear that wasn’t actually working, he’d sat down next to her, but didn’t say a word. Ginny wasn’t sure what it was he did, but somehow, she spent the next half hour spilling her guts about her mom and Kevin and her dad and the crash and the immense pressure she was constantly under before finally collapsing heavily on his chest while he rubbed soothing circles on her back. 

He told her that he and his mom hadn’t seen each other in years and that it never stops sucking to have a shitty relationship with a parent.

It wasn’t precisely helpful, but it was honest, and Ginny could always do with more honesty in her life. 

And when that honesty comes in a Mike Lawson shaped package, she’s really not going to argue. 

Mike just shakes his head at her and starts loading produce into the refrigerator. Ginny hops up on the island to watch, rolling her cider between her palms. After a moment, he asks, “What’d you two talk about?”

“Thanksgiving and whether or not we’re joining them in Tarboro.”

“We?”

Her eyes widen. Shit. It just slipped out, natural as anything.

Before the silence stretches out too long, she blurts, “She thinks you’re my boyfriend.”

Mike, to his credit, doesn’t freeze at the word, just continues putting away groceries. But Ginny can see the way his shoulders twitch like he’s doing everything in his power to remain nonchalant. “Oh?” he asks, tone a few notes higher than usual. 

Ginny picks uneasily at the label on her bottle, unsure of what to make of Mike’s refusal to make eye contact. She’s gotten pretty good at reading him, but when all she can see is his back, even she has a hard time. 

“Yeah,” she breathes. 

Finally, Mike closes the fridge doors and turns back to her. His face is carefully blank when he asks, “And what do you think?”

“Um.” Instinctively, she takes a swig from her bottle and then sets it down beside her. To give herself a moment. Mike watches her steadily and finally she has to reply, “I don’t know?”

His lips quirk a little at that, but he doesn’t move closer and there’s a wariness in his eyes. Still, he replies, “That’s okay. What about this: are we dating?”

“Does it count as dating if we don’t ever leave the apartment?” she jokes, trying to dance away from the topic at hand. 

(She knows what she wants, but what if Mike doesn’t want the same thing? He had to have lots of chances to settle down before he met her, and never did. Even though he’s been so good to her lately, she can’t imagine that he’s been single so long by anything other than choice. How hadn’t the single women of San Diego snapped him up before now?)

Mike’s half-grin remains, but Ginny doesn’t miss the quick furrow of his eyebrows or the way he blinks twice, right in a row. 

“Is that what you think?” There’s nothing accusatory in his tone or Ginny would bristle and tell him to forget it. Instead, it’s just curiosity. And maybe an edge of hurt that makes her gut tighten.

“I mean,” she says, wishing she had more time to think, “we go out to run errands or pick up more of my stuff from the Omni. Mostly, though we just hang around here—which isn’t a bad thing! I like hanging out! But we don’t go out out. You know?”

He nods like what she said wasn’t just nonsense. 

“To be fair, we did try that,” he says and Ginny thinks of the trips to the zoo and the museum. Wandering between the animal enclosures and exhibits, tucked under Mike’s arm. How good she’d felt there, in spite of the pangs in her elbow and the occasional pause to take a picture with a fan. Why had they stopped those? Like he reads her mind, Mike continues, “You’re just too popular for your own good.”

That, unfortunately, is true. It hadn’t taken long between the first picture of her and Mike wandering the zoo holding hands hitting twitter before they were practically overrun with paparazzi. Ginny’d thought they’d have better things to do than follow her around as she looked at the animals, but it was apparently a slow news day. 

Come to think of it, those were the pictures that ended up in Mrs. Hutchinson’s copy of Us Weekly.

(Which is another thing. Why on earth would he sign up to ride out the rollercoaster of Ginnsanity with her? What sane person would sign on for that, no matter how much they like her? He hadn’t seemed to mind the crush of press right after her injury, when it seemed like she couldn’t move without setting off a flash bulb, but maybe he was just being a good sport or it’s gotten old now. Is the public scrutiny too much for him?)

She shakes her head. “You know I don’t care about that.”

Finally, Mike takes a step towards her. He reaches out and cups her cheek. Instantly, she feels better, which she knows isn’t good if she and Mike aren’t on the same page. Who’s going to make her feel better if things go south?

“I know, Gin,” he soothes, his thumb tracing the apple of her cheek before he pulls his hand away. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to put up with all the staring and gossip and speculation about why you’re dating some middle-aged nobody when you could have anyone.”

Ginny stares at him for a long moment.

“Mike,” she grins, so overcome with fondness for this man. Her hands come up to lace behind his neck. “You know that no matter who I’m seen with, there’s going to be wild speculation, right? Like, I went to In-N-Out with Will while he was here and someone got a shot of us. At least four gossip sites ran it with a story that he was my new fling. My brother, Mike.”

