#Just like how sunglasses block out extra light but still allow you to see

[the-moth-and-the-warden]

At first, Tiavel is startled when the Warden scoops him up and carries him off, letting out a few little squeaks like a death's head hawk moth, before he calms down upon being carried by the lumbering eldritch thing. Yugoth carries him off to its nest. It is very grateful to the moth for the soothing earmuffs he gave it. It lays on its nest, made of wool it gathered from around the ancient city. Between the wool dampening incoming sounds and the earmuffs quieting everything, Yugoth is soon fast asleep. Tiavel realizes... well, he's gonna be here for a while with the Warden holding him against its body like a warm fluffy plushie, so might as well get comfortable.

[atsukashii]

❝back again❞ // k. bakugou

SYNOPSIS: ➛ When pro hero ground zero destroys your shop trying to take down a villain, you don’t hesitate to curse him out. What you don’t expect though, is for him to come back again the next day. 

» CHARACTER PAIRING: katsuki bakugou x fem!reader

» WORD COUNT: 5K cause I have no self control

» GENRE: pro-hero!katsuki, aged up characters

» WARNINGS: swearing of course, fluff, fluff, and oop surprise more fluff,

» PROMPT: lilac - “if you don’t kiss me right this second i swear”

« masterlist || ao3 »

Anonymous: can i get uuuuhh ‘lilas’ with pretty boy katsuki 🥺💕💕

a/n: hell yes you can! I went a bit overboard with this request but I hope you love it! Also i’m running off the non-canon idea that Katsuki’s hero name is Ground Zero here.

Pro Hero Ground-Zero is an asshole. He’s an attractive one, but an asshole nonetheless. The explosive blonde was the hero on patrol this morning, when a villain decided to attack some old lady in the middle of the street. Ground Zero fought the villain and left behind a crater in his wake. One you are currently staring at, steam almost coming out of your ears. Because that crater consisted of half of your flower shop.

Are you fucking kidding me? You hear the news reporters behind you, talking to their cameramen about what went down on this normally quiet street. 

“This morning, Pro Hero Ground Zero successfully defeated a villain known to police as ‘FrostBite’. The villain has been responsible for many civilian attacks recently, he’s been linked to a heist just three days ago, which saw the criminals get away with over fourteen thousand…” You tune out the reporter's voice as you step back into your shop, through the gaping hole that was once your front exterior wall. Great, this is so fucking what I needed right now, you think. 

This whole shit fest is the icing on an already bad cupcake. It started when a woman had come into the store just last week, complaining about your goods. Which caused such a ruckus that an inspector was called, only for him to find some bullshit excuse that had stopped you from selling coffee’s in your hybrid cafe/flower shop momentarily. Add on top of that the fact that you are currently in your final semester of university and you’re about to sit your final exams in literally three days.  The word stressed does not even come close to describing your inner turmoil right now.

“-and here he is now! Ground Zero! Can you give us any information about what happened today?” The reporter asks.

“A villain got what he fucking deserved, the end.” A deep voice says from behind you, and you just know it’s him. Clenching your fists, you resist the urge to turn around and scream at the man. What about what you deserved? You look around your store once more and stifle a whimper at all the damage; crumbling walls, plants scattered across the floor, pots shattered and your precious neon sign. Broken. You kneel down and pick up the now dull yellow neon light and feel your eyes begin to sting. This shop had been your dream since you were a little girl, and now it was torn apart by a villain.

“I do my job, and I do it well. Write that in your fucking paper.” The hero reiterates again. Pure fury floods your brain until you are seeing red. Spinning around, your eyes focus onto the battered hero and the flawless reporter, and suddenly, all you want to do is scream. Your mouth begins moving before your brain can follow and say it's a bad idea. 

“You do your job well?!” You hiss at them. Everyone’s attention moves from the asshole hero to you, your apron covered in dirt and rubble from when your front wall crumbled right in front of you, because a villain was physically thrown through it.

“You destroyed my store!” Ground Zero’s face flushes red in anger as he stares at you with his scarlet eyes. If you weren’t so mad, you could maybe appreciate how handsome he is, but currently you can see too much damage - expensive damage - to even think like that.

“That villain was a threat to society, he got what he deserved. You should be thanking me, you damn extra!”

“Thanking you? You left a DAMN HOLE IN MY FUCKING STORE!” You scream at Ground Zero. “And what about what I deserve? I don’t deserve to have to pay for all of these fucking damages that you caused!” The anger seeps out of you as you look at the small crowd around your store, gawking at you. You can’t imagine that this is a normal response for heroes to get from civilians. What a mess…

“Y/n!” A voice interrupts the crowd and you look to the right where someone is pushing through the mass of people slowly, to get into the store. The second your best friend & work colleague see’s the damage, she lets out a sad sigh and looks your way.

“Oh sweety…” you hold up your hand, making them stop from walking in. 

“There’s broken glass everywhere. Let me clean up first,” You whisper, suddenly ashamed of your outburst. Ground Zero had been doing a civil duty, and you’d just jumped on his case about the damage he caused? Good one y/n, real smooth. Turning your back on the hero and the crowd, you weave around smashed pots and dead plants, reaching behind the counter for the broom you keep there and begin to sweep up the mess. You can hear the group begin to disperse, but can’t get rid of the feeling that someone is watching you. Looking over your shoulder, your eyes lock onto the vermilion gaze of the upcoming hero, known for his brash attitude towards reporters. Your breath catches in your throat as his intense stare seems to look into you more deeply than anyone ever has. Like he’s analysing your very being and everything about you. You shift away from him, grabbing the plastic rubbish bags you leave next to the till for the frequent mishaps that happen in your store, and you get to cleaning.

What a mess.

❀ ❀ ❀

 For the past two nights since your shop was damaged, you’ve been crashing with your best friend who deemed it unsafe for you to stay at your apartment located above the partially destroyed store. You didn’t have the energy to argue against them at the time, so now as you walk down the main street towards your shop, you’re thinking about how strange it is that you need to travel to get to work. At least it's a sunny day, so surely this has to mean something good... You hope. 

But as you round the corner convenience store on your block, you stop in your tracks. In front of your pathetically boarded up store, stands a tall man in black jeans and a matching jumper, the hood pulled up over his head. Because that’s not suspicious at all. Unfortunately, he’s leaning up against your front door, so you’re going to have to at least ask him to move.

“Uh, excuse me?” His head whips towards you, and your gaze immediately locks onto the ash blonde hair that peeks out from under the hood, and the matching eyebrows partially hidden by his dark sunglasses. It’s him, Ground Zero. Here. At my store. You don’t have the drive like you did the other day to be mad, so instead you keep walking towards your store with a raised eyebrow aimed at the pro hero. 

“Shouldn’t you be patrolling somewhere Ground Zero?” You ask the man as you approach. He shifts away from the door, but doesn’t move far, allowing you to use your keys to unlock it. Not that locking the door would do anything to deter intruders considering there’s a fucking hole where the almost floor to ceiling windows once stood. 

“It’s my day off.” Now that you’re not overcome with rage towards the man, you can appreciate the deep tone to his voice. One so alluring it sends chills down your spine. Do not go there, seriously y/n. No, it doesn't matter that you’re not mad, he’s still an ass.

“Good for you.” You mutter, before stepping through the doorway. You had cleaned up a lot of the debris from the room over the past two days, but the council wouldn’t let you begin working on the wall until today, as they had to deem it still structurally sound before you went around doing things. Hopefully, if all went well, you would have the shop open again in less than two weeks. 

You notice that the further you walk into Daisy Chains, the hero follows. You place your bag on the till and round to face him, leaning your weight against the wooden counter.

“Are you here to mug me or something?” What use did a pro hero have to you? What use did he have coming here either?

“I’m a fucking hero dumbass, its literally my job to detain people who do that.” He growls, his vermilion gaze forming a scowl that really shouldn’t be attractive on him, but somehow is.

“Well how am I supposed to know? First, you damage my shop, then show up in all black, glaring at me and following me into an empty store?” You challenge, meeting his intense glare straight on. If he thinks he’s intimidating you like this, well he’s right. But, you’re not going to let him know that.

“I’m here to help.” His voice echoes throughout the dead quiet store. For a moment, all you can do is blink at the somewhat stranger. He lets out a growl at you that has you steeling your spine.

“You kick up such a fuss about your fucking store, then what? Don’t want help when it's handed to you?” Ground Zero barks at you, bringing you out of your stupor.

“I’m just surprised is all.” Your honesty makes him pause. “But if you’re serious, I’ll take the offer. It wouldn’t hurt to have another set of hands.” You’re not an idiot, you know you’ve got a lot of work to do in order to get the shop back up and running, and considering you’re not the only employee here and it's your livelihood, you need it up and running as soon as possible. 

“The contractor says it's going to take about two weeks.” You comment.

“Then we’ll do it in one. I’ve only got a few days off, so we need to get this done soon.” Ground Zero replies with a blank expression, before getting up off his spot of leaning against the wall. You can’t help but admire his determination, especially to fix something he may have helped cause. A lot of hero’s you know wouldn’t even have bothered to come back for this, it was just another ‘ casualty of the job’. But for some reason Ground Zero did, and you weren’t about to look the gift horse in the mouth. 

“If i’m going to have a stranger help me out for the next couple of days, don’t I have the right to know their name?” You ask, walking forward towards him. He straightens up at your approaching figure - as if going on the defensive, and you notice as you come to a stop that he’s quite a bit taller than you. His nose would touch your forehead if he bent forward, no wonder he wasn’t intimidated by me when you yelled at him the other day. 

“Y/n Y/l/n, proud owner of Daisy Chains.” Sticking out your hand, Ground Zero looks between your eyes and your hand for a moment before reaching forward and gripping it.

“Katsuki Bakugou, also known as Ground Zero.” He introduces, shaking your hand. You can’t help but notice how calloused it is compared to your own. Well he literally works with his hands due to that explosive quirk of his.

“Katsuki Bakugou…” You breathe, testing the words out on your tongue. You glare half-heartedly at Katsuki, “I still don’t like you.” You finish, pulling your hand away from the blonde. He huffs at you and scowls. 

“The feelings fucking mutual. Let’s get this shit done.” Katsuki orders, pushing up the sleeves of his hooded jumper and walks over to the boarded up wall, grabbing a hammer as he moves. He’s definitely determined, that's for sure. One however, can also describe Katsuki as elegant. You observe the way that he moves; every motion fluid with a sort of grace you wouldn’t have pinned with someone like him. He yanks of his hood as he begins to pull the nails out of the wooden beams. Strong too. Unfortunately, his sweater hides his defined biceps that you know are there due to seeing him the other day in his hero costume and you - nope, stop right there. Shaking your head to clear your wandering thoughts, you reach over to the tool kit your best friend brought over for you to borrow and follow Katsuki’s lead and begin ripping down the wood.

With two sets of hands, things get done much faster than you had originally thought it would. You had ripped out the hastily put up wood, and began to demolish the rest of the damaged structure like the contractors had marked out for you. Due to being too poor to afford builders, you had planned to do the whole thing yourself, so as much as you hated to admit it, Katsuki’s presence was actually a major help. Not like you’d tell him that anyways. By the time it was five thirty that evening, you had already begun to put up the interior wall structure. Katsuki somehow knew what the hell he was doing, and barely had to look at the tips the contractor wrote down for you. When you had questioned him, he’d just barked at you to mind your own dang business, and proceeded to pout like a child for the next hour. Some of your neighbours had brought some temporary fencing to put across the front of the store to try and stop people from getting in during the day - and you had thanked them profusely as they waved it off. Because you were only twenty one, the owners of the shops either side of you had taken you under their wings so to speak. The old lady who ran the bakery next door often ‘made too much’ bread and gave some to you, and you in response 'accidentally ordered too many of her favourite roses’ so they’d go to waste if she didn’t take them. And when they’d seen Katsuki, he’d just huffed and managed to find something to do on the opposite side of the store. He’s a strange one that Ground Zero. 

As the sky kept darkening, you look from the star speckled darkness slowly settling outside to your watch and decide to call it a day. Reaching over your head, you groan as your muscles pull tightly and ache from all the labour. 

��I think we should call it a day Katsuki.” You yawn, looking over to the blonde who has already started to pack up the tools. He glances at you when he’s done, and dusts his hands on his black jeans. 

“I’ll be here tomorrow at eight. Don’t be fucking late or I’ll break in the door to get in.” Katsuki promises, before pushing out said door. 

“I won’t pay for that damage!” You call after him, watching as his shoulders tense in annoyance at your words. Holding in your laugh, you observe as he pulls his hood over his head and stalks down the street, slipping into the shadows like he’s made of them. You let out a sigh and lean back against the counter, suddenly feeling much more optimistic about your store and its progress now that Katsuki’s helping.

He definitely is a strange one. 

For the next three days, your progress clicks like clockwork. Arriving at eight am and leaving at seven when it gets too dark and you’re both too tired to do much more, the store is slowly coming back together. Last night, you’d even ordered take out and actually had a civilised meal together. Sitting on the floor of Daisy Chains, you’d both eaten gyūdon, conversing in innocent small talk whilst you gaped at the hot sauce that Katsuki kept adding to his food. He had smirked at your expression, which then resulted in a two hour Q&A with pro hero Ground Zero. Where you learnt that he absolutely loves spicy food, likes mountain climbing of all things, and can actually cook - which you only learnt because he called the food bland and was offended when you sassed saying that he couldn’t do any better. Apparently, he can. It was a weird experience, getting to know Katsuki as someone other than Ground Zero, Pro Hero destined to be number one - his words of course. It was actually… Nice, talking to him. Your heart jumped around inside your chest like an overexcited child in those moments, just getting to know him and seeing his lips tick up ever so slightly for the first time at a joke you cracked. And you need your heart to stop. You have no reason to feel like this, if anything you should be mad. No, you think. He’s using his days off, things he’s mentioned that he rarely gets, to help you fix something that - yes, he caused damage to, but could have just left alone. 

You let out a sigh at your confused thoughts and dip the paintbrush back into the bucket on the floor. Your feelings towards the confident blonde are perplexing at best. Yet, as you look around the nearly completed store, and the painting you have left to do, you couldn’t help but want him there. Sure, you argue - a lot, but you also really enjoy his company. And no, it wasn’t because around midday every day, he’d shed his jumper and you’d be graced with toned muscles bulging out of his tank singlet. 

Except he had mentioned to you last night that he wasn't coming in today because he was back on patrol. It’s fine really, you have managed to get a lot done today anyways, as a lot of the heavy lifting had already been finished earlier this week. You had given the new wall a coat of primer after the window installation guys had come in and done their job on the brand spanking new windows that made your bank account cry. Having them back in and the wall officially closed in, you were also finally able to move back into your apartment upstairs and off your friends couch, which was a massive relief. 

Dipping your brush back into the paint, you look at the rest of the wall that has to be done. You had decided earlier that you may as well give the rest of the store a bit of a face lift whilst you were at it. Half of it was completed when you had to take a break before you gassed yourself with the paint fumes. Deciding to leave the back door open and turn on the fan, that usually is only made use of in the summertime to attempt to decontaminate the air, but the store still reeked of paint fumes. So you settled on keeping the front door open using a cinder block. It was working, gradually. 

Slowly, the sun set behind the skyscrapers and you are still painting. Letting out a yawn, you carefully paint around the edge of the window frame, trying not to either touch the tape you had previously put down or let any drip onto the paint cloth on the floor. You are so focused on the task that you don’t notice someone has walked into the store until they speak.

“You shouldn’t leave the front door open like that dumbass, some creeper is going to take that as an opportunity to come in.” You let out a terrified scream and the paintbrush flies out of your hand and onto the floor. Placing a hand to your chest to slow your thundering heart, you look to Katsuki who's standing in the middle of the store, arms crossed on his chest, his usual glare ever so intensely settled on you, and still dressed in his hero costume. Good gracious.

“I thought you had patrol?” you ask, not moving an inch. It feels like forever since you’ve seen him in his hero costume, and somehow it looks even better then it did the first time you saw him in it. But your opinion may be biased seeing as you’ve unfortunately found yourself thinking of the hero constantly recently. He’s grown on you, like an annoyingly attractive fungus you can’t seem to get rid of. 

“Just finished up. Thought I would come over here and see how slowly you’ve been going.” He smirks. You almost choke on your saliva as you look at his ticked up lips. Is he…  Teasing me right now? 

“Slow? I’ll have you know that i’m moving much faster today than I have with your help Mr Pro Hero.” You sass, picking up the brush and moving to continue on the wall.

“Obviously, that's why you're still going at this time.” You know he’s only trying to rile you up, but you can’t stop yourself from shooting him a playful glare over your shoulder at him But as you move, you find him no longer standing there. Katsuki’s fishing behind your front counter for something, and you’re about to ask what he’s looking for before he walks towards you, a paintbrush in hand. You blink at him as he stands next to you, dips the new brush in the paint and begins to pick up where you left off.

Your brain can’t seem to comprehend that he’s here, when he said he was super busy, in his hero costume, helping you paint. You’re unsure as to how long you’ve been standing there staring at him for, until Katsuki looks at you with a frown.

“You better not start fucking slacking now dumbass. I didn’t come here to do it all for you.” He says with a small smile and god what the hell is going on right now? Your cheeks suddenly feel hot and you don’t need to touch them or look in a mirror to know that you’re blushing. Hurriedly, you scramble for your thrown paintbrush, reaching down to the pastel blue liquid that almost looks white and begin to paint. 

The radio plays softly in the background, the only source of noise in the store, and you find yourself bopping your head with the music as you work. Suddenly, when your favourite song comes on, you make a mad scramble to the machine and turn it up loudly, ignoring Katsuki’s protests. Dancing as you walk back to the wall, he’s glaring at you but there's no anger in it. Somehow over the past few days, you’ve managed to finally crack the code that is Katsuki Bakugou, and understand the many meanings of his scowls, glares and unfriendly remarks. And now, as you’re singing along to the song and shuffling towards him with a dorkish grin, he’s one hundred percent amused at your antics. Katsuki doesn’t dance along, or even bop his head, but you can see him mouthing the words ever so slightly, and that's enough. As the last chorus hits, you scream the words out loud, which earns a loud bark of laughter from Katsuki. Mid verse, the climax of your performance, you stop to watch it happen. You know you’ve said things he’s found funny before, because his mouth shifts upwards ever so slightly, followed by him calling you an idiot and turning away. But seeing him laugh, a proper laugh that starts in the belly and spreads happiness through every pore of your body and into those around you, it was so attractive to you. The soft smile he sent you after too was one of the most beautiful things you’d ever seen. For a man normally so harsh and with sharp as fuck features, the gentle look he gave you made your stomach somersault. 

The song was forgotten as you forced yourself to keep on painting until you finally finished. Looking at the clock behind the counter, you smother a yawn as you read the time. 11:16pm. 

Finally, it was all coming together. With only the radio making noise, you and Katsuki tidy up your tools once more and you walk him to the door. He raises an eyebrow as you lean up against the glass door. 

“I moved back upstairs today, so no more couch surfing for me.” You answer his silent question.

“That’s good, I was sick of having to walk you all the way back to your friends place.” Katsuki replies, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He was smart enough to bring a change of clothes with him tonight to change into once he’d dropped blue paint onto his costume and realised that it wasn’t the wisest idea to wear it. So now, he was back in his casual black getup, in the sweater that a part of you so wanted to steal.

“Hey, no one ever asked you to do that, thank you very much.” Scoffing at your words, Katsuki shifts his weight from one leg to another. 

“You’d have never made it there without me.” 

“Whatever makes you sleep at night Mr Pro Hero.” Standing in silence, you suddenly can’t bring yourself to look at him and instead look back inside the store. “Hopefully I’ll have this place open again in a few days,” You say out of nowhere, simply feeling the need to break the silence. 

“That’s good. I might have to come around and actually buy something.” Snapping your head back towards him, you flush from head to toe. Is he flirting with me? You asked yourself...surely not… Why would someone like him flirt with someone like me? But you can’t help but hope that he is.

“If you come around here for any other reason other than to buy something, I swear to god Katsuki.”

“Any other reason?” He challenges, taking a step closer. Your back is pressing into the glass door behind you as your eyes lock onto his scarlet ones. “What if I have a perfectly valid reason?” 

“Does it include breaking things?” You breathe, his face so close now that you can feel his exhale fan across your mouth. Oh my god.

“Not breaking, just stealing something.” He’s whispering, as if speaking too loudly would scare you away like a timid animal. Your heart is about to burst from your chest with anticipation. He’s going to kiss me, he's sooo going to kiss me. And you so want him to.

“You’re going to steal some plants Katsu? That's a bit lame. I thought you were some big shot.” His eyes flicker to life with something you can’t quite place. Teasingly, he looks down at your lips and you swear to god. 

“Hey,” he drawls, “don’t go judging me now y/n.” his hand comes up to your face and brushes a strand of your hair away from your eyes. “Do you give everyone else shit like this after they’ve done you a favour, sweetheart?” 