Reluctantly, he smiles at her grossed out shudder. 

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I could have anyone. But if I’m going to be the object of gossip because of who I’m dating, then I should date the person I want.” Here, she makes sure he’s looking her full in the face when she finishes, “And I want you.”

Thankfully, Mike doesn’t give her much of a chance to get nervous about her declaration because he pretty much flattens her against the countertop, his mouth moving insistently against hers. His hands settle heavily, perfectly, on her waist, the wide spread of his fingers covering more of her than she’d thought possible. His hold tightens on her as he climbs onto the counter to really drive home his enthusiasm for her assessment. 

Well, he tries. 

His knee slips off the edge of the island and it’s a close call between his teeth and Ginny’s full bottom lip. 

“Shit,” he hisses, standing upright and drawing Ginny up, too. At the sight of her bright, laughing eyes, he shakes his head. “I’m getting too old for this, rookie.”

“Maybe I should trade in for a newer model, old man,” she teases even as her knees tighten around his hips and her fingers tangle in his tie. 

“How about you take this one for a test drive and I show you what it can really do,” he purrs back, looming over her.

Laughingly, she agrees, reeling him in to let him get started.

When, a whole month after the fact, a familiar name flashes across Ginny’s phone screen for the first time, she seriously considers ignoring it. But she’s technically finished her workout for the day, even if her regimen isn’t as strict as it is when she’s in the rotation. So, she stops cycling and picks up the phone. 

“Hello?”

“Ginny,” comes the no nonsense voice of her (former?) agent. “I’d like to speak with you. Do you have time this evening?”

“Uh.” Ginny’s feet slip off the pedals, thudding heavily to the ground. “What?”

Amelia sighs impatiently, but doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she repeats, “Do you have time to speak with me this evening?”

Ginny’s mind tumbles as she tries to make sense of what is happening. Why now? Why at all? 

Still, she finds herself answering, “Sure. I guess.”

Which is how she finds herself sitting in the hotel room she hasn’t seen for more than twenty minutes at a time—except for the few times she and Mike got distracted by the pillow top King size mattress—in weeks, staring down her agent. 

They both sit in bar stools, untouched glasses of water before them. 

Ginny waits, unsure of what Amelia has to say, and unwilling to be the first to speak. After all, she isn’t the one who ghosted after a fairly traumatic experience only to show up a month later demanding a meeting. 

She uses the silence to study Amelia. She looks good. Less frazzled than usual, for sure, so the time off did her some good. She’s tan, too, clearly having spent a lot of time in the sun. Not a whole month, which Ginny guesses isn’t surprising. There’s no way high-strung, high-achieving Amelia could have let go enough to spend a whole month laying on a beach somewhere. Maybe a few days to wind down, but not four weeks. 

Which begs the question: what has she been doing? 

Finally, Amelia sighs and begins. 

“First, I’d like to apologize for the way I handled your brother. While I stand by my instincts, I’m sure there was a better way to go about acting on them. I wanted to protect you, but I can see that I didn’t and I’m sorry.”

Ginny nods at this, slow and considering. She appreciates the way Amelia doesn’t try to shift blame, even though Evelyn has told her about how she’d gone to Amelia for help upon finding discrepancies in the restaurant’s accounts. 

Still, she’s not sure it’s enough. 

“I can understand if you don’t think you can work with me any more, but I do believe in you, Ginny. More than any other client I’ve worked with. If you think we can move past this, I would like to go forward with our working relationship.”

She nods again, chewing on her lip. Finally, she looks Amelia square in the eye. “Thank you for saying that. You’re a good agent and I’d like to have you back on my side. But I think we’ll need to figure out our boundaries before we do that.”

Amelia’s mouth twists at that and her eyes cut to her briefcase.

Because Ginny knows Amelia, knows that look, she just closes her eyes and asks, “What did you do?”

There’s a rustling and then the sound of paper sliding across a smooth surface. When she opens her eyes, she’s treated to the sight of a slim manila folder, Mike’s name printed clearly on the tab. 

“What is this?”

“I did some digging—”

“You ran a background check on him?” Ginny asks, incredulously staring at the file but refusing to take it.

Amelia huffs, looking entirely unimpressed. “Of course I did. I run background checks on everyone who has access to you, Gin. And mostly, I overlook the trivial stuff—you wouldn’t believe what ballplayers get into and think they can cover up with a few sloppy NDAs—but this guy spends so much time with you and you got attached so fast.”

“Only you could make me befriending someone sound bad.”

Amelia doesn’t back down. “Don’t tell me you’re just friends, G. I’ve seen the pictures.” 