“Katsuki.” You all but groan, letting logic fly out the door and gripping the front of his sweater. “If you don’t kiss me right this second, I swear-” He doesn’t even let you finish the sentence before he’s cradling your jaw in his hands and crashing your lips together. The two of you collide with such force it knocks the air right from your lungs. Katsuki completely dominates the kiss, which has shocks running down your spine and into the tips of your toes every second it continues. He possesses your very being and you can’t do anything but hold onto him and return it with everything you have in you. Reluctantly, Katsuki pulls away from you, but continues to hold your face captive within his grasp. 

“I-uh…” your brain is no longer functioning and sits with the same potential of goo inside your skull. Smirking at your response, pride swirls inside Katsuki’s eyes.

“Got nothing to say now dumbass?” He jokes, releasing a cheek to brush hair out of your eyes again. You’re pretty sure there's paint in it.

“Are you going to kiss me again?” You manage to ask, deciding that you never want to do anything other than kiss him every day for the rest of your life. This time, Katsuki doesn’t laugh at you, or even smirk. His smug grin morphs into something so soft and rare that you doubt many have ever seen this look on him, and even fewer ever will.

“Only if you agree to go out with me.” Katsuki states. Of course he wouldn’t ask like a regular person. He’s Katsuki fucking Bakugou, pro hero and future number one if he gets his way. He doesn’t have time to beat around the bush.

“It’s almost midnight Katsu.” You point out, which makes him laugh.

“I didn’t mean right now dumbass.”

“Oh.” You feel yourself blush bright bright red, mortified you try to pull your head out of his hands purely out of embarrassment. But Katsuki quickly moves his hands from your face until he’s pulled you tightly against him, your chest flush against his torso, your head craned up to look at him. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” he utter’s before leaning in and kissing you again, this time softly and chastely, so different from the desperate kiss earlier. Suddenly, you’re so glad he exploded into your lift and ruined your shop that day. “You’re getting dinner with me tomorrow night.” He mumbles against your lips.

“Do I have a choice?” You ask, your fingers weaving through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. You feel him smile a feral grin against your lips and try to hold in a smile of your own.

“No.”

“Good, wouldn’t want it any other way Katsu.”

©️ 2021 all rights reserved to atsukashii, do not change, edit, translate, or repost any works on any platform.

[villainousshakespeare]

Putting it Back Together Chapter 3

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Adam/OFC

Rated M (will probably change to E) - Grief, angst, eventual smut, mention of characters dead before the start of the story, blood, slow burn

Summary: Since the death of his beloved Eve, Adam had been barely living, only alive due to a promise he made to her. Then one night he meets his new neighbor, a woman dealing with grief of her own. Will they help each other heal or drive each other crazy?

@yespolkadotkitty @just-the-hiddles @hopelessromanticspoonie @wine-and-whines @arch-venus25 @caffiend-queen @devilish–doll @enchantedbyhiddles @hiddlesholic @i-do-not-fangirl-i-fanwoman @kellatron55 @ladyoftheteaandblood @latent-thoughts @gorgeous1974 @maryxglz @myoxisbroken @nuggsmum @nildespirandum @pedeka @redfoxwritesstuff @sinfully-lustful-darling @vodka-and-some-sass @wrathkitty @kingtwhiddleston @wolfsmom1​ @poetic-fiasco​ @shiningloki​ @dangertoozmanykids101​ @bookworm-christina​ @thecutestlittlebunbunfairy​ @amwolowicz​ @delightfulheartdream​ @frostbitten-written​ @what-a-flammable-heart​ @tom-hlover​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @myraiswack​

For six nights Lilly didn't hear so much as a note of music coming through her walls. Were it not for the occasional banging sounds of large something or others being moved about, she might have thought her surly neighbor had relocated to get away from her. More likely, she realized, was that he had put on head phones to keep her prying ears from his precious compositions.

That being the case, Lilly did her best (which in all honesty was lousy) to put him out of her mind and get on with her life. She continued her late night foraging through her grandmother's belongings, pausing at regular intervals to sob when some unexpected jogger of memory was discovered. By the time she had worked her way through the main bedroom, where she happened upon a collection of love letters that Gran and her ill fated fiancé, Lilly's Grandfather though she had never met him, had written during WWII, she was surprised that she had any tears left. No wonder Grandma Lillian had never married, when she had found and lost such a great love while still in her college years. The paper was well worn, and Lilly could just imagine the older woman returning to read them again and again.

Less romantic but no less special was a photo Lilly found where it had fallen behind a bureau. The picture showed Grandma Lillian, glamorously beautiful in a long, sleek sheath dress and beads, singing on stage in front of a three piece jazz combo. Lilly smiled, naming each of the musicians in turn. The original band had long since gone their own ways professionally, but they had remained close friends regardless. The drummer had taken his savings and invested in a small blues and jazz club not far from here. Grandma Lillian had stopped in their on a regular basis to belt out a tune or two, always to great applause. Lilly's nights there, originally under age and smuggled in, were some of her favorites.

Impulsively, Lilly sprang to her feet. There was no reason she had to stay stuck inside all of the time. Gran would want her to get out and savor life; beyond a doubt she had always done so. Rummaging through her belongings she managed to find a simple black skirt and a red top that she had always liked. She brushed out her long hair with defrizzer until she could tolerate the way it looked billowing around her and applied a touch of lipstick and eye makeup to make her look "less like the walking dead" as Gran would have said. All and all she didn't look half bad. Throwing on a wool coat and pair of boots and putting the photo lovingly in one of about seventy gift bags she had found squirreled away earlier, Lilly made her way out into the cool night air.

It was after eleven, late to be heading out but still relatively early for a Friday in the city. A drifting of clouds obscured and showed the moon at intervals, adding occasional light to the dim streets with their burnt out lights. She would be out of the residential blocks soon and into the more bright and crowded nightlife that teemed nearby.

"It's not wise to be out alone at this hour," a low voice spoke in her ear as a hand descended to her shoulder.

Lillian let out a scream and turned around, bottle of pepper spray pulled from her pocket ready to douse her attacker. Before she could press the button the bottle was knocked from her hand to roll down the street as her wrist was locked in the tight grip of a large, leather encased hand.

"Don't," her assailant said calmly.

Looking up, far up, she confronted a pail face beneath a shock of wild, dark black hair, eyes obscured by sunglasses despite the lateness of the hour.

"Sorry if I frightened you," her neighbor said with a slight smirk, taking off the ridiculous glasses.

How had she not recognized that sinful purr of a voice? She heard it often enough in her fantasies.

"I wasn't frightened," she lied automatically, only to add as he continued to stair at her "well, maybe startled."

"Just imagine if I had been someone else. It might not have been so pleasant."

"Yes, because you are the soul of congeniality," she sniped back.

Slowly Lilly's heart beat was returning to normal, or at any rate as normal as it was like to get with him still holding her wrist. She startled easily at the best of times, and in a dark side street when by herself was far from optimal. He seemed to realize this, and was obnoxiously amused by it. Lilly did her best to glare at him, only too aware that she most likely looked like a little yippy dog.

"Fair enough," he agreed, finally letting go of her hand. "My point still stands though. It's not safe out here. All kinds lurking about."

"Monsters waiting to kill me and gobble me up?" she quipped lamely.

"You'd be surprised."

Bending down, he retrieved her pepper spray from where it lay on the street. He examined it as though he wanted to take it apart and put it back together again.

"Not very well constructed," he said at last, surrendering it back to her. "You'd be more likely to spray yourself by accident? Have you?"

"No!" she said indignantly, putting it back in her bag.

He looked at her knowingly and a tell tale blush spread over her cheeks.

"I did spray a date once," she admitted. "In the back of a cab. I was looking for something else in my purse, I pulled it out, and it went off right in his face."

She could not be entirely sure, but she thought she might just detect the hint of a smile twitch his lips. Well, wonders would never cease!

"Dare I ask if there was a date number two?"

"There was not," she sighed, beginning to walk again in the direction she had been going as he fell in beside her. "As it turned out, he deserved the dousing, though I didn't know it at the time."

"Well then," he said, long stride forcing her to trot, "it was all for the best."

"I guess. He was a broker, had a ton of money but was still rude to the waiter and left a horrible tip. I slipped an extra twenty in while he was in the bathroom."

"Fucking zombies. You're right, he did deserve it."

Lilly walked in silence for a few moments, wondering what on earth was happening. He had never seemed to particularly like her, in fact he had all but run away the previous two times she had come into his presence. So what was he doing now, walking next to her and talking as though he might actually not wish to be anywhere else?

"Where were you going?" she asked when she couldn't stand it anymore.

"Out," he said, jus the one word again.

"Oh, I used to go there all the time!" she said, making her eyes go wide and vacant. "They have horrible service, but the atmosphere is to die for!"

"Sorry, I'm not used to...."

"Talking?" she supplied helpfully as his words trailed off.

"Yeah," he agreed, not seeming to take offense.

Lilly watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was so odd. Handsome beyond question, talented, and clearly intelligent. One would think he would be out with a different partner every night if he wanted. So why did he spend all his time alone in a rundown brownstone? Why was he so closed off? She loved and hated puzzles, and he was one just begging to be solved.

"Where were you going?" he turned the tables on her.

"A club down on Avenue A."

"Ah, going to do what passes as dancing these days?" he said with a curl of his lip. "Grind against someone mindlessly to tuneless music?"

"Well, aren't we the old snob," she mocked him. "No, as a matter of fact it's a music club. Jazz and blues mostly. Small acts, lots of musicians stopping in when home from a tour, that sort of thing. Nothing fancy, but it has character."

"Really?" his interest seemed to be captured as she described it to him.

"Do you want to come?" she asked, careful to keep her voice neutral while she willed him to say yes.

"I suppose it's better than anything else I have to do," he grimaced.

"Wow, thank you so much," she said, pulling a face.

"I... I told you, I'm not good at this. I don't get out much, or see people."

"It's okay," she told him, fighting an exciting flurry in her stomach. "That's the good thing about music, you can just listen."

"Yeah," he agreed, eyes curiously bright as he looked at her.

They walked in silence the rest of the way. Lilly was hyper aware of him next to her, towering over her diminutive height. She did find that she felt more safe with him beside her. Whenever they neared a group of people on the side walk one look at him was enough to move the loiterers scurrying out of their way. She also caught quite a few glances being thrown their way, particularly after he had walked by. He did have a noticeably nice rear view, she allowed. Scampering after him did have an upside she supposed.

They arrived at the club and Lilly smiled at the portly man sitting on the stool by the door. Sidling up behind him, she reached out and pulled his suspenders, allowing them to snap back into place. He spun around, face breaking out into a huge grin when he saw her. The next moment she was swept into a bear hug that left her breathless.

"Lotus blossom!" he grinned at her. "You're looking all grown up! Haven't seen you around here in years!"

"Not all of us are frozen in time, Q," she said with a laugh. "How long have you been wearing those suspenders?"

"Since you were first sweet talking me to let you in," he smiled back. "You and that Gran of yours. Get me in all kinds of trouble!"

"You found enough trouble all on your own."

"True that, but you always added just that extra dash. We were all sorry to here about Miss Lillian. She was a real special lady, and no mistake."

"Thanks," Lilly fought back tears as he swallowed a lump in her throat. "Is Ossie here tonight?"

"You know he'd never miss a Friday," Q rolled his eyes. "Who else would let him play besides his own bar."

"Thanks, Q. Talk to you later."

"This tall fella with you?" he looked her neighbor, once again sporting his sunglasses, up and down protectively.

"Yeah," she said, once again feeling that butterfly sensation.

"Well, alright then. You be nice to her, or big guy or not, I'll take you down."

Adam didn't dignify that with a comment, merely giving the doorman his usual stare.

"Tell the barkeep I'm buying your drinks tonight," Q added as they started in.

"Do you really want to do that?" she asked with a laugh. "You know how I am."

"Damn girl, just try not to bankrupt me," he chuckled.

Lilly laughed and walked into the dark club, sense memory falling over her like a warm blanket. Music, friendly faces, and a handsome man to escort her. What more could she ask for? She just hoped she could keep from saying or doing something stupid for the rest of the night.

***

Adam was convinced that his new neighbor destined to drive him to distraction.

It had never really occurred to him how thin the walls of his home were. If it had realized he would have never bought the damn place. Of course, until she had moved in it didn't really matter. The old woman who had been her Grandmother would never have been so gauche as to interfere in his composing. The granddaughter though...

And what galled Adam most of all was that she had been right. The minute her barked out suggestion came slamming into his creative space he knew that she was dead on. He played the piece, hoping against hope as he came to the end that her contribution would prove just as off as his useless attempts had been. And yet he knew before he struck the chord that it perfectly completed his work. It was humiliating!

After that he made sure to plug in his headphones before turning on his instruments. He didn't want to rude after all, he told himself. It had nothing to do with the streak of embarrassment he had felt at her correction. Adam just didn't want to intrude on her piece.

The way was she was intruding on his. He could hear her all the time. Moving furniture around, cooking in her kitchen, even, to his horror, running her shower. He tried not to think about what she might look like under a stream of hot water, body soapy as her hands slid along its curves. Tried to keep the memory of the taste of her out of his mouth as the vision sprang unbidden into his brain.

It was almost worse when he would hear her crying, which was often. Adam had avoided such open displays of emotion even when he was human. His own tears were only ever shed in private now that Eve was gone. Why then did he feel the urge to break through the walls separating them and wrap the girl once more in his protective embrace?

It must be because he had fed on her, he decided. It was only a few drops, true, but it had still managed to spark something within him. It was such an intimate act, drinking someone's blood. He should have just rinsed it down the drain and been done with it. But it was so sweet, so hot and delicious on his tongue, that would have seemed like a sacrilege.

He was so attuned to her puttering around next door that he was starting to track her movements through the house. It was therefore a start to his system when he heard her front door open and realized that she was going out. At this late hour, with the streets dark and nearly deserted nearby, what was she thinking? Grabbing his coat, glasses, and gloves with a snarl, he was out the door before he could think.

She was not hard to catch. One of his steps could account for three of hers. She made an enticing picture as she ambled down the street, swinging a little gift bag as she walked. Red coat and bright hair caught the light from the moon when it cut through the drifting clouds above. Her skirt displayed a tantalizing stripe of bare leg above a pair of black boots, and he found his mind drifting to how easy it would be to access her femoral artery in such an outfit.

Had she no idea what a tempting target she made? Quickly walking up behind her, he clamped his hand down on her shoulder and growled into her ear, careful to keep his voice as calm as possible.

"It's not wise to be out alone at this hour," he said.

She was predictably flustered by his approached, and he took a kind of pleasure in making her squirm even more. After all, she was responsible for his discomfort over the past week; it was only right she should feel a little back. He was actually rather enjoying bandying words with her, he realized, until she confessed that she was on her way to a club.

Adam could see it clearly in his mind. Her coat over some chair, she would be clad only in the short black skirt and the tight red satin top he could make out underneath. Her hips swaying as her cloud of hair moved around her, she would catch the eye of any man there. Some zombie or other was bound to come up to her, predatory and drunk most likely. His hands would roam her as they danced, on her bare leg, or sliding around her waist, brushing against her breast, her ass, pulling her close to his sweaty body as he ground against her his hardening dick.

"Ah, going to do what passes as dancing these days?" he said with an angry curl of his lip. "Grind against someone mindlessly to tuneless music?"

"Well, aren't we the old snob," she relied, rolling her eyes. "No, as a matter of fact it's a music club. Jazz and blues mostly. Small acts, lots of musicians stopping in when home from a tour, that sort of thing. Nothing fancy, but it has character."

"Really?"

That sounded... not terrible.

"Do you want to come?"

Adam opened his mouth to say no. He never went out, not to clubs or bars or any other place filled with mindless hordes of zombies. But as he looked at her, trying not to let him see how hopeful she was, something inside him softened while another part had completely the opposite reaction altogether.

"I suppose it's better than anything else I have to do."

"Wow, thank you so much."

He honestly hadn't meant to poke her with that comment. It was himself he was frustrated with, not her.

"I... I told you, I'm not good at this. I don't get out much, or see people."

"It's okay," she told him. "That's the good thing about music, you can just listen."

"Yeah."

The comment took Adam aback. That was exactly how he felt. So many people wasted time with needless babble. It was so much easier to just listen. Let the atmosphere and the music take you over and move you. Why didn't more people realize that? The thing he hated most about seeing music live were all the people who insisted on talking over it.

He had an odd moment when she hugged the doorman at that club, fighting back the urge to rip the man's throat open and soak the street in his blood. He managed to fight it back once he saw that the relationship was clearly more paternal than romantic. Not that he cared if she had romantic relationships, of course. He just felt protective over her. Because of the blood.

They entered the establishment and Adam looked around with tentative approval. It was dark, not overly crowded, and those that were there sat and listened attentively to the band playing on the stage. She led him over to the bar, where she leaned in to say hello to the woman working behind it. Evidently she knew this whole place well. Not at all where he would have pictured her hanging out.

"Hey, Ivy," she said, just loud enough to be heard but not so loud as to disturb the crowd.

"Lilly! So sorry to hear about Lillian. We all miss her around here. The usual?"

"Yeah, thanks. Oh, and Q says he's paying for it."

"Oh, big spender," the bar tender laughed. "Hi, I'm Ivy. And you are?"

"Adam," he supplied tersely.

"What can I get for you, Adam?" she asked, eyes flickering to his companion and back.

"Nothing, thank you," he answered.

Ivy moved away to make her drink and Adam sighed in relief. It would be much easier to hold himself back from fantasizing about drinking his companion's blood if she were intoxicated. He tried to not let his relief be tinted by disappointment.

"Adam?" she said, looking at him with a half smile. "That fits, I guess. I'm Lilly."

Lilly, he thought. That fit her as well. She was dainty and pretty, although it was sometimes obscured by her clumsiness. Vaguely he noticed the band had just ended a set and applauded automatically, but his attention was focused on fitting Lilly's name with her person.

"Here you go, sweet heart," Ivy interrupted, setting a pint glass filled with light pink liquid down in front of her. "Don't drink it too fast."

The women laughed and Adam raised his brow in question.

"Cranberry and seltzer," Lilly said with a grimace. "I don't drink. Doesn't interact well with my anxiety meds. I know, it makes me a bit of a drag, but -"

"No," he interrupted her. "I prefer it, actually. I don't drink either. Alcohol."

"Oh, well thanks. Or something."

She looked down shyly at her drink, playing with the straw. Adam gave himself a mental shake. She was a human. A zombie. And an annoying one at that. She had cried on him, pried into his wiring project, intruded on his music. Why was he so fascinated with her? Was it just that he longed to taste her again? But if so, then why did he imagine tasting other things than just her blood?

"My Grandmother used to sing here," she told him out of nowhere. "That's her photo over there, behind the bar. Lillian Bell. The owner was her drummer for a while back in the 60's. She would bring me here to listen to what she considered real music. She was a bit of a snob. You would have liked her."

"I'm sure I would have."

Adam scoured his memory, trying to think if he had ever heard of the woman. He thought he might have, actually. He had a vague recollection of a small woman with a big voice that looked not dissimilar to the photo she indicated.

"That's how I know music," she continued, chewing on the straw and drawing undo attention to her mouth. "I don't sing myself, or play much of anything well, but I have an excellent ear."

"Much to my gratitude," he said, realizing at that moment he did feel grateful to her for her assistance.

"Sorry about that," she turned the shade of her shirt. "It sometimes is physically painful for me to hear the wrong note. Or, I mean... not wrong wrong... I meant... oh gosh..."

Adam let her squirm for a few more minutes before putting her out of her misery. She was rather delightful twisting on her stool, looking for a way out of the trap her mouth had gotten her into. He had the feeling it was not an uncommon occurrence for her.

"It was wrong," he said at last, taking pity. "I was stubbornly trying to force a finish that didn't belong. I can be arrogant that way at times."

"No, not you!" she protested mockingly. "I never would have imagined!"

Against his usual nature and inclination, Adam felt a smile begin to raise the corners of his mouth. She was incorrigible, this woman. He could tell that she was intimidated by him, hell, he had cultivated that in her, and yet she still said whatever popped into her head, fear be damned. She was brave, and that was a rare quality it seemed to him.

"Well, if it isn't my little Lilly!"

Adam looked up to see the drummer from the last group sauntering over. Lilly jumped off of her stool and hugged him warmly, but this time Adam had no fear it was anything other than familial affection. He was ancient, if not compared to Adam than to other humans, easily in his late 80s at least. Still, he had held a steady beat. The musician in Adam had to respect that.

"Ossie, it's so good to see you!" Lilly gushed. "I'm sorry I haven't been by in so long."

"We all know why, Lil," the old man sighed. "Lillian didn't want you to see she was failing, so she made up lies to keep you away. I yelled at her for that, don't think I didn't!"

"I can only imagine," she said with a watery smile.

"And who is your young man, missy?"