Ginny doesn’t flush because she hasn’t done anything wrong. The thought that this, and not repairing their fractured relationship, is what has brought Amelia back sits hard in her throat. Hearing about the injury hadn’t been enough to bring her back, but Ginny in the media spotlight without any guidance had tipped the scales. 

“Fine,” she replies, pushing the file folder away. “We’re dating. Which really isn’t any of your business, Amelia. I like him. He doesn’t lie to me—”

Amelia snorts. Or as close to snorting as the elegant blonde gets. She flips the file folder open and shows Ginny a page. “Doesn’t lie to you? Did he tell you he has a record?”

Ginny doesn’t look, but asks, feeling a ball of guilt and nerves settle in her stomach as she does, “He’s been to jail?”

“Juvie.”

“Amelia,” Ginny groans, suddenly feeling much better about this conversation. She’s pretty sure a solid chunk of the Padres have done stints in juvie, not to mention kids from her high school. 

Her agent had the grace to look sheepish. “I know, I know, G. But you need to see this.”

Reluctantly, Ginny takes the folder, but she doesn’t read the page. Isn’t this some kind of violation of privacy? She checks, “Don’t juvenile records get sealed or something?”

“It’s not his actual record. Just read it,” Amelia urges.

With a sigh and because she knows the blonde won’t rest until she does, she looks down at what looks like a photocopied newspaper clipping. Well, at least Amelia hadn’t broken any laws for this information. Ginny skims just enough of the article to get its gist, though she writes off some of the more sensational aspects. Just the author trying to spice up a fairly routine article, no doubt. 

Nonetheless, she feels guilty the whole time she reads. Guilty and a little crushed at this glimpse of Mike’s childhood. He hasn’t told her much about growing up, and Ginny gets the sense that he doesn’t like thinking about it, let alone telling her all the sordid details. 

Firmly, she shuts the folder, wishing it would be as easy to shut off this new information.

If Mike had wanted her to know this about himself, he would have told her. It’s as simple as that. And it happened so long ago. And anyway:

“He doesn’t even talk to his mom anymore.”

Amelia’s lips purse and while Ginny is intimately familiar with the woman’s “You go ahead and think that you poor simpleton” look, it’s never actually been directed at her. 

“Maybe that’s true,” the blonde says doubtfully. And there it is. “But I’m just looking out for you Ginny. That’s all I’ve ever done.”

“Think you can keep up, old man?” she asks as she stretches one hamstring and then the other.

“I’m sure I can’t,” he replies dryly. He’s stretching half-heartedly, mostly because Ginny’s entirely unsympathetic to his aches and pains when he doesn’t even pretend to limber up. And Ginny’s sympathies are, if she says so herself, not to be missed. 

She hops in place a few times and says, “I’m holding you to that!”

Grinning wide, she takes off, laughing at Mike’s indignant squawk.

When they make it back to his apartment, both sweaty, but Mike definitely breathing harder, Ginny doesn’t wait to get into the bathroom to start peeling off her clothes.

This, undoubtedly, is the best part of running with Mike. The first time they’d come back, she’d raced up the stairs to get into the shower first, unwilling to sit around in her sweaty clothes while she waited around for him to finish up. Ginny thought she’d won, happily soaping up as she heard Mike groan all the way from the front door. 

It wasn’t until the shower door opened and another body joined her, that she realized winning might not be everything.

“What are you doing?” she’d asked as one of his big hands came to rest on her stomach and the other pulled the soapy washcloth from her grip.

“Maybe you haven’t heard, but we’re in the middle of a drought. Just doing my part to save water,” he murmured, drawing lazy, bubbly circles over her body.

“Oh, well,” she drawled tipping her head back against Mike’s shoulder, “if it’s for the environment.”

They’re very eco-friendly around here. 

Mike’s fingers curl into the waistband of her running shorts as Ginny kicks off her shoes and socks. The shorts—and her underwear—quickly join them on the floor. 

Before he can get too solid a grip on her, Ginny spins in his arms, whisking his shirt up and over his head in one smooth movement. He chuckles at her impatience, but that chokes off when her hands work into his shorts, wrapping around his dick. It’s already half hard. His mouth descends on hers, all-consuming. 

Mike stumbles a little as he works off his shoes, not once unsealing his lips from hers. 

Finally, they’re both naked, standing in the middle of his apartment, making out like teenagers. Ginny’s hand hasn’t left his erection, which has swelled to full attention under her eager ministrations, and Mike’s have gravitated to her ass.

They do have to breathe, though. Ginny’s forehead drops to Mike’s shoulder and she draws in a deep breath. 

As soon as she does, her nose wrinkles. 

“You smell, Lawson,” she accuses, reeling away from him.

Mike roars with laughter, his arms banding behind her back to keep her from getting away. Ginny wriggles, giggling herself and liking the rub of his thighs and stomach against her. Eventually, he manages to gasp out, “You’re no spring rose yourself, Baker.”