Adam inwardly rolled his eyes at the moniker, not so much because it assumed they were together but that he was young.

"My friend," Lilly corrected him hastily. "Adam. He's a musician too."

"Good set," he nodded to the drummer.

"Well, I'm not sure how I feel about that," Ossie looked at him appraisingly. "You can do a lot better than one of us."

"Friend, Ossie," she stressed again. "And while you might be my almost Grandad, you are not my father!"

Adam wondered why it bothered him that she was so quick to disavow any serious connection to him. It must be his pride, he decided. She had seemed taken by him that first night on the roof, and certainly the evening he had knocked her over and she had proceeded to stare at his bare chest. He had rather liked the way her eyes lingered on his muscles, to be honest. But perhaps his churlishness had put her off. If so, good for both of them

"You watch what you are saying, Lilly," Ossie scolded her. "You know your Gran had eyes for no one but your Grandpop. When you find a love like that, you can get buried in the grief of it when it's gone, it and forget to let yourself move on. Don't make that same mistake."

"I have to fall in love once first, before I can move on to a second," she said.

Adam leaned back against the bar. Is that what he had been doing? Getting buried in his grief? Eve had made him promise to live, but was he really holding up his vow to her? It made him nervous to even think about.

"I have something for you," Lilly handed the bag to Ossie. "Open it after I'm gone, I can't deal with crying again tonight."

"You are such a sweet pea," he said. "And that reminds me, I have something for you, too! I was cleaning out my office, and I found some master tapes of one of our old recording sessions. And there's Miss Lillian, singing to make your heart break! You got an analogue player at the house? One of the old type, mind you?"

"I don't know," Lilly bit her lip. "I haven't seen one, I don't think."

"I have one," Adam offered, before he even thought about what he was saying. "We can listen to it at my place."

"Well, you might just be worth something after all," Ossie beamed at him.

Adam looked back and forth between Lilly and Ossie, both smiling at him as though he had hung the moon. Inside where his heart once beat, he felt an ever so slight easing that was almost a pain.

What, he wondered, had he gotten himself into?

[sgtbradfords]

“Is that my shirt?” For a Chenford prompt! Love your writing♥️

Thank you for the prompt anon! I hope this does the prompt justice 😉

Send me a prompt from this list!

When Lucy Chen woke up that morning it wasn’t to the sound of her alarm, no. It was to the sound of a fist banging on her front door before Jackson West barged into the room.

“Chen! Let’s go, we’re going to be late!” She heard as she startled awake, sitting up.

“Shit!” She yelled throwing back the covers as she stumbled out of the bed, her body wavering as her feet hit the floor.

“What happened?” Jackson asked from the doorway as Lucy began to run around her room.

“I don’t know! I think my phone died last night while I was on the phone with-“ she began telling him as she threw on the first articles of acceptable clothing she could find. “Can I borrow your charger in the car?”

“Sure. But hurry we're going to be late.”

“Thanks roomie!” she yelled as he walked out.

Lucy hurriedly finished getting dressed, throwing on a pair of flats to go with her outfit before grabbing her duffle bag, keys and phone before running out of the apartment. She took the stairs down, two at a time, towards the main floor, swinging the metal door that separates the inside from the outside as she sprinted to Jackson’s waiting car.

“This is not how I wanted to start my Friday!” she huffed to her roommate and friend as she shut the door, buckling quickly as they headed out onto the street.

Jackson held out his right hand, a wrapped breakfast bar laid in his palm. “I grabbed you breakfast.”

Lucy took it, unwrapping and taking a bite as she plugged up her phone. “Thank you.” She said between another bite.

“So, who were you talking to so late last night that caused your phone to die?”

Lucy grimaced. “You caught that huh?”

Jackson nodded. “If you’re not ready to talk about it, that’s ok. But at least tell me you ran a background check on him.”

She snorted. “I did and I promise that his intentions are sound.”

“His intentions?” Jackson questioned, looking over his sunglasses to the girl in the passenger seat. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that it’s kind of serious.” She shrugged. “We’ve been on a few dates. He’s been to mine, I’ve been to his. He even FaceTimed my parents once.”

“He’s met your parents? And just how long has this-“

Jackson began to ask as Lucy’s phone charging in the cup holder began chiming. She picked it up, scrolling through her missed messages.

“Huh. That’s weird.”

“What?”

“I got a message from Grey telling me to plain clothes it today. Wonder what that’s all about.”

“Special assignment maybe? We are P2s now.”

Lucy furrowed her brow as she fired off a text message before she began fixing her hair into a bun. “Maybe, I guess we’ll find out during roll call.”

They made idle conversation going down the road as Lucy fixed her light make-up, Jackson steering the car into the parking lot, parking in their normal spot. “Hey, did you finish that report about the robbery from yesterday?”

Lucy grabbed her things, exiting the car. “Yeah, I need to thank Nolan for the backup. If he didn’t show when he did, I would hate to think what could have happened.”

They enter the department, Lucy telling Jackson about the two men who tried to rob the convenience store granny before they went their separate ways to the locker rooms.

Lucy placed her bag into her locker, grabbing her badge, holstering her gun, and double checking her ankle holster before she pocketed her knife.

“Hey, good catch yesterday with the Gardner Twins. They’re regulars, always in and out of jail but I heard that the old woman held her own?” Nyla congratulated as she adjusted the duty belt she just put on.

Lucy laughed, heading for the door. “Yeah, when I pulled up on scene, she had one held at gun point and the other at cane point which would have been nothing if it wasn’t for the blade sticking out of it.”

“Sounds like that is one grandma not to be messed with.”

“Definitely not, she had brass knuckles and pepper spray in her purse too.” Lucy told Nyla as they entered the meeting room, both taking their respective seats with the others at their tables in the back.

Angela Lopez walked in, sitting down beside Lucy. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

Angela turned around to Nyla, asking a question before she turned back around to the front. “Nice shirt.”

“Than-“ Lucy began saying as she looked down, stopping her words in their tracks. ‘Oh no.’ her mind repeated frantically. In her haste to get dressed she didn’t pay attention to the shirt she put on, sure she knew the olive green color, knew it would match her dark washed jeans but ‘I should have looked in the mirror.’ was really a statement she needed stamped on her forehead.

“Morning.” Tim said as he sat down in the chair next to Nyla. “You get a special assignment or something?” he asked, looking at his former rookie.

Lucy was still amidst her internal conflict. ‘Should I go change? How could I have been so stupid, this is what I get for not laying my clothes out last night.’

“Boot!” Tim said sternly, his voice a tone he hasn’t used on her in a while, pulling her out of her stupor.

“I’m sorry, did you ask something?”

“Yeah, what’s with the plain clothes?”

Lucy shrugged. “Grey told me to dress down.”

“And that means wearing your boyfriend’s shirt?” snorted Angela as she took a sip of her coffee.

Lucy panicked. “Oh this? This isn’t my boyfriend’s, it’s Jackson’s.”

“Jackson was in the Army?” Angela smirked, pointing out the green shirt with black lettering.

“No, it’s Sterling’s. He wore it on that military movie he made a few years ago.”

Angela looked at her incredulously before glancing at Nyla and Tim who was watching the interaction with great intent. “Uh-huh.”

“Alright let’s settle down and get to it…” Sergeant Grey said as he took his place behind the podium.

“What’d I miss?” Jackson asked as he quickly sat down in the other chair opposite of Lucy.

“My funeral.” She mumbled.

Jackson turned slightly “What?”

“Nothing.” She said quickly as Grey glared the two down.

Thirty minutes later Sergeant Grey had given Lucy her assignment, assisting the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco Firearms and Explosives undercover at a local bar that was serving alcohol to minors.

“Hey, wait for me.” Said the voice of her former training officer behind her. She slowed her steps, allowing him to join her. “You want a ride?”

“Sure. You set?”

Tim motioned his head towards the garage bay, “Let’s go.”

Lucy may have been the most under qualified of all the female officers in the department to go undercover, but she had what the ATF was looking for and everyone has to start somewhere. She felt a sense of relief when Sergeant Grey partnered her with Tim for the day, the newly appointed Sergeant providing backup in case things went sideways.

“So, what’s your cover again?” Tim asked. He would be parked nearby, listening in with another ATF field agent as Lucy went on a ‘date’ with one of their agents while two others attempted to get served alcohol.

Lucy read the paper in her hand, the information vague besides the location of the bar and who they would be meeting with outside of the bar.

Tim nodded. “Did you bring another shirt?”

“No, Grey didn’t tell me anything other than to wear plain clothes, which I didn’t see till I had already left my apartment.”

“Isn’t that my shirt?” he asked, smirking.

“Apparently I feel asleep talking to someone on the phone last night and never plugged it up, which caused my phone to die, so my alarm to never went off and Jackson had to wake me up. I was in a bit of a rush this morning getting dressed and thought I was putting on my olive swing top.” She glared.

“I’m not complaining, you look better in it anyways.”

“Yeah, well I’m pretty sure Angela knows it’s yours.”

Tim shrugged “She’s a Detective for a reason. It was cute you know.”

“What was cute?”

“Hearing you snore.”

Lucy opened her mouth “I do not snore!”

“You do.” He laughed. “I can’t believe I never noticed it before last night.”

“I was tired, yesterday was a long day. Besides, it’s probably nothing compared to the logs that you saw at night.”

Tim looked at her before agreeing with what she said. “I’m not going to deny that. But at least my feet don’t feel like blocks of ice.”

“I can’t help that my feet stay cold! I don’t like wearing socks to bed.”

“Lucy, I don’t mind being your personal heater but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to keep an extra blanket or two next to the beds.”

Lucy thought for a moment as she pulled her hair out of its hold, tousling the brown waves. “Fine.”

“Or we could just make it bed, as in singular.” He offered as he parked the shop next to the curb.

“Is that your way of asking me to move in with you?”

“I don’t know, is it? We've been together almost a year, we're both in a good place right now and half of your closet is in my bedroom closet."  He reminded her as he grabbed the handheld radio mounted to the dash.”7-Adam-19 show us out for special assignment.”

“7-Adam-19 10-4.”

“You don’t have to answer now, we can talk about more after shift.” He told her as he stepped out of the car. “You ready?” he asked as Lucy nodded her head, moving towards the small group of people on the sidewalk. “Let’s knock ‘em dead boot. Agent Edwards? Sergeant Tim Bradford this is Officer Lucy Chen, glad we could assist you today.”

[sunflowersteves]

bloody & bruised || subway fiasco

Mob!Bucky Barnes x Boxer!Reader

𝒄𝒉. 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: You meet an entitled asshole on the subway before training. After training, Shuri asks you to go get drinks with her. What happens when that same entitled asshole owns the bar?

Author’s Note: So, this series is completely new and improved. I decided to start completely fresh and recreate it. I hope you all enjoy, I’m happier with this series!

Warnings: swearing, asshole!bucky

series m.list // m.list

You entered the Metropolitan Correctional Center in lower Manhattan. You signed in, noticing the girl at the front desk popping her gum annoyingly loud. She never spared you a look as she spoke, “visitor?” You replied which then she continued to not give a fuck about your presence and hit the button that opened the gate. You greeted the guard and put your personal belongings in a tub and proceeded into the hall with the rest of the visitors, waiting to see an inmate. 

You tapped your heels gently on the concrete floor. Fuck, could this take any longer? The loud buzz of the doors that contained the inmates flooded into your ear and made you jump. 

“Line up, boys!” The guards yelled at the inmates to walk through the hallway door. Bucky’s hard glare settled onto his face before his eyes landed on your figure. A playful stare rolled over towards your face, that devious look was always hooded between his eyes. 

Your fiancée looked good, prison had done well on him with his newly cut hair and subtle that was growing longer.

You both pick up the phone, your garnet-colored chipped nails partially scraping against the phone. His eyes flickered to your bloody knuckles, they were thumping hard against your skin. You watched his lips curve into that luscious grin.

“Hey, baby girl.”

                | 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐫 |                                                                 

You were running through crowds, pushing others trying to get to the subway.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, move asshole!”

You were totally and royally fucked at the moment. Your mind could only seize panic at the idea of being late and facing Carol’s wrath. You had been training with her for five months and the rumors were very much true, she was a tough lady. Carol Danvers, was a famous boxer that allowed you to be mentored by her. 

She saw you one night, walking underneath the stars and bright skyscrapers when a couple of men had paraded you. She almost stepped in until she saw you give three uppercuts and two kick to the balls. Her eyebrow only raised in interest before she asked you if you wanted to be mentored, to be better than you already are. Of course, you recognized her, even the newbies to boxing recognized her so you immediately agreed.

However, today just wasn’t your day. You spilled coffee all over your white shirt, you were held up at work having to do extra paperwork and now you’re going to be late for training. 

Normally, she’d praise you for always being on time and punctual but not today. She would probably yell at you to run a couple of miles more. You ran down the stairs and quickly swiped your metro card, pushing the gate. You were full-on running now, the subway train was already here and about to close.

You were just barely able to make it, a huff escaping your lungs as the doors slammed immediately behind you. You looked at your watch, 8:23 pm it read, your eyes widened and you muttered a light “shit.” 

There was hardly anyone on the subway, which was kind of weird considering that it was only eight. You peered over towards the cart next to you and saw that it was full, people were packed right next to each other. Your eyebrows furrowed and you turned towards the right, noticing a group of people stare at you.

Your eyes flicker towards a brunette, a sly smirk was fitted on his face. He had two women sitting right next to him, they were practically on his lap. They giggled at anything he said and stared at him with bright stary eyes. A sigh escaped your lips, you felt bad for them honestly. You’ve been there as well, craving attention and wanting anything materialistic. You knew there was nothing wrong with that, however, it can become pretty toxic sometimes.

“Wanna join us doll?”

Your eyes rolled over his form, he had an expensive tailored black suit. It was paired with expensive Versace sunglasses that sat right on his fluffy brown hair. It was like his cherry lips were suck in a smirk, cockiness just radiated off of him. He was pretty attractive, you weren’t going to lie but he wasn’t anything impressive as far as his attitude and demeanor. 

You could guess he was a misogynistic prick, thinking that women were just his plaything and money could buy them. You maintained a mundane expression as your eyes lifted to meet his. You could see his jaw was clenched at your bored expression, but it was true. This man was just another dude being called a lady killer while the girls around him were called sluts. 

“No.” 

His eyes widened in surprise, no one had ever denied him before. He got everything he wanted; women, money, territory, and nice things. Even his most trusted friends around him had never denied the things that he asked for. Not to mention his lackeys were always drenched in fear so he got anything he wanted.

He looked over to see Steve holding an amused and surprised expression. So did Natasha and Sam, amusement clouded over their eyes. The girls beside him gasped at your answer and his hands squeezed their thighs.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” That stupid smirk had clicked back onto his face as he continued to stare at you. His eyes traveled down from your eyes onto your form. You were wearing your favorite pair of matching Nike’s leggings and sports bra. For boxing, it was a common rule to wear nothing baggy. 

“No, but I don’t care either.” Your voice remained monotone and your face screamed boredom. You clicked your tongue and went back to scrolling on your phone, hoping he’d just leave you alone. How long will this subway ride take?

A sudden surge of anger filled his stomach at your still bored expression. Who were you talking to the biggest and baddest of New York City like that? You were just some girl, a nobody. Bucky, however, was everything and on top of the world. He had money, could get any girl he wanted, had the most expensive house in Brooklyn, and covered the most crime in the city. He was not just going to let you dismiss the Bucky Barnes like that.

His eyes wandered towards you again. He followed the placement of your nose, your beautiful cheekbones, and pink glossed lips. You are very attractive and Bucky is definitely not hiding his stare despite the two women around him.

“You from around here, doll?” There was a short pause before you answered. You were honestly getting pretty tired of this dude talking to you on an already shit day.

“Do you like prying into stranger’s lives?” Steve and Natasha snickered in front of him, their arms holding onto the railings above them. He just figured you had gotten into a fight of some sort, intrigue hitting him like a brick. 

“Jus’ the pretty ones.” You had to stop yourself from giving him a giant eye roll. You also really wanted to slap that smirk off of his face, it was infuriating. Just because he’s some hotshot doesn’t make it an excuse to be a dick. He was a giant cliche; the big successful man that has a parade of women around him, tattoos, expensive attire, and he probably has a fancy house. It was honestly sickening.

You looked over to see his jaw clenched, his stare was hard and a bit frightening. You didn’t want to be in deep shit with whoever this dude was, he seemed like his lawyers could tear you apart. So, you let your walls down just for a teensy itty bitty second.

“No. I’m from Morris Heights.” His eyebrows shot up, he wondered why you moved to Brooklyn which was on the other side of the city. 

“Bronx, huh?” You just nodded, turning your attention back on your phone. You look up to see signs that signify that this was your stop, especially since the voice on the subway was always inaudible. 

“It’s been a pleasure, doll.” You get up and make your way in front of the door, completely ignoring his sentence. You turn around just before the doors open, looking from the bodyguards, to the women, and then back onto him.

“See you around, prick.”

--

You rush into the gym doors, barely making it past 8:40 on the dot. Great, you were ten minutes late. You dropped your gym bag on the floor, emptying fast breaths from running for so long. You look up to see the only trainee in the room to be Shuri. You noticed she was tinkering on one of the machines. She always had a knack for wanting to improve every single gadget or machine that came before her presence. 

You see Carol waking up to you with a scowl and you knew it was for being late. She patted you on the back as you gulped. “Go run an extra mile, kid.” You raised your eyebrows at the less harsh punishment than expected. You assumed she’d give you five extra miles or something even worse.

“Don’t make me give you two extra miles.” Shuri snorts at the comment which makes you send a playful glare in her direction. You walk out the doors again and start jogging around the block.

You couldn’t help but think about the guy on the subway. It was quite strange to see a whole entire cart was empty just for him and his friends. The other carts were full, sardine-packed is what it looked like. Not to mention his annoying cockiness, what the fuck was up with that?

He was so pretentious like he could do anything to anyone and get away with it. It’s like he’s some trust fund dick who thinks that the world revolves around him. 

Sweat started to drop down your forehead and you realized that you’ve run enough miles. You push open the doors to the gym, going back inside. You see Shuri still tinkering and Carol was in her office with a phone call.

You walk over to the table in the corner and grab the white bands. You start wrapping them around your knuckles and walk over to one of the many punching bags. You started to make small punches at the bags, watching as it swung back and forth from your force.

Shuri then turns to you, looking over at you with excitement. “Hey, tomorrow Wanda, Gamora, and I going to this new bar in Crown Heights want to come?”

“Of course. I could use some fun.” Shuri brightens her smile and continues to go back to figuring out the things in front of her.

You looked down at the newspaper that sat next to her and some parts of a machine. She was required to set newspapers down because of an incident where oil was spilled all over the gym. Needless to say, Carol wasn’t happy and Shuri couldn’t use any of the machines for a month.

You couldn’t help but just stare at the caption, this one was from today. Curiosity always gets the best of you.

MOB BOSS JAMES BARNES RIDES THE SUBWAY, WHAT COULD THAT MEAN FOR THE CRIME IN THE CITY?

Then attached was a small picture underneath the headline. Your eyes widened and you felt like the air had just been shot out of you. You grab the newspaper and get a better stare, just making sure. You had to make sure.

You see the little picture even better. There was the man that was on the subway. He was smoking a cigarette, the smoke coming out of his mouth. His sleeves were rolled up which showed the plethora of tattoos that were scattered across his skin. Next to him were two women, giving him neck kisses.

Great, the person you called a dick was the biggest mob boss in the tristate area. 

You were so fucked.

~~

Permanent Taglist: @hailmary-yramliah @kitkatd7 @captainchrisstan @angstysebfan​

chapter two

[cyclopstm]

                         DISABILITY && MENTAL HEALTH

This post will cover items such as disabilities, mental health, PTSD and trauma in relation to Scott. These are things which are either canon for him, or headcanons I want to pay more attention to on my blog.

I do not have any personal experience with any of the items I will address in this post, which means that most (if not all) of my information is gained through reading and research online. If there are items I missed out on or have described incorrectly, you may contact me about this to kindly help me figure out a new/better way to put things into words. It’s in no way my intention to upset anyone, or bring forth wrong information.

To me, it just feels like Scott is a good opportunity to improve the representation of characters and people who deal with visual impairment because the narrative that disability is binary caused that most blind characters in popular media have no vision at all. Blind characters in heroic roles like Daredevil, have powers that completely compensate for their blindness while blind people who don’t have these compensations are usually portrayed as helpless.

As a team leader and a superhero, Scott offers a good opportunity to include people who are visually impaired, yet often ignored or left out of the heroic narrative.

Needless to say, do NOT reblog this post && don’t interact with it if you’re not a RP blog.

                                             _____________________________

TABLE OF CONTENTS : 1. Scott’s brain trauma and injury 2. Scott’s PTSD during his youth 3. Symptoms and signs of PTSD for Scott 4. Scott is (legally) blind 5. Scott cannot distinguish colours 6. How Scott deals with his visual impairment 7. The X-Mansion and dealing with trauma 8. Additional notes

                                      ________________________

1. SCOTT’S BRAIN TRAUMA AND INJURY When Scott was a young boy, he went on a travel with his parents and his little brother Alex. The family’s private jet was ambushed by an alien Shi’ar scouting ship. The boys lost their parents on that unfortunate day and in the crash, Scott took a hit to the head after his mutant powers manifested for the first time and allowed Scott to break his fall and allow him and Alex to survive. The head injury Scott suffered on that day would permanently disable the part of Scott’s brain which would have enabled him to control his optic blasts. Additionally, Scott (as well as Alex) suffered traumatic amnesia regarding the accident. Unlike his brother, Scott was forced to remain hospitalized for up to a year.

As a teenager, Scott began to suffer from severe headaches and he was sent to a specialist (Mr. Sinister in disguise) who provided him with lenses made of ruby-quartz. Scott’s mutant power erupted from his eyes as an uncontrollable blast of optic force and the only means to control it ever since have been the ruby-quartz lenses Sinister gave him. Sinister knew the lenses would help due to experiments and research he had been doing on the boy while Scott lived at the orphanage where Sinister had feigned being the owner.

2. SCOTT’S POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER DURING HIS YOUTH After losing his parents and waking up alone at the hospital after the plane crash, Scott was placed in the State Home for Foundlings, an orphanage in Omaha (Nebraska) where he was subjected to batteries of tests and experiments by the orphanage’s owner, Mr. Milbury (alias, Mr. Sinister). He placed mental blocks on Scott and took on the role of ‘Lefty’, who was Scott’s roommate and bully at the orphanage. During his time spent at the orphanage, Scott was subjected to several occasions which would leave him traumatized — such as the attempt of one of the other orphaned boys at taking his own life, and Scott’s failed attempt at saving him. Any time anyone came close to adopting Scott, Sinister intervened.

At some point, Scott demolished a crane with his optic blast, by accident. He had saved a crowd of people by using his blast again to destroy the crane before it would crush the people, but they believed he was out to kill them and chased the young mutant boy. Scott woke the attention of a mutant criminal who sought to use Scott’s powers in his crimes, but abused the kid when Summers refused. At that time, he had also attracted the attention of Charles Xavier who tracked down Scott and took him in as the first of his team of X-Men...

3. SYMPTOMS OF SCOTT’S PTSD — Reliving the traumatic event (during his childhood) :: as a boy, Scott was fond of airplanes and dreamed of becoming a pilot himself one day. But when he was taken to an air show by one of the orphanage’s nurses, he had a violent traumatic reaction in the middle of the show, reciting things he otherwise doesn’t consciously remember. — Negative Thoughts and Feelings :: Scott often deals with feelings of anger, guilt, fear or numbness. He’s prone to blame himself for things going wrong on missions with the X-Men. When someone comes to pass, he’s quick to take up responsibility and the blame for it, and occasionally even deals with survivor’s guilt. Scott also feels cut off from his friends and family and hardly keeps much interest for day-to-day activities. He hardly does them to relax, but rather only when they become necessary. — Avoidance :: Scott feels like he has to keep busy at all times, he doesn’t want to think or talk about anything in relation to his past, feels emotionally cut off from his feelings, struggles to express his emotions or affection towards others and thus comes across as numb and cold and very serious and occasionally does risky things which could be self-destructive or reckless. He’s often the first in line to sacrifice himself for the X-Men not only because he’s their leader, but also because he has little to no value for his own life. — Disturbed sleep and lack of sleep. — Taking risks and hypervigilance. — Intrusive thoughts. — Nightmares. — Trust issues. — “No one understands.”-mentality. — The sense of never being at peace.

4. SCOTT IS (LEGALLY) BLIND While Scott was born with perfectly normal eyesight, and perfect vision, he no longer has the ability to see without his ruby-quartz lenses ever since his optic blasts came to manifest. Only ruby-quartz can keep the optic blasts under control, meaning that any other means of vision such as regular glasses or lenses would not be of help for Scott. Scott literally can’t see without his ruby-quartz shades. Opening his eyes would prove incredibly destructive to his nearest surroundings.

Someone who is completely blind can’t see any light or form. Of the people with eye disorders, only about 15% can see nothing at all. If you’re legally blind, you can still see, just not that clearly. Normal vision is 20/20. That means you can clearly see an object 20 feet away. If you’re legally blind, your vision is 20/200 or less in your beter eye or your field of vision is less than 20 degrees.

In addition to being unable to distinguish colors due to the red tint in his glasses, they also reduce his low-light vision, which means Scott deals with low vision.

5. SCOTT CANNOT DISTINGUISH COLOURS I’m not using the term colorblindless in this post for the main reason that Google gives me too many search results in relation to racism, and I do not intend to use a term that has a double meaning that could be taken the wrong way.

Scott’s ruby-quartz lenses cause him to see the world through a veil of red. The lenses are tinted in red which alters Scott’s general, every day perception of the world. He sees the world in shades of grey, white, black and red and can no longer distinguish any other colours. Maybe rather than ‘colourblindness’, Scott deals with something alike to monochromacy. Though, Scott’s monochromacy is perhaps not of a kind that has been officially diagnosed in real life cases before.

The comics and movies rarely acknowledge Scott’s eyesight aside from him claiming to have an ‘eye condition’ as an excuse for him to wear sunglasses all the time. Scott’s adaptations to being unable to distinguish different colours would be mostly rather subtle and maybe it doesn’t inherently add onto the story a comic book or movie wants to tell, but they shouldn’t be ignored in how I wish to bring Scott in my writing...

6. HOW SCOTT DEALS WITH HIS VISUAL IMPAIRMENT — High contrast text and browser extensions for reading. — Color coding his outfits. He labels them with what color they are and organizes his closet by items that go together. — As a prodigy at billiards, Scott has a special billiards set adjusted to his specific needs. — Large prints for letters, books, digital fonts, etc. — Increased brightness on any of his devices’ screens. — Assistance from ‘self-driving’ tech when flying the Blackbird or riding his motorcycle. He knows the majority of controls through muscle memory by now. — Assistive technology to improve contrast, especially at night. — Scott owns a touch-based Rubik’s Cube. — Help from his closest friends.

7. THE X-MANSION AND DEALING WITH TRAUMA Scott and Ororo both (among others), are hyper aware of the traumas some of their students have experienced. They recognize behaviours and reactions in trauma survivors because they have been in such a position themselves as well. They made sure the school has a clear set of rules and policies on the safety and comfort of students. The school faculty received training in mental health first aid, there’s places students can retreat to when they feel anxious or suffer from power meltdown.

People like Scott, Jean and Rogue would know how to handle students who have gone through different types of abuse. As trauma survivors themselves, they’d take extra steps to reassure students who have every reason to distrust adults. They would announce themselves when approaching students from behind, maintain wide personal space bubbles and refrain from initiating physical contact such as hugs or touching students without asking them first. They see there’s no use in raising your voice to the kids, and won’t tollerate any kind of jokes about trauma. Scott is rumoured to be very strict on the rules of the house concerning mental health.

8. ADDITIONAL NOTES While Scott is aware that there is no shame in any of what he deals with every day, he still keeps it under wraps a lot. He doesn’t ever want for his visual impairment or his trauma to become his only and main personality trait other people associate with him. This is why a lot of people may not even know that he is dealing with these things on the daily. He’s very subtle about everything and only those who get to know him better may begin to see and notice things which indicate that he’s disabled. Scott has grown so adjusted to living with his disabilities that they commonly no longer cause him trouble.

The only people who know Scott is visually impaired because he told them himself are Charles (confidant and father-figure), Jean (lover, the person he maybe trusts more than anyone else), Hank (as the resident scientist), Ororo (as his fellow team leader) and Emma Frost (as his therapist).

Scott has been able to take therapy sessions with Charles during his early years, and later on with Emma Frost. Jean has also helped him an incredibly great deal on coping with his trauma and PTSD, lack of self-esteem and dealing with his emotions and expressing them more openly.

To this day, Scott still suffers from migraines and occasional moments of memory loss. His brain injury does not always allow him to maintain or store knowledge accurately. His migraines are a result of his optic blast building up surplus energy. When Scott can’t use his optic blast regularly, he will build up a surplus energy which manifests into migraines.

[fantasticstoryteller]

New Dynasty Chapter 44

Arachne dutifully brushed her teeth at one of the sinks. In this, she was better than most of the others—mostly because it was important to both Peter and Wade that she brush her teeth at least twice a day. She wasn’t sure why—she didn’t think it was even possible for her to get cavities—but she always brushed in the morning and again before bed. Sometimes, depending on circumstances, she even brushed after lunch.

“Hey,” one of the girls behind her said. She calmly rinsed her mouth. “Make us a jump rope,” the girl ordered.

Arachne rinsed her mouth out three times (Wade said three was a magic number), wiped her face and turned to look at the other girl. “No,” she said calmly.

The other girl was taken aback. “What do you mean ‘no’?” she demanded. “You spin webs all the time! It can’t be that hard to make a jump rope!”

“When you want something,” Arachne said, “you have to say please. You didn’t.”

“I don’t need to say please,” snarled the girl.

“You do if you want a favor from me,” Arachne said firmly.

“Hey, hey!” called Kitty as she came into the bathroom. “What’s going on here?” she asked looking between them.

The other girl pointed at Arachne. “She won’t make us a jump rope!”

“You won’t say ‘please’,” Arachne said back.

“First of all,” Kitty said looking between the two children, “it’s bed time. You shouldn't be pulling toys out. Second of all, we have jump ropes. What’s wrong with the ones we have?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “They’re all put up, duh,” she said.

“Because it’s bed time,” Kitty said firmly. “If you’re done brushing your teeth, let’s all get into bed. Arachne, Colossus wants to see you in the courtyard for a moment, if you’re almost ready for bed.”

Arachne nodded and walked off to the courtyard. She saw the large metal man staring up a tree at a pretty webbed nest. It sparkled in the fading light. “Kitty said you wanted to see me?” asked Arachne as she looked at the thing. She took in all its details trying to figure out how it sparkled like that. Maybe she could make sparkly webs too. That would be nice.

“Ah, Arachne,” said Colossus. “Could you pull down your web for me?”

“That’s not one of my webs!” Arachne protested. “It’s too small!” It was—it wasn’t even big enough for just her and she always made her webs big enough for at least two people.

“I see. Will you take it down anyway?” asked metal man. “It’s blocking one of our security cameras.”

“Okay.” Arachne climbed the tree and reached out to grab a strand of webbing. “Ouch!” she said at the sudden sharp pain in her hand. She pulled it back to see lines of red where the webbing she had touched drew blood.

“Arachne? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just surprised.” The lines on her hand became shallow and healed leaving her to scratch off the scabs to show the healed skin beneath them. “I’ve never dealt with sharp webbing before.” She climbed up to one of the anchor points of the web.

“Did she just say the web is sharp?” a voice asked.

Arachne ignored it. Colossus, one of Wade’s friends, had asked her to get this web down, and she was going to get it down. She reached out to the anchor point—and hissed as the web cut into her hand again. She couldn't touch it without getting hurt. Very well—she wouldn't.

A moment later her hand was healed again and she snapped the branch the web was attached to.

“Arachne, what are you doing?” called the new voice.

“I can’t touch the web, so I’m pruning the tree!” the girl called back as she scrambled up and around to the top most anchor point. She snapped that branch as well and the web cut through the wood as it sagged against its last anchor point.

“Be careful!”

Arachne looked down—to see that there was a teacher, a man with dark sunglasses, staring up at her. “Don’t stand under it!” she told him. “It’s dangerous!” She waited until he moved back before snapping the last anchor point. The web crashed down, slicing through everything as it went. She climbed down and glared at the web. “That is one nasty web,” she growled.

“Yes,” said the man. “And it sliced through the camera.”

“It what?” Arachne looked up to see that one of the things the webbing sliced through was, indeed, a camera. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the man said as he put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll just post an extra patrol tonight, and that should cover everything. Go inside and get ready for bed.”

Arachne nodded and went inside. Ignoring the other girls she made a nest on the ceiling and climbed into it. Then she got down and grabbed her stuffed unicorn.

“You’re not allowed to do that!” said one of the other girls. Arachne ignored her.

“Yeah, you have to sleep in a bed, just like us!” said another.

Arachne did something she’d never done before. She webbed the open part of her nest shut sealing her into a cocoon of webbing so that she wouldn't have to hear the others any more. She curled up around her unicorn and hoped that Wade and Peter would get back soon. She wanted to go home.

Shortly after she fell asleep a pair of hands reached through the webbing and pulled her out. Arachne’s arms automatically thrashed and Kitty said, “Sh, sh,” desperately. The little girl looked up at the older girl with wide eyes as she heard odd popping noises in the background. “Come on,” she whispered. “The mansion’s under attack and we need to get to the safe place.”

Arachne remembered the talk. The safe place was in the basement—a fortified room that nothing could into. It even had its own air cycling unit. “What’s going on?” Arachne asked as she clung to Kitty.

“Going somewhere, little X-Man?” drawled a voice. Kitty whirled and Arachne saw a woman. She was tall and her long hair hung like a ribbon down her back. Kitty began to tremble with fear.

Kitty was a nice person. She didn’t yell, she always explained herself, and she never assumed that Arachne was wrong. So—the woman that Kitty was afraid of couldn’t be a nice person and Wade had told her to never let bad people have what they want.

Arachne twisted and Kitty, surprised at the action, let the girl drop to the floor. She looked at the woman, who laughed. “Good girl,” purred the woman. “Now, come with me.”

“No.”

The woman’s face twisted with rage and looked like one of the mean people's faces when they were upset about something—and it made Arachne mad. They had no right to be here, no right at all! The woman took a step forwards. “You will come with me.”

Arachne spun webbing at the woman, yanked it to the side so that it stuck to the wall, and then finished webbing the woman there. “No,” she repeated firmly. More people ran down the hall and she kept herself between them and Kitty. Of the two of them, she was the durable one. The Bad Place had proved it.

Remembering what Wade told her, she danced around the attack the man launched at her, the bullets missing her by inches and punched him.

“Half strength. Full strength could kill them.”

At the last moment she pulled back. The man gasped as his lower region turned to jelly only in shape because of his skin. As he collapsed Arachne ran back to Kitty, grabbed the older girl, and scaled the wall into the vent.

Kitty tapped her leg. “This way!” she hissed as she turned around. Arachne turned and followed her. As they were crawling Kitty almost ran into Sasha and Brian. “Turn around,” she hissed. “No, left.” Kitty led the three of them to a room. “It’s okay,” she told them as she dropped out of the vent. “This room doesn’t connect to anything but the air vents.”

“How did you even find it?” asked Brian as he and Sasha dropped out of the vent.

Kitty smiled grimly. “I’ve lived here since I was twelve. You wouldn’t believe how many times this place has been rebuilt.”

“What are you doing here?” demanded Sasha. Kitty whirled to see that she was confronting Arachne.

Who didn’t back down. “Same reason you’re here,” she said. “We needed to get away.” She stopped and blinked. “No,” she said suddenly. “We don’t need to get away. We need to save them!”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “We can’t save them,” she said.

“We have to try!”

“Why should we?”

“Because we know what will happen if we don’t.”

Watching the two children glare at each other Kitty realized there was a lot about these children she didn’t know. She had no idea what they were talking about. Something about this conversation was more adult than children this age should be able to have.

“What about the adults?” All three girls looked at the boy. “Kitty says this place gets rebuilt a lot right? That must mean the adults are used to it getting attacked. I bet if we get the adults free, they can save everyone else.”

Sasha seemed to think that over. “Well,” she admitted slowly, “yeah. That could work. Totally. Okay, first we need to know the layout of the mansion.”

“There are fire escape plans on every floor with the blueprints,” Arachne said. She spun a web at the ceiling and hauled herself up. “I’ll go get one.”

“See if you can figure out what they’re doing with everybody!” Sasha called back at her. “Planning a rescue isn’t going to do any good if we don’t know where they are!” Sasha sighed and muttered, “Might as well use those escaping skills of yours for something good for a change.”

“I heard that!” Arachne mentally growled to herself, reminding herself how Wade and Peter had pointed out that if she hadn’t made it to the elevator and to the first floor none of the others would have been rescued. It helped—a little. The fact that they still hated her hurt. She knew why, of course, but still.

She crawled out. She had a perfect memory for buildings, and she knew how to use it. Every time they’d caught her she’d learned more and she’d gotten further. The fact that she’d saved everyone was proof enough of that. She glared out of the vent at one of the invaders. She was going to save everyone again.

She exited the vent—silently—in one of the classrooms. Every classroom had detailed blueprints for emergency evacuations. Several more of the intruders walked by the room and she cracked the door to hear what they were saying.

“—get them all to the cafeteria,” muttered one of them. “How are we supposed to do that when these brats have powers?”

“Do you want to piss the witch off? She’ll kill you with that doll of hers.”

Trailing behind them was a line of cowed, collared children. Something about the collars made Arachne shiver—the “danger is coming” shiver. At the end of the line, walking slowly behind the others, was Keith. Without thinking she reached out of the room, yanked him in, and put a finger to her lips. He blinked at her and she realized he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He probably couldn't see very well; no wonder he’d been so slow!

She put one of his hands on her shoulder and then walked towards where she left her thin, strong web to climb back into the vent again. Thinking about it, she grabbed a pen as she passed the teacher’s desk. It would come in handy later.

She used a dab of webbing to stick Keith’s hands together before she climbed up the webbing and pulled it up behind her. If none of them had seen them get into the vents, she didn’t want to let them know how the group was getting around.

She crawled with Keith, unnaturally silent, on her back. Soon she made it to the little room where it was safe and let him down. Kitty stared at the collar with horror. “Oh, no,” she muttered. “Inhibitor collars.”

Sasha frowned as Arachne examined the collar. “What are those?” Sasha asked.

Arachne found the lock. She opened the collar and it dropped off. Keith went full body red, white, and then back to normal. “Are you okay?” she asked him.

“Arachne!” He lunged and hugged her as he cried. She hugged him and let him. After all, it had made Pepper feel better.

“How did you get that collar off?” asked Kitty.

Sasha sighed. “Because it’s Arachne,” she said as if that explained everything. To the children who had been in the Bad Place, it did. “What do these collars do?”

“They—inhibit. Block all powers.”

Sasha and Brian stared at her for a moment. “So—if the adults have these collars on them they’re useless.”

“We can get them off,” Arachne said. “It’s not hard.”

Sasha rolled her eyes again. “For you!”

“So we try anyway. Even if we fail, we tried. That’s important,” Arachne said.

“Would Natasha and Bruce want us to try?” asked Brian. They turned to look at him and he shifted nervously. “Or would they want us to stay safe?”

“Peter and Wade understand what it means to try,” said Arachne.

“Wade talks to the voices in his head.”

“Peter talks to the voices in Wade’s head.” The two girls glared at each other for a moment.

Sasha sighed. “Okay—but we need a plan. Tell me everything you heard.” Arachne complied.

Kitty paled at the description of the “witch.” “I’ve—I’ve heard of her,” the older girl said softly. “She has this doll and if she places something of yours on it—she can use it to hurt you.”

Sasha sat down and rubbed her chin as she thought in unconscious mimicry of how Bruce tended to think. “All right. Arachne, you got the map.” Keith sniffled and let go as Arachne dug out both the map and the pen and handed it to her. “Okay. We need a three pronged plan. First, we need to get the adults free so they can rescue us. In case they can’t, we need to contact adults that aren’t here that will.”

“Tony, Natasha, Bruce, Peter, and Wade,” supplied Arachne.

“Right.”

Kitty pointed to one of the rooms. “This is a control room. It can be locked from the inside and used to send a mayday sequence to the Avengers Tower which will be bounced to wherever they are now,” the older girl said.

“May—day?” asked Arachne. “What’s that?”

“General, all purpose call for help,” Kitty explained.

“Okay. Third thing we need to do is keep them here. We can’t save everyone if they move people off the grounds. Brian, you’re going to go to the parking lot. Go green and smash everything. They can’t leave if there’s nothing to leave in. Arachne, you’re going to keep this ‘witch’ busy. I’ll go the control room.”

“Problem,” said Arachne. “I can’t be a distraction and unlock collars. She might not be able to kill me, but she’ll be able to immobilize me as soon as she figures out how to do it.”

Sasha chewed on the pen. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted. She turned to Kitty. “Do you think you can learn how to open it?”

“Ah—”

“We don’t know until we try,” said Arachne. She picked the collar off the floor and snapped it closed again, locking it. “Let me show you how and you practice,” she said. Moving slowly she showed Kitty how she overrode the electronic lock.

“I want to help too,” said Keith in a small voice.

Sasha glared at him and he went pale. “What can you do?” she asked.

“I can—turn colors. It’s not a lot, but it might help someone stay hidden.”