Her giggles die away. She leans back from him. Which has the double effect of allowing her to glare at him and also pressing her stomach against his hips, trapping his flushed, hard dick between their bodies. 

The laughter fades at that, but he’s still smiling. “C’mon, rookie. I know how we can fix that.”

For people who are theoretically saving water, Mike and Ginny probably spend too much time under the shower head. Most of it not spent getting clean. 

Most of it, in fact, spent being very, very dirty.

Eventually, though, they do have to get out or risk turning into prunes. Besides, it’s not like they have to be in the shower to do what they’re doing. There’s the bed for that. And the couch. And the kitchen counter.

The thought makes her giggle a little. Mike just offers her a goofy grin, wrapping a towel around his waist. 

“I’m gonna get started on dinner. How does pasta sound?”

“Perfect,” she replies, settling onto the edge of the tub to start combing through her hair. She’s tried to do it around Mike before, but inevitably gets distracted. Which in the short run is pretty fucking fun, but in the long run leaves her with a mess of knots and snarls to deal with. Same with her post-shower skin care. As nice as it is to have an extra set of hands to rub lotion into her back, when those hands turn wandering, it’s hard to stay focused. And ashy knees and elbows just aren’t worth it.

When Ginny emerges from the bathroom, skin moisturized and hair detangled, she opens her mouth to ask if Mike needs any help. He never does, but she’d feel weird not asking. Before she can speak, though, the sound of Mike speaking catches her attention. 

At first, she doesn’t want to interrupt him, thinking he’s on the phone with a client, but soon, she needs to hear how the conversation ends. She hovers in the bathroom door, concealed from sight, just listening.

“Yeah, ma,” he says, and Ginny almost doesn’t hear the frustration in his voice, not when who he’s talking to sinks in. His mom? Before she can dive too deep into that rabbit hole, he continues, “She’s still staying here.”

Ginny’s heart lodges in her throat as she struggles to wrap her brain around what’s happening. He’s talking about her? To his mom? The mom he told her he hasn’t contacted in years? 

“No, I told you, it’s gonna take time.”

All at once, Amelia’s folder of information swim to the forefront of Ginny’s thoughts. Snatches of that article (“Like mother like son.” And, “Makings of a career criminal.” And, “Only time will tell.”) flash across her vision like she’s living out some kind of thriller and this is the moment she uncovers the crucial piece of evidence. 

But she can’t quite make herself believe it.

Maybe there’s another explanation. Maybe he’s not talking to his mother about her. 

And what the hell is going to take time?

“I know. Ma,” he says, blowing out a frustrated breath. “I know what you told me, but it’s taking longer than I thought it would. Just be patient, I can handle it.”

What he says next, though, it cements that sickening, unsettling feeling in her gut.

“You’ll get the money when you get the money.”

The ground falls out from under her. Mechanically, hearing her heart throb in her ears, she steps out of the bathroom, closing the door hard behind her. With just her towel clutched to her chest, she feels far too exposed. Too fragile. 

Mike looks up at the latch of the door. When he catches sight of her, the frustrated frown that’d pulled his eyebrows down into a furrow smooths into a fond little smile. He holds up one finger and Ginny finds herself nodding in spite of herself. That smile, it automatically makes her smile back. Despite the roiling emptiness inside her.

“Yeah, all right. See you soon.” He hangs up , continuing to smile at Ginny like nothing is amiss. Like the earth hasn’t shifted underneath them.

Maybe for him, it hasn’t. Maybe this has been the plan all along. 

“Who was that?” she asks, impressed with herself for keeping her voice so steady. 

Blithely, Mike slides the phone into his pocket. “No one,” he replies, smiling so tenderly at her. 

Nothing of her misgivings must show on her face because Mike leaves the kitchen to come to her, that same, gentle smile on his face. When she’s within reach, he kisses her as sweetly as he ever has, but something bitter still unfolds on Ginny’s tongue.

[sgt-peppersmanager]