“It’s not exactly perfect camouflage,” said Sasha.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Arachne said as she guided Kitty’s hands on the collar. It snapped open. “Try that a few more times,” she said before standing up and looking at Sasha. “I’m going to be a distraction, remember?”

“Do you honestly think you can distract them enough?” asked Sasha.

“I live with Wade!”

“She has a point,” said Brian. “Wade is—distracting.”

“Wade is insane. Everybody says so.”

“Not Peter.” The two girls glared at each other again.

“Got it!” said Kitty as the collar fell open a third time.

“Let’s go,” said Sasha as Arachne’s spun a rope to the ceiling to let them all out.

Kitty and Keith followed Arachne down to the cafeteria. She paused and turned to look at the other two who looked at her with wide, frightened eyes. She realized that Keith—her first friend her age and Kitty—a girl who was almost big enough to be a grown up, were looking to her for instructions. It made her feel both like she was strongest, best person in the world and absolutely terrified. She swallowed before she spoke and hoped that it was too dark for them to see how scared she was. “Wait until they’re distracted,” she ordered.

“How will we know?” asked Keith.

Thinking back to all the chaos that Wade could cause she smiled. “You’ll know,” she told him confidently. Then she kicked out the ventilation grill and swung down into the cafeteria. The tables were all pushed up against the sides and the people there were divided into two groups—the children and adults with collars and the men with guns. Sitting on a lone stool was a woman. She was tall and her white dress had a vaguely feathered look to it.

The woman’s eyes narrowed in speculation as they regarded the child. “Come into the web yourself?” she asked with a thick accent.

“No,” said Arachne as she confidently (Wade told her once she could get away with almost anything if she pretended to have enough confidence) towards the woman. She pointed. “You’ll let them all go!” she announced.

Her announcement was met with a roar of laughter—and among the laughter she heard the unmistakable sound of two feet hitting the ground. Now she just had to keep the attention on her. It shouldn't be too hard—she just had to act like Wade. Well, minus the talking to herself. That might make people look away nervously and she didn’t want anyone to look away.

“I know of you,” said the woman as she picked up something. “You are the little spider girl.”

If no one had told Arachne that it was supposed to be a doll, she never would have known. It looked like several sticks tied together in a shape that was vaguely human. Honestly, Arachne could easily have made a better doll out of webbing. Still, she had that sense again. That sense that something really really bad was about to happen.

The woman held up what looked like a white thread—but Arachne knew better. It was a piece of her webbing. Normally she took down her nests and balled them up until it was impossible for a single piece to be picked away—but Kitty had pulled her out of her nest early, and she hadn’t had time.

The woman tied the thread around the twigs in her hand. She held it up so that Arachne could see the white glimmering thread around the doll. Then, carefully and deliberately, she took what might have been an arm on the thing—and snapped it.

Arachne’s own arm snapped at the same time. She felt pain, she felt rage—but she also felt vicious satisfaction. Was this the best the woman could do? She flung her injured arm out.

Crick-crick-crack.

Her arm was healed. She flexed it to the gasps of the people around them. “You’ll have to do better than that,” she taunted, pointing to the now solid twig of an arm on the doll. She braced herself, knowing what was going to come next. The woman was going to use the doll to snap her neck.

The woman didn’t disappoint. The woman twisted the top of the doll and Arachne’s head followed—but this wasn’t the first time that someone broke her neck. And this time—this time she could control how fast she could heal. Her head spun like a top as her bones and nerves fixed themselves, the muscles twisting, bruising, and healing until it was normal again. Arachne coughed up the blood that had been forced into her airway when her neck twisted and spat it onto the floor before wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “Is that all you’ve got?” she asked.

The woman smiled and regarded the perfectly fine doll in her hand before looking at the child again. “No,” she said smugly. She tossed the doll into the air and Arachne followed—and—didn’t—come—down! The woman got off her stool and strode towards the child who spun desperately in the air trying to get purchase on something. “What are you child?” the woman asked. “You are more than spider, are you not?” The woman reached the girl and seized Arachne’s chin with one hand. “Fascinating,” she murmured.

Arachne knew that word. That word was always (almost always—not since she left the Bad Place had it been) followed by pain as new limits were tested to see just how far she could go. She tried to pull away from the woman—who suddenly went slack, only held up by three metal claws piercing through her chest.

The woman fell off the claws and Arachne dropped to the floor fighting for breath. A hand rubbed her back soothingly. “Okay, you’re okay,” murmured Kitty.

Arachne looked up, eyes wide, at the man who’d killed the woman. He had hair that was kind of flat and at an angle on his head, bigger sideburns than she’d ever seen, and a scowl. She’d seen him around the school—but she didn’t know what he taught. “You did good kid,” he said. “Real good.”

She looked around and saw that the adults were free and most of the gunmen were down. “It was Sasha’s plan,” she told him as Kitty rubbed her back.

The man frowned. “It wouldn't have worked without you,” he said.

She shrugged. It didn’t matter. Arachne herself hadn’t had a plan—Sasha was the one that came up with one. If Sasha hadn’t figured out what to do, Arachne wouldn't have distracted everyone long enough for Kitty to get the collars off.

Suddenly she broke down crying. “What’s wrong?” asked Kitty.

“I—I want to—to—go home!” Arachne wailed.

Suddenly one of the doors to the cafeteria burst open and a boy Kitty’s age popped in. “The Avengers are here!” he said, eyes wide. “And they have a dinosaur!”

“They have a what?” asked gruff man.

[bird-in-a-cage]

Inspired by that prompt

012

It was August, 1986, when Billy was released. He didn’t have much. A bag of second hand clothes that had been donated to somewhere at some point, nothing of which had ever fit right or would have been anything he’d chosen to wear voluntarily. The keys to a basement apartment underneath a general store, two small windows up high near the ceiling the only natural light source. Basic furniture. Only enough to survive, nothing homely. A tracking bracelet around his ankle. A thick black box that weighed more than it looked, hidden by baggy jeans that were kept up by a belt he had to stab extra holes into.

It might have fit him properly last year. But that was last year.

He kept the letter they gave him pinned to the small refrigerator next to the sink. This apartment is owned by the US Government. You are not to leave Hawkins until we say you can under any circumstance. You are not to take off the tracking bracelet for any reason. You are to report in to the number below once every two weeks, same time and day. Failure to do these tasks will see you readmitted.

Neil’s abuse was fun in comparison to that possibility.

It had been a long year. The longest of Billy’s short life. A year of surgeries, rehabilitation, endless tests. Having his hair shaved off. Losing his muscle mass. Losing his tan. Being kept in rooms with no windows. Alone for weeks. Being stitched back together like a jigsaw puzzle made of skin. A sock with a hole in it. Being treated like an animal, an experiment. Being poked and prodded by miles of needles. Blood and plasma. Bone marrow. Lumbar punctures. Spinal fluid. Staring into bright lights for hours until he went temporarily blind. Patch worked with pads to listen to his brain. His heart. His lungs. His stomach. Every different face wearing the same masks, the same gowns, the same gloves. Never feeling anything real apart from pain.

Sometimes he still felt like a prisoner in his own body. What was left of it. What he didn’t recognise was his anymore. That thing still in his arm. In his head. Alone at night he would still hear it whisper. But it was different now. It had no power to control him. So Billy tried to ignore it. Just keep going somehow, this would get better eventually. If he did well in this test he’d be allowed a coke. If he did well in another he could sit next to a window. He could, and did, work his way out of the Building, away from being a lab rat directly.

He’d come out with 012 tattooed on his arm, just under the crook of his elbow. They must have done it when he was passed out at one point. Everything else about him had changed, it made sense there would be something new added as well in amongst the web of white scars that spanned his entire body. Thick like elm roots on his chest, the epicenter. Thin and fine on his arms and legs and the backs of his hands, a few up the back of his neck. He kept everything hidden under thick clothes. A donated Slazenger jacket became his best friend. Grey and waterproof. Sleeves that fell to his fingers. Old jeans that someone probably died in. Dirty white sneakers. Everything the opposite of who he was before. It felt right somehow. He wasn’t that person anymore. He’d never be that person again.

A government appointed talking person had advised Billy to take everything day by day. The world was very different from what was inside the Building and its grounds. The one tree outside to look at to guess what season it was. Doing too much at once would upset things. Getting drunk wasn’t an option. Getting high wasn’t an option. Working out wasn’t an option. Getting a job wasn’t an option. Walking was fine though, practically encouraged. Enough time had passed, there was a very low chance of being recognised. Legally he was dead. He should probably think of a new name for himself. The government would help with paperwork when he was deemed ready for phase three. It would pay for him to live, exist, in phase two.

Billy never saw her face. But she had a calm voice throughout. Hidden behind the two way mirror and through the phone that had no numbers to dial. No outside line. He liked to imagine she had green eyes. The closest thing he had to a friend, even though he never said more than yes or no in return.

It took two weeks before Billy went further than the store upstairs. Three weeks before he went more than two blocks. It was odd to feel a breeze again. Odd to feel a cold that didn’t come from within. Odd to feel hot from the sun. Odd to hear multiple voices and vehicles coming from everywhere. Odd to hear children. Odd to hear joy and laughter. 

Odd not to hear beeping white boxes, the crinkle of sanitised plastic casings being unwrapped and opened. Hollow footsteps on a tiled floor. Count back from ten. Nine. Eight. 

Hawkins didn’t look any different. It had the same amount of stop lights, stop signs. The same amount of parking spaces outside the diner and town hall. The same amount of benches in the park. The same playground equipment. The same graffiti under the slide. The same names scratched into the hard orange plastic, autographs of teenagers hiding out and getting high with their friends after dark. Billy thumbed over his own name. The night he and Harrington buried the hatchet over a joint and a half bottle of whiskey. Both hiding from home and wanting to just feel young and stupid again. Both tired of fighting.

That Billy had no idea what tiredness was.

Billy spent every day just walking. Retracing his steps over the whole town. Streets he used to drive down with abandon, screaming along to music or just screaming for the hell of it. Now he was ignoring how his lungs burnt when every step too far. Walking through pretty little neighbourhoods with white picket fences, perfect front yards. He felt like a ghost. No one looked at him twice. He really had died. There wasn’t a grave for him at the church. He didn’t expect there to be one, that required his family caring about him. They didn’t care before. Why would they care now he was the reason the fancy new mall ‘burnt down’?

The house was the same. At least from the outside on the other side of the street. 4819 Cherry Lane. The same broken steps. The same mailbox. The same windowed front porch. The same dead grass. The same dead trees. He could still be there but he couldn’t. Schrödinger’s Hargrove. A part of him wanted to go and knock on the door. Look through the windows. See what happened to his room. If any part of him and who he was still existed in those walls. The government wouldn’t like that though. He was dead. It was hard to accept it was better to stay dead. The box around his ankle felt heavier.

The centre of town was busier than the suburbs. Billy worked his way there last. Built up a tolerance for noise and engines and people over a few months. Step by step. Day by day. Getting used to being dead. Watched the stripmall from the other side of the parking lot. The auto repair shop he visited a lot for parts for his fallen camaro. God knows what they did with her. The arcade where he dropped Max off more than once. He tried not to think about her. About what could happen now he was gone. The broken great wall. He sat at the bus stop for a break. His lungs felt like they were about to tear open again. His chest was heavy and tight. Five minutes. Then he’d keep going. Keep carrying on. 

Keep fighting. 

A sharp scream dragged his head up from his sneaker laces. Two kids piled out of a BMW. A brown one that looked expensive. A shock of red hair that had been long but was now just short to shoulder length in a dramatic line. Jean shorts and a yellow t-shirt. A denim jacket. Billy’s denim jacket. The sleeves had been cut off. Someone had painted a skull smoking on the back panel. Probably the wearer herself. It wasn’t unlike Billy’s first tattoo. The one he used to have on his arm. The one they cut through and scars took over from both sides took over and removed.

Max. She’d screamed. But she didn’t look scared or worried or even sad. She was smiling from ear to ear. Sunglasses pushed into her hair. She looked taller. She’d screamed at a boy in a baseball hat. Billy vaguely recognised him from long ago, somewhere in the back of what was left of his old mind. He winced and made a show of fixing his ear with a finger. Probably complaining that Max was too loud. Billy had told her that before. When things were different. When he was different. When he was younger but old.

They both went to walk through the doors when the driver got out of the car. Harrington. Of course it was him. He looked exactly the same. Big mane of brunette hair effortlessly styled. Stupid mom jeans. He tossed forgotten backpacks at both of them. Sounded kind as he said he’d pick them both up in two hours so don’t be fucking around in there. He’d already been hat kid’s surrogate brother by all accounts, it looked like he just picked Max up too. Another lost duckling to add to his gaggle.

Watching them live out their lives made Billy feel even more in the ground. A part of him wanted to walk over, say hi, I’m not actually dead. But he knew that was a bad idea. The whole town had moved on by way of nothing changing. The mall had been brushed over. It was a building site now. All the people that Billy took, they had been forgotten too. Someone had planted a heather bush in the town square. She hadn’t been forgotten. But that was it. People just carried on. As if nothing ever happened. As if those people had never existed. As if Billy had never existed. Max clearly remembered him if her attire was anything to go by, but did anyone else? He didn’t expect to be remembered at all. But then he also wasn’t dead yet. But he was a memory now. Nothing more. Even though he was sat right there. The cold plastic of the bus stop bench sinking through his denim covered thighs.

Max smiled at Harrington. Really smiled. Said thanks and squeezed his arm before the two kids went inside, into all the noise and lights that even the thought of following made Billy panic. Not as much as fireworks did. Harrington yelled after them to not lose all their money and sunk back into his car. Watching it all was like watching tv. Billy couldn’t interact with any of it. His body wouldn’t let him. His mind wouldn’t let him. Stuck frozen on the bench. Stuck frozen in the past while the world moved on. Left him alone with his scars and memories and regrets and apologies to people who would never hear them.

He’d apologised to Max so many times in his head it wasn’t funny anymore. He had so many regrets they consumed him. Being alone for so long at the hands of the government, he longed to be out. To be given a second chance. He regretted not being nicer to Harrington. He was a good guy. Too good for this town. He regretted just not being an asshole to his sister. Wanted a chance to not treat her like some second class citizen. Their situation wasn’t her fault. He’d just been so blinded by rage and hate about things he couldn’t change he took it out on her. She didn’t deserve that.

It had just taken dying to truly realise it.

She needed someone to make sure she was okay, now stuck alone at Cherry Lane with no one to stop angry fists and hateful words. She had Harrington.

Harrington was better than Billy.

He watched the BMW drive away, the kids long inside. The scene resetting itself. Billy sighed shakily and got to his feet, rubbing over his chest where his heart ached behind inches of scar tissue inside and out. Starting to walk back to his basement.

It was better he was dead. Unmourned and forgotten. It's what he deserved.

[elexica]

Second Chance Christmas {{ December 26 }}  - Last Chapter -

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27832405/chapters/69446895

"I can promise that I am not giving up on us.”

Full chapter under the read more!

Joey had awoken either alone or to the sounds of needy children almost every morning for the last three years.  At first, waking up without Seto there was a relief—he didn’t have to deal with him or any of the intensity that came with Seto Kaiba.

Eventually, he did miss him in that bleary moment.  It was frustrating that the first few minutes of his morning, every morning, were dedicated to a feeling of loss.

Even that had faded away. For a while now, waking up in his own bed didn’t inspire any thoughts of Seto.  Joey had returned to a state where his mornings were not tarnished by Kaiba’s absence.

But his taste of Christmas with the man—the kind one who had so graciously been a part of his family, not the cold one, who left into the snow without a second thought—was enough to leave Joey tormented.

Waking up alone had never seemed as empty than the morning of that day after Christmas.  He opened his phone screen, tapped the world clock app, and saw that it was already late in the evening in Domino.  Kaiba had no doubt already landed and returned to his life, as if nothing had happened.

The entire good experience melted right off of Kaiba.  Back to his old life, his old ways.  Unchanged, unaffected.

It felt like there was broken glass inside Joey's chest.  It was almost nauseating to feel so disconnected after everything that had happened.

But something had happened. Something had changed, Joey was sure of it.  And things could be different.  

He had gone to sleep so troubled with these conflicting thoughts, but sitting in his quiet bed, watching the snow sprinkle down, he had a new sense of clarity.

When he closed his eyes, he could see their future stretch in front of him, days and weeks and years sprawling across the room.

Joey would never get rid of all of those things that Kaiba had left behind.  He was a sentimental bastard, and at least he knew who he was.  Joey’s eyes hit the wedding photo lingering in his room.  If Joey couldn’t even toss out the extra turtlenecks after three years, Joey was not optimistic he’d ever fully clean out the house and wipe all the traces of Kaiba from the home.

And goddamn it, he knew Kaiba too.

That man wasn’t going to move on either.

So, Joey supposed, they might just keep doing this.  Every time they exchanged the kids, would Kaiba tag along for some ill-advised tryst?  Like an addiction, circling back for another self-destructive hit, knowing nothing could really change.

Or would he avoid Joey like the plague, and instead every few years fall into some act of God that would leave them to another excruciatingly loving experience.

How many times would his life be uprooted by falling back in love with that asshole?  How many longing touches would they scatter across decades?  

Playing enemies while secretly pining for each other?  Damn it, hadn’t they already gotten that out of their system?

Joey was so fucking sick of missing him.

Kaiba was too stubborn, and maybe too hurt, to make the move.  Joey hated the emotional responsibility that fell on his shoulders.

But, Joey wondered, had he actually laid it all on the line?  He never once asked Kaiba not to return to Japan.  He blocked the door, but he didn’t actually say it.  He showed up at the airport, but he didn’t actually say it.

His ex-husband had the emotional intelligence of a brick on a good day.  Joey wasn’t just as bad as Kaiba for not just saying it.  But Joey sat in bed, the cold covers pooling around him, and considered that he could be part of the problem.

And maybe, if he wanted them to be back together, he had to do it.  If he didn’t want to live this way forever—he was in a position to change it.  He wasn’t corporation stock, he wasn’t an asset, something without any control over what Kaiba did.

So Joey got up.  He made himself some coffee.  It was seven in the morning, but he was sitting at the kitchen counter, dated laptop jammed open, on the speakerphone with Serenity before the hour was over.

Everyone always admired Kaiba’s force of will.  A personality that could overcome every adversity, defy reality itself, control space and time.  Master the global marketplace, dominate the NASDAQ, and change the fabric of society.

But Joey’s force of will was something else too.  And he wasn’t going to wait for however many years it took for Kaiba to admit that he wanted to stay there, in their home, raising their children together.

If he had to, he’d drag the bastard straight from Japan.  His dumb husband was just waiting there, getting old and sad in some fancy condo.

And so he spent the entire plane ride to Domino city trying to figure out exactly what it was that he wanted to say to set his stupid, stupid man straight.

. . .

“Mokuba?” Joey hoped it was still the right phone number.  The Kaiba brothers were always updating things, changing software, making their communication methods that much trickier to obtain.  It was a real possibility that this phone number now only went to a stranger.

“Jounouchi!  What’s up?  How are you doing?  The kids are growing up so freakin’ cute!”

Joey was disarmed by how warm Mokuba always was.  And it laid bare just how little he’d really thought through the plan.  “Um, well, I’m in Domino.  I’m here to see…” Joey almost said Kaiba. But it was off-putting to refer to their shared last name.  It never bothered him as a teen, but as an adult it sometimes hit Joey that Mokuba probably didn’t love the traces of language that made it clear that he was the secondary Kaiba when it came to these affairs.  Still, Joey wasn’t sure he was allowed to call him Seto anymore.

“Ah, I see.  Nii-sama just got back yesterday.  Seto didn’t tell me any of the details, but…” Mokuba’s tone shifted.  “Everything okay?”

The question was stingingly sincere.

Joey sighed on the other end of the line.  “Yeah, you know your brother.  I mean.  Look.  I’m in Domino and I guess I just need to see him.  It’s dumb—”

“It’s not dumb,” Mokuba interrupted, sounding more adult than Joey had ever heard.  It was like he really was getting an edict from the esteemed Vice President of Kaiba Corporation.

“Yeah.  Can you get me a badge or whatever to visit his office.  We need to talk and…”

“I see.  He can’t be allowed to dodge it, huh?”

Joey laughed, despite himself.  It was a bit mournful, but it wasn’t totally devoid of life.  “Nope.”

“Yeah, I can hook you up.  I’ll get the pass sent to your phone.”

Joey nodded, even though his phone was conventional, and Mokuba couldn’t see him.  “Thanks.  And congrats on getting married.  From what I’ve heard, she sounds like a keeper.”

Joey could hear the glowing smile on the other end of the phone.  “Yeah, I think so too.”

. . .

The lobby of Kaiba Corp. HQ was mostly unchanged since the last time Joey had seen it, though it looked somewhat creepy in the dark.   It was lightly, tastefully, decorated for the season.  Twinkle lights on some of the pillars, echoing in the dark like suspended lightening bugs.