Do 1-102 😎😎😎 also you're a super cool human being just thought I'd let you know

OMG! Thank you anon!!💙💙💙

1.) what’s a song you depict with your childhood?• Come on Eileen by Dexy Midnight Runners. My aunt played a lot of 80s music for me when I was a kid, and she would sit down and show me music videos from when she was teenager.
2.) did you have a memorable childhood pet? • Yes! Two beagles. Donkey (the name kills me) and Loki. They were brothers.
3.) have you ever been drunk?• Yes, many times. My tolerance is top notch now tho 
4.) have you ever tried drugs?• No actually. 
5.) have you ever completely regretted what you’ve said?• Yes almost everyday.
6.) have you ever made someone cry?• I don’t know if I have actually. 
7.) has someone ever made you cry?• Oh my goodness yes.
8.) have you ever been in love? if so, describe the moment you knew it. • Yes, sadly. Well we were on a sofa in my basement, I was cuddled up in his arms, and we had a Beatles album playing on my record player. The song was And I Love Her, and I honestly can’t remember exactly what he said (funny how things change because I said I would never forget) but it was something along the lines of “haha man this song is how I feel.” Which I kinda ignored cause I figured he didn’t mean that but he said he loved me, I looked at him and said “do you mean that?” And he said “if what I feel for you when I’m with you isn’t love, then I don’t know what is.” And it was that moment where I kinda hit me that I loved that boy all along. Now I hate his guts, again funny how things change. 
9.) which came first the chicken or the egg?• Ted Allen. 
10.) are you part of the lgbtq+ community? do you support them?• Yes! People should be allowed to marry and love who they want regardless of your personal belief! Plus I’m bisexual. 😎
11.) how many siblings do you have?• One older sister and I hate her. 😊
12.) have you ever been in love with someone you couldn’t love?• Yes? Maybe? Idk. 
13.) are you a good cook?•Yes I’ve been cooking since I was 6. 
14.) what is your favorite tv show?• Always Sunny in Philadelphia. I’m trying to find another show though. Always accepting recommendations ��
15.) what is the last movie you cried during?• Dead Poet’s Society 
16.) what are songs you’ve cried to when you first heard them? (if any)• School Days by The Kinks, Captain Jack by Billy Joel, and High Enough by Damn Yankees cause I’m a fucking dork who heard it after I got my heart broke. 
17.) do you have a middle name?• Elizabeth. Don’t forget the Z, they always forget the z. 
18.) have you been out of your country?• Nope.
19.) are you a chocolate fan or not?• Yes I love dark chocolate and any vegan chocolate. 
20.) how many people have you kissed?• one. 
21.) what is your favorite album?• America’s Least Wanted by Ugly Kid Joe probably. 
22.) what is your dream car?• I always feel so judged when I say what cars I want around my friends, because I know a lot of car enthusiasts. All honesty though I want either an old Chevy camper van because shagwagon amiright, or a hearse like in the Warriors 😂
23.) what is your lucky/favorite number?• 25 or 8
24.) what is your favorite flower?• Roses!!!
25.) books or movies, why?• I love both but I’ll pick movies because I have trouble getting my mind to focus when I read, I’m trying to help myself with that though. 
26.) have you ever been on a blind date?• Nope. 
27.) has one of your friends ever backstabbed you?• Yes. 
28.) have you ever backstabbed one of your friends?• Ugh yes. Never again. 
29.) what thing do you symbolize love with?• Death. Eventually its gotta end one way or another. 
30.) do you have neat handwriting? • Nooooo but my cursive is pretty. Not many people know how to read it so I don’t get to use it much 😢
31.) do you have a friend with benefits?• Nope. 
32.) do you want a friend with benefits?• Eh. Depends on the person. 
33.) if you could be anything in the world, what would you be?• Someone who actually makes a decent living lol 
34.) have you ever been blackout drunk?
• No actually. 35.) have you ever met someone famous?• Nope. 
36.) how many concerts have you been to?• 1, technically 2
37.) which concerts have you been to?• White Reaper. I’ve been to local punk stuff downtown if you want to count that. 
38.) do you have a hidden talent?• Not really. None that I know of. 
39.) what do you do when you’re stressed?• usually lay on my floor and wait for panic attacks to stop and listen to music. 
40.) do you think money can buy love?• well 🎶I don’t care too much for money cause money can’t buy me love 🎵
41.) how old would you date?Well right now the oldest I’ll date is 20 because I’m 17. But when I turn 18 probably date anyone within 10 years of my age, I guess it depends on who it is. 
42.) have you ever done something illegal?• No. i am a perfect innocent little child 😏(lol I’m so full of shit)
43.) what is your biggest fear?• big bodies of water and never escaping my family. 
44.) what is an unusual fear you have?• big bodies of water lol
45.) can you drive?• mhm! 
46.) do you believe in supernatural creatures?• yes!
47.) do you believe in karma?• sometimes????
48.) what is one quality you need in your partner?• sense of humor. 
49.) do looks matter?• eh it’s hard to say because only do you know what you think is “ugly” and what’s “beautiful.” Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. 
50.) does size matter?• 👀
51.) who is the last person you forgave?• Gabe
52.) what is your favorite ice cream flavor?• Superman, mint chocolate chip, or cookies and cream. But I haven’t found any good vegan substitutes for them 😢
53.) what languages can you speak besides english? • none. 
54.) ever been on a plane?• Yup! 
55.) ever been on a boat? • Yup!
56.) is there anyone you’ve lost touch with that you wish you hadn’t? • of course. 
57.) are there any friendships you regret?• YES. 
58.) are there any friendships you wish you could make?• Yesssssssss 
59.) have you ever stayed awake for 24 (+) hours?• Yup…
60.) have you ever walked outside after 12 am?• Yup!!!
61.) have you ever seen a sunrise completely through?• Yes I have. I get sorta sick a lot (hard to explain) and some nights I only sleep 2 hours so I’ve seen a lot of sunrises. 
62.) are you scared of rollercoasters? • depends on the rollercoaster 
63.) on a scale of 1-10 how stressed are you usually?• 9.5 
64.) do you have any plans this weekend?• Sitting in my room working on an art project and hopefully playing guitar and finishing up homework
65.) do you miss anyone right now?• Yes. 
66.) who do you wish you were talking to right now?• Lots of people.
67.) if you could have any superpower, what would it be?• Invisibility or mind reading. 
68.) who is your favorite superhero?• Quicksilver, Spider-Man, or Deadpool. Comics are kewl. 
69.) are you dirty minded?• Lol yes. I’m an immature asshole. 
70.) what is your favorite song from every decade starting at that 80’s?• 80s - Pretty in Pink by Psychedelic Furs • 90s- Santeria by Sublime or Ironic by Alanis Morissette • 00s - Blue Orchid by The White Stripes 
• 10s - I mean the decade isn’t over yet but digging Judy French by White Reaper a lot. 😎71.) how many kids, if any, do you want?• AGHHHH uhhhh people are gonna freak when I say 3 or 5 but yup. I want a lot. I guess I just wanna have a big happy family for once. 
72.) who is your biggest OTP?• Anastasia and Dimitri
73.) what is your favorite food?• Guacamole 
74.) do you want to be married one day?• Yes. 
75.) dogs or cats?• Both. 
76.) do you drink enough water daily?• 100 oz every damn day baby
77.) have you ever seen a shooting star?• yes only once. 
78.) if you had the opportunity to go to the moon, would you?• I would but not alone. 
79.) how many best friends do you have?• idk really. 
80.) when was the last time you cried?
• few minutes ago lol 81.) have you ever laughed so hard you peed yourself?•no actually. 
82.) have you ever made anyone laugh so hard they peed?• yes. 
83.) if you could travel any where in the world, where would you go?• Europe. 
84.) what are 3 words you would use to describe yourself?• Total Fuck Up. 
85.) do you consider yourself a loyal person?• yes. I usually don’t leave unless you’re a shitty person to me or someone else. 
86.) what is your favorite season and why?• Fall and Winter cause sweaters, hot food, warm drinks, cuddles 
87.) have you ever told anyone you loved them, and didn’t mean it?• Yes but not in a romantic sense. I say it to my family all the time. 
88.) do you know how to play any instruments?• yes! Guitar. 
89.) do you like falling asleep to music or not?• Depends on the night I’m having, but usually yes. 
90.) what are you allergic to?• Cats, I have seasonal allergies, and rabbits
91.) have you ever wanted to be someone else for a day just so you could see what there life is like?• Yes. 
92.) if you could be any character from your favorite tv show would you, and if so, who would you be?• Probably Charlie from Always Sunny because it just seems like an adventure. Lol
93.) if you could be best friends with any celebrity who would it be and why?• Nick Cave because we both have similar artistic visions and mind sets. 
94.) are you outgoing?• sometimes! 
95.) have you ever wanted to kiss someone, but weren’t brave enough to?• Ugh yes. 
96.) are you a good flirt?• I’ve been told I am by many, but I don’t think so. 
97.) have you ever been turned down, or have you ever turned anyone down?• Yes to both. 
98.) which planet is your favorite?
• Neptune or Saturn. 99.) are you superstitious?• Yes. 
100.) are you a good listener? • I like to think so! I don’t always have good advice but I try my best to be there and help. 
101.) are you a good kisser• I’ve been told I “make it difficult to walk after"👀 I honestly don’t know if that’s good or not. So yes???? I guess???? I can’t really kiss myself. 
102.) would you kiss any of your friends?• Sure. Almost kissed a few actually, and I always tell them when I almost do and why I almost did because I feel the need to lol.