So close to his goal, Joey stalled.  He paced in the empty cavern of the lobby.  Maybe he shouldn’t bother.  Maybe this whole adventure was some twisted flight of fancy, brought on by watching one holiday film too many.  Did he look too closely at the snowflakes trapped in Kaiba’s eyelashes and see something that wasn’t really there?

In the middle of his troubled, nervous walking, Isono appeared.  Put together and just like Joey had seen him when last trading off the kids.  Sunglasses on—even though it was the dead of night in the deepest part of winter.  Stern and silent, Isono directed him to the elevator.

Isono never had much of a relationship with Joey.  The man had watched him at most major life events outside of his house for the fifteen years preceding the divorce.  Joey realized that his presence was somewhat more comfortable than all of the anonymous faces Joey had passed by in the once-familiar city.

The floor indicator increased quickly as the two men rocketed toward the top floor, where Kaiba could properly brood over the entirety of Domino.

In the stilted silence, they arrived at the top floor, and Isono put his arm out to stop the elevator doors.

“It is good you are here,” Isono said.  Something about his voice sounded reflective, and it gave Joey the confidence he wished he did not need.

The city glowed in the background, pulsing like magma.  Kaiba sat at his broad desk, illuminated by the blue light laptop in front of him and the ethereal glow of the city at his back.   Joey was pissed that when he walked in, Kaiba didn’t bat an eye.  It felt as if Kaiba had set the appointment.

Joey wondered to himself whether Mokuba had messaged him, or inadvertently triggered some alarm in procuring the pass.  Even so, Kaiba was where he was supposed to be, sitting in his dark office, typing away at whatever it was he did all day.

Since the grand entrance did not have the desired effect, Joey proceeded to stomp over to Kaiba’s desk, push down the screen of the laptop, and kiss him.

This succeeded in starling Kaiba, his blue eyes wide in surprise.  Almost too shocked to kiss back.  Almost.  Kaiba still reached a hand across, thumb skimming over Joey’s cheek.

“Y’know why I did that?” Joey asked, breaking the kiss.

Kaiba shook his head, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.  “No, I—what are you doing here?”

Joey propped himself up on Kaiba’s desk, sweatpants-clad butt shifting a stack of papers.

“I kissed you because I wanted to.  And I’m here because I want to be.  And I didn’t buy a return ticket, Kaiba.  Because I want to fly back with you.”

Kaiba opened his mouth to speak, but Joey silenced him with a hand.

“I’m gonna make it really simple for you, cause apparently this is hard for you.” Joey announced.  “Here’s the situation: I broke up with you because you refused to be part of the family in the way that I needed.  You were acting like a bad partner, and I did not deserve that.  But…  You… you proved that you could be a good partner.  So here’s the deal.”

Joey walked forward, completely enveloped by Kaiba’s heated stare.  “I want you.  I want you to be at the house.  I want to raise our kids together.  I want to go to sleep in the same bed with you, I want to wake up in your arms, I want a lot of other things.”

Kaiba wisely kept his mouth shut, opting to watch Joey with soft, sad eyes.  Joey wasn’t going to let it get to him.

“And I think you want that too.  You were happy this week.  A lot.  And this is sappy but I’m gonna lay it out.”

Kaiba gestured with one hand that Joey should continue.  The darkness didn’t leave much for Joey to see, but the way that the glare of the city glinted off of his eyes… it looked a little like water was pooling.  Joey took that to mean that his evaluation was correct, enough—Kaiba did love to correct people.

“I don’t know how many special moments, or special people we get.  And I don’t know how many days I’ll get to look over and see you.  And what a mess you are and how strangely you hide that and… and you know what?!”

Kaiba opened his lips a little, but didn’t have anything to say.  So Joey dismounted from the desk and continued.

“I came here, cause I’m done wasting my time.  You talk so much about your precious time, how busy you are.  But my time is mine, and I’m sick of watching the kids grow up without you. I’m sick of not seeing the magic parts of you, and the genius and the… we fit together, damn it!  We’re both fucked up, we’ve got no idea how to do any of this.  But I want to figure it out with you.”

Joey realized he hadn’t been breathing as he let it out.  He took a breather, trying to collect his thoughts, wiping at his own face.

“So. Yeah.  I have a proposal for you.  Fly with me back to New York.  Let’s try again.  Like, really try.  You actually be part of this—like my partner.  We’re too old for the on-again off-again bullshit.  I don’t want to have to get over you.  And honestly, I’m worried you’ll never get over me.”  Joey shrugged, “You’re not really the moving on kinda guy.”

Finally, Kaiba stood up behind the desk.  His shadow was so imposing, a terrifying mixture of height and darkness.  “So what?  You want me to be on vacation forever?”

Joey hadn’t anticipated that much vitriol in his voice.  He had been pretty proud of his speech.

“No.  But... you are just as free as you want to be.”

Joey wanted to run, felt the fight or flight instinct lighting up in his gut.  But he was finally done retreating.  Joey walked towards the silhouette.

“I’m going to ask you—just once more—do you want to do this?  Not my way, and definitely not your way.  But some new way that we can find together.”

“I am not a man of compromises, Jounouchi.”  Kaiba turned away.

“When you want something, really want something, nothing can stop you.  That’s what I’m counting on.”  

“When have you known me to do anything by halves, Jounouchi?”

“The last year of our marriage.” The answer had been given almost instantaneously, but it hung in the air for a full minute.  “But you’re right, I don’t think that’s really who you are.  So, come back to New York.  And prove it to me.”

Joey took one more step forward.  He could feel Kaiba’s tense breath, they were so close.  “You can be emotionally constipated on your own time.  I’ll go first: I’m sorry for not being more honest and just telling you what was going on.  Now it’s your turn to apologize.”

“What do you want me to apologize for?”  Kaiba demanded.

“You’re the genius.  Whatever you think will be enough to convince me to let you come back to the house so that we can live our lives together.  The way we were meant to.”

“I don’t—”  Kaiba started.

“Do not call my bluff, Kaiba.  You really don’t feel sorry about any of this?”  Joey waved his arms, gesturing at everything.

“… I…” Kaiba looked out at the vast city below, glowing electric with holograms and New Year’s decorations.

“You don’t have to say it.  The best apology is shaping up.  And I know you get it.  I’ve seen you get it.  So please.  Just… was it that bad?  Just being my husband for a few days?”

“No.”  Kaiba refocused, look drilling into Joey.  “I regret allowing you to labor under the assumption that our relationship was not important to me.  That you were not the brightest light in my life.”

Finally, achingly slow and gentle, Kaiba tilted his head down and pressed a kiss to Joey’s forehead.

“I cannot promise that it will never happen again.  But I can promise that I am not giving up on us.”

Fin.

[softbiker]

Agent 14 Oneshot

Warnings: maybe a couple bad words

Word count: 2.6k

A/N: While this is a continuation of the Steve x Agent 14 series, this particular installment has...almost no Steve lol. Just wanted to warn people before I get in trouble for that. It does, however, feature Agents 41 and 28 (from series written by @nacho-bucky​ and @kentuckybarnes​ )! Also, I plan on expanding and posting the full “menu” of custom drinks that 14 makes for her friends, so stay tuned for that! As always, enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

She squeals when the ad pops up as she’s scrolling through Instagram.

There it is, in all its glory, right between yet another engagement photo and a “no filter” celebrity selfie.

The S’mores Frappucino.

A towering frozen swirl of sweet vanilla and creamy milk chocolate, topped with the most mouth-watering promise of all: marshmallow whipped cream. And all of it dusted with a generous sprinkle of crushed graham cracker pieces. It’s enough to make 41 want to lick her phone screen.

With a flailing little backwards somersault, she rolls herself off the couch and bounds down the hallway towards Clint’s room, tie-dye socks slipping on the freshly polished floors.

“Guess what season it is?” She flings the door open with one hand, brandishing her phone in the other, her grin nearly splitting her face as she bounces up on her toes, eager to see his reaction - only to pull up short, a soft frown dragging her lips back down. The room is empty.

“Tweets?” 41 glances around the room, taking stock of the discarded socks and inside-out jeans littering the floor, a pair of her own boots flung to one corner, a plush sea turtle smiling at her from the bed. There’s a Sharing Size bag of peanut M&M’s on the nightstand, next to an open can of Red Bull, leaving a ring on the cover of last month’s Men’s Health which he’d permanently borrowed from Sam. She looks up at the ceiling - typically he leaves a vent open as a point of entry if he’s been…exploring up there. But no dice. Their vent remains screwed in place.

Shoving her phone in the front pocket of her hoodie, she backtracks towards the kitchen, rounding the corner from the hallway and sliding into the room Risky Business-style. A blazing mid-morning sun floods the room with light through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off of the metalwork backsplash and casting sparkles across the empty table. Hands on her hips, she huffs to herself, wondering where he’s run off to, before the clinking of glass bottles catches her attention.

Sticking up from the open door of the fridge is a vaguely familiar yoga-panted ass, waving in the air as its owner rummages through the shelves and drawers, muttering under her breath.

“Nat?” The red curls bounce in her ponytail as she stands at the sound of 41’s voice.

“Oh, hey, kid,” Nat smiles, propping a hand on her hip. If she’s at all bothered by the fact that her friend and coworker just got an eyeful of her backside, she hides it all with a poker face she probably mastered in super spy kindergarten. “What are you up to?”

“Just looking for Clint.” 41 pouts. She shifts her weight to one leg, scratching at her ankle with the toe of one sock. “You haven’t seen him have you?”

Natasha’s eyebrows flicker up as she closes the refrigerator with her hip.

“Oh - he didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“The boys are all out for the day,” she sighs, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “Some kind of belated bachelor party for Tony - even though he’s been married for a year, he said he missed out on the experience; so he kidnapped all of our male counterparts for the day.” Nat shrugs one shoulder, smirking. “Frankly the concept seems outdated - and sexist. But when has Tony ever listened to me?”

Nat notices the way her shoulders fall, the way her hands roll up inside the sleeves of her hoodie. Poor thing. And she’d come in here looking so excited, too; now her frown settles too deeply at the corners of her lips, eyes cast somewhere on the floor. Abandoning her search for a snack, Nat slides onto a bar stool at the island, propping her chin in one hand.

“You have any plans for today?” she prompts. She’ll deny it till her dying day, but the formerly made-of-marble assassin feels…soft at her core now. No, not her abs - her backflips are as tight as ever; but somewhere behind her ribs, deeper than her muscles, there’s a marshmallowy give to her now - the press of fingers could leave a dent on her.

And that’s why, God help her, she couldn’t stand the sight of 41’s frown. Couldn’t endure the downcast disappointment in her gaze. Couldn’t walk away from her halfhearted, sighing shrug.

“Not really,” 41 mumbles, licking her bottom lip. “I was just gonna see if Clint wanted to go get Starbucks with me. They’ve got the S’mores drink now.”

Pulling her phone from where it’s tucked into the waistband of her yoga pants, Nat quickly swipes through her messages and pulls up a group chat named ‘No Boys Allowed’.

I’m so gonna regret this, she thinks, but she types up her proposal anyway and taps send. Time to assemble.

 ***********                                                                                                  

The bell over the door dings cheerfully, and 14 fights her inner groan long enough to yell over her shoulder, “Welcome to Starbucks!” She doesn’t turn from the drink in her hands, too afraid of spilling the milk (again) and having to remake this caramel macchiato. Gaze intent on the cup in her hands, she drizzles the sides with caramel, watching the sticky sweet goop glide down the walls of the cup. Satisfied that this should meet the customer’s request for “extra, extra caramel”, she reaches for her milk jug, glancing up from the machine where her espresso shots are queueing.

41 waves ecstatically when she meets her gaze over the espresso machine, a suspiciously casual Nat smirking over her shoulder. Wanda is following close behind them, hands shoved in the pockets of a denim jacket, despite the summer heat. Maria is already standing in front of the register, eyeing the menu, with 28 next to her, a pair of dark sunglasses pushed up on top of her head.

14 blinks.

With quick, nimble fingers, she finishes the drink in front of her and sets it up on the mobile order stand, awaiting the customer. Chase, the barista who should be covering front, is nowhere to be seen; but she doesn’t have any other drinks waiting, so she strides up to the register, tilting a curious brow at her friends.

“Ladies,” 14 smiles, tilting her head to one side. “This is…a nice surprise? A kidnapping? A mission?”

“Relax,” Maria says, punctuated with a good-natured eye roll. “We’re just here for the coffee.”

“Oh, sure,” 14 crosses her arms, leaning a hip against the front counter. “You guys are a little short-staffed, aren’t you? Where’s all the testosterone?”

“Looking for a certain star-spangled specimen?” Nat pipes up. Their group has clustered around the register in a close semicircle. “Boys’ day out. Some kind of adventure that will probably land Tony in the doghouse…but then again, he’s partying with a couple centenarians, so how bad could it be?”

“You’d be surprised,” 28 mutters with a quirk of her eyebrows.

In front of a group of super spies, superheroes, and super intelligent women, 14 fights to put on the best poker face she’s ever had in her life. At the mention of Steve - as well as the news he wouldn’t be joining them - Nat watches her closely; the only sign of her disappointment is the way she purses her lips, eyes flicking towards the door as though she might prove them wrong. And then it’s gone, her eyes turning back to her friends, a beaming, nose-scrunching smile fixed on her face.

“That sounds awful,” she giggles. “But very on-brand for Tony.”

A chorus of assent from the ladies, rolling their eyes and scoffing at the endless supply of evidence they have to that fact.

“Alright so…what can I get you?” 14 prompts. As much as she’d like to stand here, chatting with her friends, she’s still on the clock for another hour and a half - and there’s work to be done. Maybe it stings, chafes her heart a little, that this little outing doesn’t quite include her; that she’ll make their drinks and then they’ll leave, and then more drinks for more people for the rest of her shift. But these customers are more pleasant than most, and it’s not as though she won’t see them later, so she shoves down her insecurity and taps at the screen of the register, opening her till.

“Well we were thinking…” Wanda starts, glancing at Natasha. The two share an amused smirk that 14 doesn’t like at all. “…that maybe you could surprise us?”

“Except me!” 41 raises her hand, bouncing up on the balls of her feet. “I haven’t had a S’mores yet this year, I need one! Please?”

Stunned, 14 looks around the group, cocking one eyebrow.

“So…one S’mores, and then - you all want to be surprised?” What a request - she didn’t trust anyone to make a drink for her…that could really backfire.

“Well, you know us,” Nat shrugged. “You know what we like, what we hate, what we won’t drink…”

“Besides, it never hurts to try something new,” Maria smirks.

Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, a slow smile spreads across 14’s face.

“Alright, ladies, say no more-”

It takes her little more than a minute to line up her plan, squinting at each of her friends in concentration, a Sharpie poised to mark each cup, labeled with a name in her characteristic block-print scrawl. They crane their necks over the tops of the machines, trying to see behind the bar and guess what she’s whipping up back there. Ingredients flit through her hands, shaken into one cup, then exchanged for something else for the next. Syrups, cinnamon, juices, toppings. They try and fail to keep it all straight from one cup to the next, but she’s too fast, hands reaching between two drinks at once.

Finally, with a last look over her shoulder, goofily sticking her tongue from the corner of her mouth, she piles 41’s coveted marshmallow whip on top of her drink and sprinkles the graham cracker topping with a generous hand. 41 barely contains her squeal as she grabs 28’s elbow and points at it.

“That one’s mine! Doesn’t it look amazing?”

One by one, she lines up the drinks at the end of the bar, turning the cups so each name is properly shown.

“Alright, so what am I in for?” Maria cautiously waves her drink under her nose, letting the steam waft up from the small opening in the lid. Hers is a hot drink, its contents concealed in a thick paper cup proudly bearing the same green logo as its cardboard sleeve.

“I thought you wanted to be surprised?” 14 smirks, sliding 41’s frappucino across the bar into her glitter-nailed hands. 28 grabs hers as well, a refreshingly cold…something - she plunges in a straw and swirls the ice as she examines the pale pink color of the drink.

“Well, bottoms up girls,” Nat shrugs, inspecting the layer of foam on top of her drink before raising it to her lips. Wanda taps her cup with 41’s before tipping hers up as well. Standing behind the bar, a rag in her hands, 14 gnaws on her lip as she watches them sip her creations. She shifts her feet as she waits for the verdict.

“Wow.” Wanda’s brows shoot up, tongue flicking over her lip. “This is really good.”

“Yeah,” Maria agrees, going in for her second taste.

“Don’t know why you sound surprised,” 41 says around her straw and a mouthful of whipped cream. “Everything she makes is delicious.”

“Oh, thanks,” 14 brushes off the compliments with a one-shouldered shrug. “If you like it I’ll give you the recipe, so you can order it again?”

Various noises of agreement, all enthusiastic, all from full mouths. She smiles, grabs a blank receipt paper from the register and a pen from the pocket of her apron.

“Okay, so yours Wanda is a double dirty chai with cinnamon…”

  ***********                                                                                                  

Folding her apron over one arm, 14 releases her hair from its butterfly clip and reaches for her backpack. She keeps a spare change of clothes folded neatly in the bottom, in case she has to run errands after work and can’t go out covered in coffee and syrup. The bathroom is empty and she ducks inside, slipping into a pair of cutoff shorts and and a tie-dye t-shirt; her faithful sneakers can make it through work and life, thankfully, so she wiggles her feet back into them, not bothering to untie the laces.

It’s been a long day. And a glance at her watch tells her it’s only…1:09 p.m.

Backpack on one shoulder, sunglasses perched on her head, she makes her way back out of the café, pausing at the end of the bar to get her drink.

“Here, girl.” Jade, the barista who made her drink, smiles as she hands her a straw. “You look like you need this.”

“I feel like I need this.” 14 smiles back as she jams her straw into the cup and takes the first sip. Iced blonde americano, 2 pumps toffee nut, a splash of sweet cream. She makes a small noise of pleasure - hits the spot every time.

“See you tomorrow!” she waves to her coworkers as she backs out the door, dropping her sunglasses down to her face as she steps into the unrelenting summer sun. Not two steps out the door, turning to the street, and she nearly bumps into-

“Nat?”

“Hey, long time no see.” Nat wiggles her fingers in a mocking little wave. The rest of their posse is clustered around a couple of bistro tables haphazardly shoved together outside the café.

“What…you guys are still here?” 14 cocks her head to the side. It’s been over an hour and a half at least, their drinks are sitting empty on the tables in front of them. She had assumed they’d be long gone.

“Well, duh,” 41 grins. “We’re going to lunch! And then - oh, we should get pedicures!”

“Oh, can we go to that new Thai place?” Wanda asks, leaning her elbows on the table. “It’s only a couple blocks down from here.”

“God, the things I would do for some egg rolls right about now-” Maria agrees, patting her stomach.

They start to stand from their tables, the metal chairs scraping loudly against concrete, and 28 gathers the empty cups to throw away in the trash cans next to the door. The group shuffles and chatters, eager at the prospect of lunch; purses and wallets are snatched up, phones tucked back into pockets. Wanda leads the way as they march off in pursuit of pad thai and egg rolls, the rest of the group falling in behind her on the sidewalk. Even in the early afternoon heat, they link arms and laugh and stand too close together, sharing giggles and gossip.

Nat lightly bumps 14 with her shoulder, her green eyes gone pale and glittering in the sun.

“You didn’t really think we’d eat and run on you?” she smirks. “Come on, I’m starving.”

14 ducks her head and grins.

“Just one second-” she says, sliding her phone from her back pocket. She snaps a picture of her drink, then smiles at Nat. “Okay, now we’re good.”

Nat rolls her eyes.

“Wow, that was so basic-”

“Shut up.”

A few minutes later, sitting in a blessedly air-conditioned Thai restaurant, she captions the photo ‘new drink for you to try next time - I highly recommend it’ and hits send.

Somewhere across town, shoved cheek by jowl with his buddies in the back of a stretch limo, the interior vibrating with music and lit with flashing LEDs, a super soldier smiles at his phone.

[deathsteel]

This Ain't a Scene Its a Goddamn Drag Race

~Part Two~

Castiel woke up the next morning to the sound of the show's security guys stationed in the hallways changing shifts. He tried to block out the sound of their chit-chatting by burying his face in his pillow, but ultimately failed when they burst into raucous laughter right outside his doorway. With a groan he dragged himself out of bed and towards the bathroom; might as well get a run in before the production staff descended on them so they could film the reaction shots to last night’s elimination.

There wasn’t much about being on a reality show that Castiel would call ‘glamorous’, but filming the practically scripted confessional segments after each elimination and mini-challenge was probably the most degrading thing that Castiel had ever done in his entire life. And he’d once been talked into ripping open bags of trash all over himself during a show by his drag mother. Needless to say, performance art and lying to the public at large were not his favorite activities.

He’d gotten into a huge fight with one of the producers early on about how staged some of the things on the show were and it was probably why he’d been struggling his way up from the bottom since the very first episode. But luckily Gabby was very adamant about preserving what he called “the integrity of the process” and basically ignored the producers when they tried to steer him towards favoring a certain contestant.