[davincichode]

Hey! 1,10,20,30 and so on till the end for the questions.

Hey! Thank you! I’m not sure when you sent this, but thank you regardless!

This could be fun (or depressing)

1: Name

Michael!

10: How tall am I

6′2″

20: First thing I notice in new person

Their smile and/or their laugh. Next up is their hairlines.

30: How I feel right now

Full, mostly. I took full advantage of Fat Tuesday

31: Someone I love

@watermelonnoises

32: My current relationship status

dating

33: My relationship with my parents

Really good actually! Our phone conversations are very sarcastic these days but there’s lots of love.

34: Favourite holiday

Christmas, then Halloween

35: Tattoos and piercing I have

None so far

36: Tattoos and piercings I want

Tattoos: Something very minimalist and hipster. I had an idea that whenever I visit an ocean for the first time I’d get its name tattooed on me in like typewriter font. And I’d get them done in the languages of the countries where I visited them for the first time.

Piercings: I kind of wanted a trendy ear piercing but I’m not sure what would look good on me

37: The reason I joined Tumblr

Lord knows, but some friend probably told me to sign up

38: Do I and my last ex hate each other?

I mean I hope not?? We’re not on speaking terms but I don’t hate him or anything

39: Do I ever get “good morning” or “good night ” texts?

I had a conversation with my friend Jazz a few months back about how I wasn’t doing so well, and ever since she’s sent me good morning and goodnight texts with sweet/inspirational messages. I adore her for obvious reasons.

40: Have I ever kissed the last person you texted?

I’ve done far worse to the last person I texted

41: When did I last hold hands?

Probably when I last saw @watermelonnoises

42: How long does it take me to get ready in the morning?

Twenty minutes? This depends on how conscious I am

43: Have You shaved your legs in the past three days?

Afraid not

44: Where am I right now?

In my living room next to the window, watching the storms.

45: If I were drunk & can’t stand, who’s taking care of me?

Looking at you @watermelonnoises (though I’m not sure how she’d carry me)

46: Do I like my music loud or at a reasonable level?

Loud if I’m in a mood

47: Do I live with my Mom and Dad?

I live at my university and stay with them during breaks

48: Am I excited for anything?

I’m going to California with one of my best friends in a few weeks!

49: Do I have someone of the opposite sex I can tell everything to?

This is getting embarrassing @watermelonnoises

50: How often do I wear a fake smile?

(:

But in all seriousness, I’ve been working on correcting this lately

51: When was the last time I hugged someone?

@watermelonnoises!!!

52: What if the last person I kissed was kissing someone else right in front of me?

53: Is there anyone I trust even though I should not?

Nah, I’m pretty good about that

54: What is something I disliked about today?

My Portuguese professor kind of went on a rant during our review today and things got personal. I think she misses her country and who can blame her tbh

55: If I could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?

Oh God, so many people. Malala Yousafzai, Gillian Anderson, Florence Welch, Bette Midler...

56: What do I think about most?

Sex and food

57: What’s my strangest talent?

I can bullshit papers like nobody’s business. I’ve never actually tried on a written assignment in my life.

58: Do I have any strange phobias?

Fish when I was younger I guess? But not so much anymore

59: Do I prefer to be behind the camera or in front of it?

I love photography, but it’s been a goal of mine to get into more film acting soon!

60: What was the last lie I told?

“Yeah, I studied!” Not original, but I’m honest

61: Do I prefer talking on the phone or video chatting online?

If you call me I don’t have to make my face less ugly

62: Do I believe in ghosts? How about aliens?

YES and Yes

63: Do I believe in magic?

Hell yeah

64: Do I believe in luck?

Both kinds

65: What’s the weather like right now?

Stormy and blustery. Lightning in February, and not for the first time this month. Imagine.

66: What was the last book I’ve read?

Wicked! Excellent read

67: Do I like the smell of gasoline?

Not anymore

68: Do I have any nicknames?

Nothing consistent

69: What was the worst injury I’ve ever had?

I once got a fishhook stuck in my nose

70: Do I spend money or save it?

I’m good at saving, but when I spend money I go all fuckin out

71: Can I touch my nose with a tounge?

Nope! I’m tongue tied

72: Is there anything pink in 10 feet from me?

Dennis, my cactus. He’s blooming beautifully right now.

73: Favourite animal?

I love dolphins

74: What was I doing last night at 12 AM?

Watching a scary movie! It was called From the Dark

75: What do I think is Satan’s last name is?

Trump

76: What’s a song that always makes me happy when I hear it?

Donatella by Lady Gaga

77: How can you win my heart?

Persistence! Good food! A warm heart! Make me laugh! Travel with me! Let me steal your body heat when I’m cold! This was really hard to think about! 

78: What would I want to be written on my tombstone?

“Here Lies a Poor Role Model”

79: What is my favorite word?

Saudades

80: My top 5 blogs on tumblr

I don’t really pay attention to who I reblog from unless they’re mutuals, in which case I couldn’t choose

81: If the whole world were listening to me right now, what would I say?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NfRtkCGE40A

82: Do I have any relatives in jail?

No but I have some that probably should be bless their hearts

83: I accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow me with the super-power of my choice! What is that power?

Mastery of all languages!

84: What would be a question I’d be afraid to tell the truth on?

“What do you want to do with your life?” I make up bullshit answers for this one all the time

85: What is my current desktop picture?

I’m changing it soon because the resolution is poor but 

86: Had sex?

87: Bought condoms?

All my condoms have been gifted

88: Gotten pregnant?

Not yet but here’s hoping!

89: Failed a class?

No which is proof that God exists and performs miracles in this day and age

90: Kissed a boy?

Yes

91: Kissed a girl?

Yes

92: Have I ever kissed somebody in the rain?

No and I feel like that’s really over hyped

93: Had job?

I currently work in a library and a theatre

94: Left the house without my wallet?

I carry my cards in my phone case so no

95: Bullied someone on the internet?

I’m not THAT big an asshole

96: Had sex in public?

I’m 90% certain that most of my sexual encounters have been in public

97: Played on a sports team?

I played tee ball when I was like 7

98: Smoked weed?

Nope. Asthma.

99: Did drugs?

Technically no

100: Smoked cigarettes?

Asthma.

101: Drank alcohol?

Not frequently

102: Am I a vegetarian/vegan?

I Need Meat

103: Been overweight?

I was a chunk in middle school

104: Been underweight?

I pretty much stopped eating last semester lol that was fun

105: Been to a wedding?

When I was 3. I insisted that I wear my Zorro cape over my tuxedo. My parents love this story and the accompanying photo.

106: Been on the computer for 5 hours straight?

lol

107: Watched TV for 5 hours straight?

LOL

108: Been outside my home country?

I toured Europe in high school

109: Gotten my heart broken?

I suppooooose

110: Been to a professional sports game?

No actually

111: Broken a bone?

Nope

112: Cut myself?

Nope

113: Been to prom?

I went my sophomore year with the same friend I’m going to California with!

114: Been in airplane?

I LOVE flying

115: Fly by helicopter?

A rich family friend owned a few helicopters and took my cousins and I up when I was little

116: What concerts have I been to?

Just a few Christian ones with my dad and some smaller ones in my hometown

117: Had a crush on someone of the same sex?

I do right now

118: Learned another language?

I’m always learning a new language. My strongest is Portuguese but I’ve also studied Spanish, French, Swedish, Welsh, Russian, Hebrew, Esperanto, Toki Pona, Italian... I feel like I’m missing a few. If you ever want to send asks in these languages I’ll try my best!

119: Wore make up?

Both on and off stage

120: Lost my virginity before I was 18?

I only sucked dick when I was a minor

121: Had oral sex?

^^^

122: Dyed my hair?

Purple when I was in high school and blue this past summer

123: Voted in a presidential election?

This past one

124: Rode in an ambulance?

Nope

125: Had a surgery?

A few in my mouth

126: Met someone famous?

Not that I know of

127: Stalked someone on a social network?

Oh gosh yes

128: Peed outside?

I grew up on 500 acres of woods, I peed outside more than in

129: Been fishing?

Yes

130: Helped with charity?

I used to volunteer a lot

131: Been rejected by a crush?

I guess but it apparently didn’t affect me much

132: Broken a mirror?

nope

133: What do I want for birthday?

Plane tickets!

134: How many kids do I want and what will be their names?

I can barely take care of myself man

135: Was I named after anyone?

Nope! Although my uncle’s middle name is Michael

136: Do I like my handwriting?

I write in cursive and it’s nice because nobody can copy off my work

137: What was my favourite toy as a child?

My stuffed Elmo!

138: Favourite Tv Show?

The X Files af

139: Where do I want to live when older?

Europe. I’m still deciding on Ireland or Portugal or somewhere else entirely

140: Play any musical instrument?

I played recorder for a few months in fourth grade

141: One of my scars, how did I get it?

My brother bit me in identical places on both my arms

142: Favourite pizza toping?

Pepperoni bitch

143: Am I afraid of the dark?

Only of what’s in it

144: Am I afraid of heights?

Not really, I love high places

145: Have I ever got caught sneaking out or doing anything bad?

Surprisingly not (more proof God is real because I snuck out a LOT)

146: Have I ever tried my hardest and then gotten disappointed in the end

Haven’t we all?

147: What I’m really bad at

Anything musical

148: What my greatest achievments are

Errrrm. I’m already published. I’m alive, which is always nice. 

149: The meanest thing somebody has ever said to me

I can’t think of much besides like generic middle school small town bullying

150: What I’d do if I won in a lottery

Pack my bags and fly my ass off to every country in the world

151: What do I like about myself

I’m pretty independent 

152: My closest Tumblr friend

I don’t think I have any friends who I strictly talk to on here

153: Something I fantasise about

No college debt

154: Any thoughts on the paranormal?

Yes. Ghosts are real. Aliens are around. I’m a slut for cryptids. And I’m always ready to talk about this shit.

Thank you for reading!!