That didn’t mean that the host was around all the time so the execs still got their dose of drama to satiate the audience, regardless of whether the rivalries between the queens were genuine or not. In actuality, Castiel liked most of the others, even Luc and Michael at times had been funny when the cameras were off, but he wasn’t about to delude himself into thinking they were best buddies. Not even Balthazar who had quite obviously been flirting with him the night before right in front of Charlie, one of the less anal PAs, who had been assigned to watch them for the evening. And definitely not Kevin who only lived an hour away in Olympia and treated him like the drag mother he’d always wanted.

Not to say it wasn’t tempting, both Balthazar’s lasciviousness and Kevin’s overtures of friendship, but Castiel wasn’t going to be the next Willam or Latrice Royale; being a slut and a saint hadn’t gotten either of those two queens the crown. And that was what all of this was about, right?

He was plagued by these thoughts as he headed down to the hotel’s indoor gym and put a couple of miles behind him on the treadmill, staring at his own reflection in the mirrors that lined the walls because he wasn’t allowed to turn on the T.V. that was mounted in one corner of the room. Castiel honestly would’ve done it just to spite his contract if he could (because he was dying to find out about some gossip that was centered on anyone besides himself) but Hael, one of the show’s interns, was there with him; ‘keeping an eye on him’ while really tapping away at her phone.

If Hael was a man, Castiel would flirt a little, trail his fingers up the inside of a thigh and BAM! He’d have instant access to being able to call his mom or text his sister or god above, check TMZ. He just knew in his gut that Rihanna had done something since he had been locked up in this rhinestone studded prison for the last month.

But Hael was a woman and even though she eyed his biceps when Castiel was doing half-hearted pushups as part of his cooldown, the thought of whoring himself out for five minutes with an iPhone kinda made him nauseous. Or that could’ve been the mini bottles of vodka he’d been slamming back with Raphael, Kev, and Charlie last night as they’d eaten delivered pizza in Kevin’s hotel suite. Balthazar had stuck to nursing a beer, amused by their antics, but otherwise aloof in the way that Castiel thought only took away from the other man’s attractiveness.

Now that his head was pounding from both his workout and his hangover, Castiel understood why the Brit hadn’t indulged like the rest of them. That strategic, wormy, sexy bastard.

By the time Castiel had made it back to his room, he could see a room service tray being delivered to Luc’s room and another on the floor already outside of Balthazar’s, so at least the other queens were up and about. They’d probably have to leave soon to go back to the studio and Castiel resigned himself to a fast shower and a shave instead of the long, leisurely one he’d intended to jerk off in.

Whatever, he’d just do it later.

Today they’d just be shooting reaction scenes based on last night’s elimination and doing the mini-challenge which wasn’t exhausting, but they never knew what the mini-challenge was going to be so you definitely had to have your wits about you. Castiel definitely did not have much of anything about him at the moment, but he planned on phoning it in for the mini-challenge since it wasn’t likely to affect him too much if he lost whatever little advantage the win would get him.

By the time he had finished changing into a well-loved pair of dark wash jeans and a faded black polo shirt and popped his medication, Castiel was already exhausted. So when one of the PAs pounded on his door and called a ten minute warning for him to be ready or else, Castiel just sighed at the dark circles under his eyes and his messy unstyled hair before shrugging and snagging some sunglasses and a baseball cap out of his suitcase and heading out the door with his shoes untied.

Castiel rode in sullen silence with Luc again mostly because he was the last one to make it downstairs to the waiting towncars, but also because he was the only one of the queens who could stand Luc’s morning routine of picking at his fingernails and muttering obscenities under his breath.

As soon as all of the queens were herded into the studio, wardrobe descended on them like a plague of locusts; tugging at their street clothes and strapping mics around their waists until all of the queens were dressed in their ‘confessional outfits’.

When Castiel had finally gotten the official word that he had been chosen as one Drag Race’s contestants, he had been mailed a two inch thick envelope containing a contact that Castiel had signed without even reading, a list of “suggested” items that he needed to bring for the challenges, and instructions to bring at least two to three weeks of casual clothing to include one outfit that would be used for filming purposes.

At the time Castiel hadn’t known that he was going to be parted from his favorite blue cardigan for literal months, not even allowed to take it back to the hotel with him because the wardrobe crew was scared he would spill something on it that they couldn’t get out. If he had, he would have just let them film him in one of his thrift store t-shirts and cut offs. But now he had to wear his most beloved, comfy cardigan along with a grey button down and skinny jeans two to three times a week, every week, to record his thoughts about the competition’s goings-ons.

The wardrobe crew didn't ever mess with his hair and they mostly didn’t bother putting makeup on any of them unless they looked REALLY rough, but most importantly, the outfits never ever changed. Today, Castiel got some concealer for the bags under his eyes and blush for the pallor that had settled over him due to his hangover.

It took Kevin an embarrassingly long time to understand that the reason behind wearing the same outfit for every confessional was because the producers wanted to splice footage from different days together so that they could create drama by taking things out of context. Castiel had no illusions about the fact that he probably looked like an asshole to most of America right now based on some of the things he had said during confessionals. A witty asshole with a penchant for lighting-fast one liners, but a dick nonetheless.

Castiel was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as they set up the footage for him from the last few days, everything from the main challenge to the elimination runway to the behind the scenes or “Untucked” bits where they forced watered-down cocktails into the queens’ hands and then had them be gossipy bitches or start catfights. If the producers were feeling particularly sadistic they would get one of the contestant's homophobic family members to record a heartfelt, ‘private’ message that would then be played in front of everyone.

It was voyeuristic in probably the worst possible way and Castiel had decided that he would sooner get his wig snatched off by being shady than cry off his makeup if they managed to get his estranged father to apologize for calling Castiel a ‘fucking f*ggot’ when he was ten and had caught him with purple nail polish on after having a friend over to play.

He usually just read people during the Untucked segments and so far that’s what he had been doing during the confessionals as well; the camera girls seemed to think he was funny and the producers hadn’t caught on that the Drag Race version of Holly Cummunion was a sarcastic, shady act so he’d keep it up until Gabby or someone else called him on his shit. This week though, he had been uncharacteristically honest- probably because he was tired.

He even complimented Luc’s runway outfit for Christ’s sakes so he must have been feeling extra charitable.

The only good thing about filming the confessional scenes was that nothing else was being filmed at the same time. It meant that at least three of the queens could be filmed doing confessionals all at once because it’s not like the cameras were busy filming anything else. With so few queens left they finished filming everything by lunchtime and after a quick change back to their street clothes and a stop by craft services the queens were scattered casually around the workroom by the production assistants and then left to wait until Gabby showed up.

One time the host had arrived an hour late with Starbucks and a hickey the size of a mid-sized principality on the underside of his jaw. The queens had shared amused looks before going on to do the funnest mini-challenge of the season so far; a matching game that used the butts of the Pit Crew as cards. Castiel suspected that he hadn’t been the only queen flustered by the glistening abs and generous bulges of the Pit Crew in their speedos, but for the sake of Sam and Zeke (Gabby’s two regular Pit Crew men who’d, of course, participated in the challenge as well) Castiel had tried his best not to ogle too much even though he was going through the driest, dry spell of the century.

After being allowed back into his comfy polo and jeans by wardrobe, Castiel let himself be placed at one of the workroom tables with Raphael who was filing his fingernails in the most bored way possible. Castiel kept his sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt just in case the studio lights made his already throbbing head any worse, but after glancing in a mirror he decided his hair was fucked no matter what he did so he discarded his ball cap on top of his makeup case and let it be free.

The production assistants were distracted by last minute adjustments so Castiel snuck a glance at Charlie, who was coaxing Kevin and Luc into sharing a mirror since they were both plucking their eyebrows, before he quickly fetched one of his styling heads; the one sporting the ratted up platinum blonde wig that Castiel had styled for the white-trash chic challenge a couple weeks before. He planned on using whatever downtime he had to finally brush the snarls out so he could use it again for something else.

“Alright guys, everyone good?” Charlie asked, doing a thumbs up around the room as she tugged the headphones that she usually wore while filming back onto her ears. “Great, Gabe should be here in five so you all know the drill. Chat, look busy, just act natural.”

Raphael let out a derisive little scoff under his breath but otherwise continued shaping his fingernails and acting like Castiel didn’t exist. But that was pretty natural so Castiel didn’t bother questioning it, instead choosing to joke loudly with Balthazar from across the room about what the upcoming challenge could possibly be.

“Maybe Gabby’s interested in checking out the tightness of our tuck,” Balthazar quipped, winking in Kevin’s direction when the younger queen started giggling.

“Oh, well bless Connie for leaving then,” Castiel replied, referring to another queen, Connie Lingus, who had bowed out of the competition due to medical issues. “That girl had the meatiest tuck I’d ever seen.”

“Well, did you ever see her dragged down?” Raphael interjected, still focused on his nails. “Gave the phrase ‘hung like a horse’ a whole new meaning, baby.”

“I think Gabby has more important things to worry about than our tucks,” Luc drawled in a bored, disinterested kinda way.

He was making conversation to get air time and all the assembled queens knew it; Castiel just barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes and that was only because there was a cameraman hovering at his elbow as he brushed out his wig.

“Hells yea she does,” Kevin piped leaning back from the mirror to smooth down both of his eyebrows with a critical gaze on his reflection. “Like check out the tightness of the Pit Crew! Can I get an ay-men!?”

All the girls let out an ay-men, some less enthusiastically than others, but it happened to coincide perfectly with the now tell-tale sign of Gabby’s impending arrival. Well, it probably wasn't a coincidence, nothing about TV ever was.

‘Ooooh, gurl!’ The hidden speakers in the workroom blared to life with the sign for Gabby’s message that would contain a hint about the upcoming elimination challenge. ‘You’ve got she-male!’

[illicitivywp]

thigh

part one 

"Take another picture and I swear, I will kill you."

His empty threat strings a melodious giggle from your throat, powered greatly by the three or four flutes of bubbly champagne you had earlier enjoyed, "don't be grumpy, Harry," recently, it's become your favourite pastime; teasing him relentlessly over his grouchy tendencies. 

Fire crackles calmly, contained securely in a pit, placed efficiently in the centre of where your friends chat and sip alcoholic beverages.

"I'm not grumpy. Delete the pictures."

You hum in faux thought, cinching your lips to one side and twisting to face him and subsequently irritate him further, "no, I don't think I will."

He raises an eyebrow in challenge, allowing his head to rest lazily against the cushion he had nabbed from your own chair before you even got the chance, "you will."

"Will I?" raising your phone to snap yet another picture of him, he frowns dramatically, presumably with the purpose to ruin any future plans of more photos, one which you still intend on following through, "what if I posted them on Instagram, huh? What then?"

"Then, you die."

"That is so truly terrifying," honestly, the ruthless humidity of the previous few days holds more terror than his hollow, dismissive tone, but for every word that you're uttering enthusiastically, he's not relaxing peacefully with creamy sand wiggling between his toes, and he grows only more and more irritated. Despite the absence of seriousness behind his indignation, he will genuinely consider murder if you don't finally retire in your determination to piss him off. So far, you're successful, but he won't admit that. His narcissism, whilst newly embraced as part of his inept personality and often subjected to self-deprecating jokes whilst on stage, is far too considerable for him to submit to your attempts that easily.

"If you post any of these..." his cheekbone pokes curiously at his creamy skin as his jaw shifts to allow his tongue to transport the wad of fresh mint gum from one concave of his cheek to the other, "I will throw your phone into the sea. And then, maybe you."

"You're feeling extra murderous today, aren't you? Not get laid last night?" you suggest a potential reason for his uncharacteristic irritability tonight with a quirked eyebrow and mischievous smile curled onto your glossed lips. Although the late evening dew of the air is rather unbearable at times, the temperature is pleasurably mild - certainly warm enough to constitute several cooled beers and decisions of short shorts, not a single sleeve anywhere in sight.

Tonight is your blessing of relaxation after a lackadaisical day spent between lounging lazily in the sun and dodging burns, stumbling over your limited knowledge of the complicated Greek language in bids to order a fresh soda or peanut butter ice cream (both which are, luckily, one tiny section of your all-inclusive holiday) and visiting various quaint cafes in groups, where you had already formed a sort of signature of trying the baklava from every food establishment you hit in a flippant attempt to discover the best recipe.

His glare is lethal, even through the costly sunglasses beginning to ski along the attractive slope of his nose, undeterred by his knuckle nudging the bridge back into place barely two minutes prior, "no."

"No?"

"No, I didn't, but also that's not why I'm pissed."

"I thought you weren't?" you smile luminously at the opportunity to simultaneously slip him up on his previous claim and, as it appears, irritate him further, "c'mon, H. Why're you so mad today?"

He sighs a puff out of his nose, scrunching it up like he often does subconsciously, "you really want to know why I'm feeling so angry?" he glances in your general direction, though it flies far over your shoulder and seems to focus on something of his interest in the distance, most likely located somewhere on the vast innocence of the beach that is often shadowed by the towering hotel where you and your friends are currently residing during your month-long trip.

"Please, enlighten me."

"It's because..." he leans forward, gesturing for you to follow with a flick of his index finger, indicating a private matter, "this really, really noisy, annoying girl won't stop taking pictures of me whilst I'm trying to relax." 

Your expression flattens, faking an impartial expression and hoping the quirk of your lips, forcing them into a momentary smile, is simply a hallucination, produce of the alcohol floating casually through your usually organised thoughts and jumbling them wildly. However, a tipsy giggle slips free regardless, "at least I'm successful in pissing you off."

"Remind why I invited you to Mykonos again?"

Although he's acting displeased at your disruptive presence, you do manage to spot a small smile of bemusement before he turns intentionally away, "because you love me," you shrug nonchalantly, and Harry can't help but notice how the bulbs glowing brilliantly behind you form an angelic inverted shadow of warmth, reflecting naturally from the leftover champagne smeared over your lips. 

"Hm, do I?”

"Why else would you let me do this?" grasping his wrist before it rises instinctively to block your attack, you launch from your personal seat with a pure laugh at his inability to hold his burst of comical chuckles any longer the second you come to rest peacefully, one foot supporting your balance by the floor and the other pointed highly as the respective knees each pause - beside his lowly slouched hip and between his thighs. Your own hands raise in time with his; you click another blurry picture of him and he playfully pushes at your stomach, "see! You just love me."

"That's debatable. Mitch, can you control her?" he laughs brazenly at your faux objection, appearing to have emerged from his earlier mystery of irritation - although you'd love to know the genuine cause, you would much rather mess around with the Harry you see every day. 

Mitch chuckles, a reasonably rare sight despite his contempt with life, "I'm already struggling with Sarah, she's probably way too drunk right now," for this breezy comment, he receives a light smack to the arm from Sarah beside him. Her ankles are crossed comfortably and hanging loosely over his legs, and as adorable as they currently look, she is certainly way too drunk and practically dropping off to sleep, aided by the reassuring flames trickling from the pit separating us and the countless alcoholic drinks she had consumed in a brief period of the last few hours. 

"Can you just get off me? You're heavy," Harry tries again, lying straight through his teeth because, as it seems to be turning out, he's not so opposed to you claiming a place atop his thigh, and he surely doesn't mind the shortness of your shorts that he hadn't quite noticed before, "please."

Your hips sway instinctively as you pause foolishly for thought, and his fingers itch around his cool beer bottle to grip onto your waist and set you down much, much closer than your previous (strictly friendly) interactions would imply. Eventually, you smile shamelessly at his unsettled request, lowering yourself gradually until the denim hem of your shorts brushes his

skin and electrifies a taunting shiver along his spine, almost as if you're entirely aware of your actions and their consequential effects. 

Dipping forward, his jaw is already mentally loosened to the floor, and you assist him in flipping it into reality; your thumb digs gently into the acute impression of his cheekbone and your fingers wrap steadily around his jaw, shimmering palm covering his chin and essentially silencing him. "No," your playful whisper worms its path languidly through his hazy thought process, the faint feeling of your free fingers tilting forward into his mouth clutching his wrist tightly and yanking him unwillingly back to present day. Once here, however, his eyebrows furrow in irritation yet again - your entire display, intentional or not, had been a ruse to pluck his half-chewed gum right from between his slick lips. 

Instinctively, (he kind of hopes, too) his teeth clamp together strongly before you can rip your fingers away, not enough to seriously injure you but definitely sufficient to shock you into a melodious giggle, "that's mine," he states blankly, waiting with much more patience than any normal human would have remaining with you at this point.

"No, it's not," your grin is utterly infuriating, yet radiant enough to set alight to an urge Harry's felt a fair few times, one that - up until now, it seems - hasn't quite slipped into the state of insatiability. Frequently, during your relatively common drunken nights out, he's had one or six too many drinks and you just look so incredible, so inviting, practically begging him to utilise any part of his body to pleasure you, even just to kiss you. 

Unfortunately for him, however, you've never expressed any interest in him aside from platonic cuddles during your harder breakups or holding hands with the purpose of deterring any creeping men who may, like he had a pathetically long time ago, admire your effortless beauty, which often results in Harry sat sullenly with his chin in his palm, ignoring any attempts to chat to him and viewing you from afar, silently cherishing your incandescent smile and silly dance moves. It also, most of the time, ends in you gaining a meaningful interaction with some random guy who Harry always wordlessly disapproves of but remains quiet on his opinions for your happiness, whilst Harry usually returns home either directly from whatever club or party or shamefully calls his personal driver to pick him up from whoever stranger's bedroom he finds himself inside. 

The only pacification that appears to work successfully in tearing his focus away from you is the few lasting relationships he's experienced; enjoyably, of course. He's even been in love once or twice, but the one connection that seems to endure any test - crazed fans, endless months of touring, even the brutal argument that followed shortly after he had darted any instruction you had given him and sought out and punched an ex-boyfriend who had laid his hands on you once, and that was once too much for Harry - is yours. 

"Give it back," his demand is so stern you consider obeying for a brisk moment, although after an agile deliberation, you follow your original plan and pop the gum directly on your own tongue, chewing it complacently a total of twice before he recreates your gesture.

His movements are much rougher, stronger, and considerably quicker; he squeezes your cheeks correctly and physically forces your lips to part, glaring candidly straight into your eyes when he snatches one end of the stretched gum, luckily hooked onto your canine and reassuring an easy job. In spite of his inept advantage in terms of tenacity, you had readily prepared for a fight, ensuring to grasp his jaw until the gum was resting triumphantly in your palm. 

His first mistake is releasing you before shifting his hand safely with the gum away, allowing your teeth, much like his own had, to clench down, catching the end of the mint instead of his fingers.

His second mistake is refusing to surrender his rescue attempt, inefficiently stringing it along rather than stealing it directly from between your teeth, now wrapped around the tip of your tongue.

His third mistake is maintaining eye contact...for him, at least. You're giggling drunkenly though your bite, emotionally unaffected by your proximity. 

You shift above him, and whilst you don't particularly feel how smoothly your legs fit with his, you do notice the jolt of hormones swirling through your bloodstream and the subsequent uncomfort deep inside of your tummy. Simply, you're horny, and, naturally, you attribute it to the champagne. 

His first score is regaining his sense swiftly after your slip, observing dazedly that you appear to spend a little more time caught in your head, and he wonders absently if you feel it, too. 

His second score is gathering his wits enough to squeeze once on your jaw, prying it open once again and victoriously unhooking the gum from your tooth, all before your thoughts regulate.

His third, and final, score is preserving his grip and testing his strength by repositioning your head until it levels flatly with his and twisted away from him, placing his velvet lips right beside your ear. He tucks an escapee strand away, his touch so feathery that it animates unexplainable shivers across your skin, raising goosebumps across your lower arms that are instantly noticed by Harry and earn a confident smirk; maybe, you are interested. 

You're partly oblivious to the atmosphere created around you, whilst Harry is so aware, it's already beginning to hurt. 

Disregarding the thin denim of your shorts that intervenes his bare thigh, clothed only in boxers and a white t-shirt due to the soaring heat, and your pleasure, your warmth is prevalent; he almost allows his eyes to roll backwards when he feels it, and he just can’t control himself for much longer. 

Inadvertently brushing his lips against your ear, he exhales, “you know I can feel you, right?” Your expression softens into confusion, a half-hearted plea that he’ll consider being mistaken and pretend that this entire situation never existed, “what? Did you think I couldn’t?” His tone is so low and mean that a heavy swallow constricts your throat, causing him to almost laugh lightly at your abrupt plunge of realisation, “you think you can sit right there, on my thigh, and I wouldn’t be able to feel you throbbing? Poor baby--”

“Stop,” it’s a pathetic whisper, little to absolutely no conviction roaring behind it because, for the first time in a while, you’re recognising that you don’t really want him to stop. 

“Stop?” he repeats your doubtful obstruction, an attractive chuckle hidden beneath his overly condescending voice, “do you really want that?”

His eyes twinkle with your hesitation, his lips parted just enough to allow his bunny teeth to poke out, and you’re considering your answer hurriedly; do you want that? Do you want him? Flustered, you glance towards Mitch and Sarah for an excuse to protest, disappointed yet strangely excited to find that they must’ve taken off back to their hotel room, leaving you entirely alone with Harry.

“I--” as fast as you had realised your privacy, a distinctive, drunken cackle of laughter disrupts, your stinging focus flipping speedily from his offer to your friends returning. 

Mitch’s arm is slung loosely around Sarah’s shoulder, tugging her closer when she giggles at the ticklish feeling of his relatively lengthy hair resting on her upper back. They reappear with fresh beers held in their wobbly hands, clearly oblivious to the situation they’re interrupting as they greet you with a nod of acknowledgement before flopping cheerfully into their chair.

In spite of their unexpected reentry, Harry’s bold determination doesn’t waver, “if you want me to stop, just say,” it’s another nudge of encouragement, challenging your temporary reluctance, all of which melts like ice cream dripping from his tongue when his thigh shifts purposefully beneath you and he mouths inaudibly, “quiet.” Your chest is already rising shallowly, stealing large gulps of oxygen to prevent an absence; your core pulses in replacement for the gasp that would naturally escape if you weren’t in literal public, right in front of your friends, no less. 

“Harry, have you heard from Harris?” Mitch calls out, entirely impartial to the connection between you. 

He glances over, simultaneously pushing up his sunglasses to rest in his messy nest of curls and retrieving his beer from the round table beside you, “yeah, they called earlier. They’re arriving at like... five in the morning, I’m pretty sure - said they’ll text when they land, though.” 

He moves again, clearing his throat inconspicuously and straightening his body a little when your muted whimper punctuates the friction he creates, explicitly grazing the fabric of your shorts against your clit. Mitch hums in affirmation, “what’s the name of that restaurant? The one we’re going to tomorrow?” 

“Um, Aggie’s, I think,” his free leg bounces restlessly, the several rings adorning his slender fingers clinking with the glass in his palms, “about five minutes away. ‘s got good breakfast foods, maybe we should go earlier,” he suggests evenly; if you weren’t the one struggling to silence your moans at the hands of his expertise in women’s pleasure, you would assume he’s completely unaffected. 

“Nine?”

“If you think I can be out of bed and functioning by nine…” Sarah heckles his proposition, causing everyone, with the exception of yourself, to chuckle in agreement. 

Harry’s eyes connect fiercely with yours as he raises his beer to steal a brief sip, his thigh beginning to deviate from peace at a faster pace, and you grit your teeth into a smile when he recklessly drives his muscles upwards a little to apply additional pressure to your sensitivity. When your eyelids flutter closed at the inconceivable rush of pleasure, he snaps his attention away and hides his smirk behind his bottle. 

“Ten, then,” Mitch proposes humorously, and Harry nods gradually in confirmation. 

“Is ten okay for you?” you require a beat or two to realise that his question, accompanied by a smug smile and glimmering eyes, is directed towards you. It places all attention on you suddenly, and the struggle of withholding your whines and charming sighs, knowing that everyone is watching you, mostly unaware of your current battle, heightens unbelievably, 

You nod, silent aside from a gulp of nerves and broken into pieces when he nudges his thigh upwards yet again, “yeah, that sounds great,” you spit out an answer with a faux smile, presuming that to be the single method of preventing his cruel actions from continuing. 

“Fantastic,” he speaks aloud to the group, yet his eyes remain drawn to yours, flickering momentarily to your rosy cheeks and silky lips, “we’ll meet in the lobby at quarter-to,” he surveys your surroundings, particularly where the other’s attention lies currently. 

Apparently, he deems it to be safe to speak quietly to rile you up further. However, you lunge at the opportunity of his distractedness, experimenting discretely and raising your hips slightly from his leg, swiftly clamping your thighs together in a desperate search for relief; the alleviation of pressure you do receive and the pleasure that follows suit is unimaginable. 

Harry disapproves immediately. One, firm squeeze of your waist lands you right back where you had managed to temporarily escape - despite how much you’re enjoying the implication of riding his thigh, (which is utterly insane in itself, you can’t believe you’re genuinely allowing yourself to do this) the pace he’s setting isn’t nearly as fast as you desire. 

His hand glides intently from your hip, grazing over your centre in passing before sliding haltingly along your own thigh. Although they’re about half the size of his, you appear to mold perfectly.

Eventually, his fingertips tap lightly at your knee, slipping beneath to grasp it in one, heavenly palm with incredible ease, physically restraining any potential movement and quashing any hope of relief you foolishly had clung onto like life support, “Harry…” 

“Shh, c’mere,” he whispers lowly, a mischievous glint sparkling in the green of his irises and informing you that he has some sort of plan. You almost moan out when he hits exactly the right spot once, and by the time he figures out a subtle rhythm, nudging your clit with every single shift of his thigh, your own are shivering and your teeth are digging into your bottom lip to the point of pain with the sheer effort of maintaining relative control. 

“I--” you trail off, scrunching up your nose and knitting your feathery eyebrows together, burrowing your nails into the fleshiest part of your palm.

“Hm?” he hums knowingly, removing his hand from your knee and running soft lines along your leg. If you weren’t already trembling from his superficial touch, you certainly would be now. His fingertips travel further towards where your shorts are already displaced an inch or two each time, a wild glance cast over to where your friends sit, unaware and chatting amusedly, secures your fragile safety, “you gonna come, is that it?”

The smugness dripping from his words like honey strings a soft sigh from your lungs, your stomach and fingers quivering visibly as your orgasm approaches rapidly.

You nod in response, squeezing your eyes shut to quell the risk of a stray moan slipping out and humiliating the both of you, but, for Harry, this doesn’t seem to be satisfactory. He requires a spoken answer, and you don’t even have the ability to speak, currently. 

His mellow fingertips finally reach the apex of your thighs, terrifying yet relieving; if he slips his touch anywhere near your bare, warm skin, you surely wouldn’t be able to physically withhold your whines, and yet, you’re silently begging him to disregard that possibility entirely and and rip all of your clothing to shreds right here. 

Deliberately lazily, he slides the fabric covering your center aside, and, as much as he’s craving just the sight of you, he knows that you’re not exactly in the correct mindset to permit him to see anything without liability, so his eyes hover directly on yours. Your eyelids flutter closed in anticipation for his touch and preparing for the unbearable pressure built in your stomach to release shortly.

Expecting warmth, you jolt in surprise and gasp quietly at the iciness of his fresh bottle of beer pressed snugly against your bare skin, risking a timid dredge of your nails along his bicep which flexes with the effort of spreading your legs for him. 

He smiles, satisfied at your reaction, not bothering to focus on you any longer; his forearm runs along the entire length of your thigh, two fingers supporting the bottle and his elbow pushing on your knee as he plucks his phone from the table with his free hand, holding it loosely and without an ounce of care. The prospect of him making you feel this senseless and barely even paying attention to your tiny trembles is driving you dangerously close to the edge. 

“Hey, Mitch,” he speaks normally, catching the attention of everyone and forcing you to quieten to full silence, “what’d you think of the beer?” 

“It’s pretty good - not as good as that one from Madrid, though.”

Sarah chuckles in agreement, “no wonder. Nothing could be better than that.”

“Actually--,” Harry pauses, abruptly removing the bottle from between you, appearing to the others to have been resting innocently on his lap, and raising it. You physically clench your mouth shut tightly when, instead of taking a sip, he tilts his head and, in one, large sweep of his tongue, he cleans your dripping arousal from the glass, smiling angelically in your direction. This time, he does take a small drink of the alcohol you have always preferred to avoid, “tastes really good.” 

Mitch nods in fairness, assuming his comment to be about the beer, but you know better, “I’m definitely not complaining.”

“I think... it might be the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he laughs, as does Harry, and as it seems, Sarah has fallen asleep with her forehead landing on her boyfriend’s shoulder. 

His eyes meet yours yet again, a quirk of his eyebrow implying to lean down, “are you listening?” You nod compliantly, “you’re gonna keep riding my thigh until you come, understand?” 

Jaw clenching as you swallow thickly at his demand, you feel as if you could finish just by the viciousness to his tone, “yes.”

“Good girl, and be quiet about it,” he instructs decisively, frowning slightly when his phone alerts with the buzz of a phone call. At your brisk glimpse, the screen reads Jeff, and you feel somewhat comforted yet horrified at the fact you know the caller personally, because, after all, his client and close friend is about to make you come. “Hi, what’s up?” 

“Harry, have you been on instagram recently?” Jeff sounds seriously concerned, which instantly matches in Harry’s expression; you would mirror his nerves if you weren’t so focused on the pleasure of his bare thigh rubbing against your clit repeatedly. Understandably, you’re a little preoccupied.

“Uh, no, I’ve been out for a while. Is something wrong?” this particular comment is certainly enough to catch your attention, and you freeze with nothing but an artful grin. 

“Someone appears to have posted some photos of you, from tonight, I’m assuming,” he announces, and Harry’s gaze snaps maliciously to you, “I’m guessing the culprit is with you right now.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she is,” if you thought the intensity of his glare was fiery before, you’re now blistering from the blaze, “don’t worry, I can sort it out.”

“I don’t think many people have caught them quite yet, but a few have tweeted about it.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll deal with it.”

“Have a nice night, H.”

“You too, mate, speak to you tomorrow,” he exhales as if he were exhausted shortly after ending the call, calmly setting his phone and beer upon the small table. In a sudden twist, your hair is tangled around his wrist and becomes leverage for him to yank you closer, “I’m gonna fuck the shit outta you, you know that?” 

Your squeak of anticipation is barely audible, though the hint of hilarity is strongly set within your darkened eyes, “mhm.”

He releases you with a unique roughness that stretches a gasp from your lungs, “make yourself come,” the comment is flippantly articulated, and yet, utterly cataclysmic for the pressure you dare to cover your centre with again and again. Within thirty seconds, your thighs are trembling, your stomach is clenching in count with your core, and your features are scrunched up firmly. 

Usually, he would view the contortion of your face to be adorable. He has many times in the past, in fact. Right now, however, he’s concentrating heavily on not coming just from the sight of you curbing your whimpers and trying so hard not to alert your drunken friends of your provocative acts. Absently, he wonders how an outsider would perceive the two of you at this moment; is it obvious? Do you look like a happily married couple or is it clear that you’re simply friends who slipped and accidentally blurred the boundaries set naturally between you? 

You muffle your sob against his shoulder, and, in an effort to appear in the eyes of others like a platonic act of comfort, he buries his fingers into your messed hair, embracing you closer and allowing him to drive his thigh upwards in time with your subtle movements. 

His lips, craving to be connected to yours, flatten neutrally, mirroring the rest of his face - Mitch, who’s awoken by Sarah’s quiet snores, smiles privately at your proximity. Whilst it’s obvious he’s not aware of the deeper purpose of your closeness, he had figured out that Harry was completely over his head for you barely weeks after meeting him, and he’s pleased that you seem to have crossed the line of friendship. 

“I- I’m so close--” you choke out against his supportive weight, your voice cracking pathetically and causing the corners of his lips to quirk up smugly, “Harry…” your jaw drops laxly whilst the rest of your body tenses; your nails dig crescent moons into his bicep, your thighs quiver around his, your core pulses in nearly painful relief at the abrupt dissipation of pressure.

He thinks you look so, so incredibly pretty at any given moment, but he has to say, seeing your highest inhibitions unravel so profoundly as you come for him, you’ve truly never looked better than when you’re his. 

Chest rising hollowly, a sharp inhale rips through your lungs and reinvigorates your perception of reality, and, this time, your jaw plummets for a whole other cause. 

Oh, my God, what the fuck did you just do? 

You actually, genuinely just rode the thigh of one of the biggest celebrities in the modern industry, topping every chart and barely batting an eyelid at women hurling themselves at him, exactly as you had just done. 

And you liked it--loved it, even.

He made you come; an occurrence that (unfortunately for your childish expectations that were shattered several years ago) is often rare and difficult to achieve. And he did it without so much as a single touch. 

Regaining movement as your senses begin to slow down in their innate tingling and his hand shifts from your untidy hair, he tries not to focus for too long on your flushed cheeks and puffy lips, “you good?”

“Did you really just ask if I’m good?”

“Yeah.”

“...yeah, I’m really good, Harry. What was that?” you stutter in a panic; sure, you’d had your moments of appreciating his attractiveness and wondering what it’d be like to potentially obscure the boundary of friendship between you, but you had never even considered that. 

He smiles youthfully, tracing your cheekbone with his thumb, “a preview. C’mon, I’m so, so far from done with you.” In one sudden swipe, all of your hesitance, all of your anxiety over the implications of whatever the fuck you just did, disappears into thin air, and you’re willing for absolutely anything.

Your platonic relationship is fucked already, why not destroy it entirely?

[severetimetravelnerd]

Change (ft. G Dragon and Yoo Yeon-Seok)

Part 5

Yeon-Seok is touched by your warm gesture, and he does a little something that confuses you.

(I don’t own any of the images used. All credit goes to the original owners.)

As Yeon-Seok put on his disguise, with the sunglasses, the beanie, the mask and the scarf, you struggled to keep a straight face. He playfully glared at you, but he let you laugh at him to your heart’s content. When you were finally done, he smirked, and handed you a mask and sunglasses, enjoying the look of pure disbelief on your face. “What?! No! why do I have to wear a mask?” He turned you around, leaned down and put your mask on for you. “Because if someone recognises me, both of us will get in a scandal.” “Nope. There’s no way anyone will recognise you like that. I don’t need to wear a mask.” And like that, you continued whining about having to wear a mask and sunglasses until Yeon-Seok finally lost it, grabbed you in a chokehold and playfully threatened you. So, the two of you playfully squabbled all the way to the restaurant, where you reached a temporary truce as food is always more important.

After the two of you stuffed your faces, at least you stuffed your face while Yeon-Seok watched you adoringly, the two of you walked back home together. As you neared your place, Yeon-Seok looked around with an odd expression on his face. “Do you live around here Y/N?” looking up at him, you simply nodded. He burst into a grin. “I also live around here.” You also started grinning because you were happy that your friend lived close by. “Where?” Yeon-Seok pointed at the fancy, expensive apartment next to your cramped, more or less student quarter-ish apartment. Still happy, you snorted and said, “Of course you’d be living in this expensive as fuck apartment. Let me guess, Penthouse?” He turned to you in surprise. “How did you know?” You started laughing in disbelief. To make a very confused Yeon-Seok understand why you were laughing, you pointed to you own apartment, which was quite nice and cosy on its own, but in comparison, looked vaguely shabby and dingy. You expected some sort of reaction from Yeon-Seok, but he just smiled excitedly, grabbed your hand, and said, “Y/N, since you live this close, I can visit you whenever I feel like it!” You smiled and said, “Sure, Oppa.” And that’s when Yeon-Seok froze. “What did you just call me?” You arched an eyebrow at his expression. “What? You’re older than me, and Yeon-Seok is a long name, unless you want me to call you “Seokie”.” He laughed, but his shoulders slumped a little. “Yah! How dare you even think of calling me “Seokie”?! I’m supposed to be your senior, but okay fine, you may call me oppa.” You just rolled your eyes and laughed at his pettiness.

He dropped you off at your door, and was about to turn and leave, when you grabbed his hand pulled him inside. He looked around, confused for two reasons; why he was in your apartment and why you were glaring at him. You examined his long, drawn out and exhausted face, and sighed. You squished his face between your hands and started scolding him. “Yah, Oppa! You were just in the hospital. How is it that you’re already dehydrated and exhausted? I know you’re busy, but you have to take better care of yourself. When was the last time you got proper sleep? What was the last thing you ate before tonight’s dinner?” He looked around sheepishly and said, “Dinner. Last night.” Your glare turned deadly and you lightly hit his head. He was about to start complaining when he saw you blush, turn to the side, and shove a packet into his hands. He looked inside to see it stuffed with containers of food. “I live alone, so I make extra food anyway. Eat these. I’ll text you every few days when there’s more, and when I do, I better see all of these empty.” Blushing furiously, you then tried to push him out of your apartment, mumbling, “Now go get some sleep. I can’t let my only friend fall sick.” 

Yeon-Seok’s mind couldn’t comprehend it. He couldn’t remember the last time sometime did something that nice for him sincerely, out of care. His heart warmed even more, and he knew no matter what, he needed you in his life. No one else would ever make him feel the same. Just as you were about to slam the door in his face, but blocked the door with his foot, and stared at you. You finally met his gaze with defiant eyes, and said, “What? Don’t look at me like that. You absolutely have to eat all of that. No excuses.” He interrupted you by bursting out into laughter. He leaned forward, ruffled your hair and said, “Thanks.” He leaned in even closer, squished your cheeks, lightly kissed you on the forehead and walked off. “Goodnight. Thanks for the food. I’ll eat all of it, don’t worry.” And you were left standing there, rubbing your forehead lighting wondering what that was all about. Back then, you didn’t realise you had a light blush on your cheeks. You didn’t even realise the only thing you were thinking about was how he looked the happiest you’d ever seen him, you would love to see him happy like that more often, and somewhere deep down, buried even deeper, was the thought that you wanted to be able to make him smile like that more often. Before you could allow your mind to think about the reason behind wanting to make him happier, you shook your head, and went back in, still blushing.

 Jiyong went home that night and tried to sleep, but he couldn’t. He just lay flat, staring at the ceiling. Finally, at 4 am, when he still couldn’t sleep, he got up and walked to the bathroom. He stood in front of the sink, leaning on it heavily, and stared at himself in the mirror. He washed his face ten times, and told himself, “Enough is enough Jiyong. You know you made her job hell. Now it’s your job to make her like it again.”

[where-s-all-blue]

Self Insert AU for your chaotic crack fic needs

When you get transported into the One Piece Universe, you can't choose where you end up in nor in which time. Even your age might be jumbled up.

Depending on where you end up, your memories of your old life will disappear until the crew or group you are in is featured in canon.

If you make a joke about something, it's very likely that the universe will make it happen just to fuck you up. For reference, see C and R making up a lost island that sunk into the sea only for it to re-emergence randomly in the New World right in front of their eyes.

No matter what you do, you can't change the canon plot.

You don't have a plot armour.

Mod specific headcanons under the cut.

Onto the specific headcanons of C and R:

C

C ends up in the same town where Luffy meets Zoro, only days before it happens, hence her memories aren't that jumbled up, but she can't remember her real life friends. She pretty much joins them there and then.

C has the habit of saying cryptic things and accidentally revealing things beforehand, like when someone important is about to join the Strawhats whom she has joined. The crew thinks that she can see into the future.

She also tends to start crying when she meets people who are good but have tragic pasts. Luffy starts to use this as an indicator for people being nice.

During the timeskip, C ended up eating a devilfruit, her devilfruit was Neko Neko Mi, Model: Toyger ver Dwarf. This means that she is essentially a Toyger breed of a regular housecat, who happens to have dwarfism and thus will never grow up bigger than a kitten.

C uses her devilfruit to sneak around, get out of trouble and to get a free lift from her crew members. R uses his fruit power to intimidate people and to fight, he also uses it to go unnoticed while he naps in the dark corners.

The majority of people assume that she is max 14 years old due to her petite form and mischievous nature. However, when reaching Wano, she’s actually 18.

C’s outfit is modeled after a cow; she adores them as she finds them cute. She wears tiny horns on her head and a dotted over dress on top of her blue dress. Her cat form also keeps the horns on it.

Her fighting style includes using these horns to inflict damage. She also has learned how to use armament haki during her training.

She spent three months stuck in her cat form due to not knowing how to control it. She has managed to awaken her fruit powers, which doesn’t really help her much aside from giving her extra speed and durability.

During one of the early calls between C and R, they joked about her having the will of D. Later on she learned that she infact DOES have that secret name and she actually carries the will of Portgas D. Rouge. She also resembles Rouge by her looks and sometimes says things that especially got the attention of Garp as he’d last heard the woman herself say them.

C made up an island just to avoid suspicion, claiming that it sunk to the bottom of the ocean only to find out that the island did infact exist.

She also claimed that R and her are childhood friends before her family moved to the East Blue from the North Blue.

In Wano, she learns about the backstory of herself and is left speechless.

She’s actively trying to set Law and R up for her own amusement, even going as far as claiming that he suffers from chronic anxiety which can be cured by slow socialisation (to earn his trust) and cuddles, but the latter must be done by someone the red head respects. Law accepted this as a fact until his mind caught onto it about a week later.

Her favourite colours are purple and green, she often wears brown and blue.

The fake Strawhats had two sets of her; a feral kitten and a giant hulking man with cat ears. Upon seeing this, C immediately called out how they got her motif wrong.

C often takes selfies in the most inconvenient places like right in front of Katakuri, Oven and Daifuku, which she then sends over to R. She also likes to avoid fighting in favour of watching the plot unfold itself.

R

R ends up 10 years into the past, into the office of the Revolutionary Army where he was found by Ivankov and Dragon. He is also now a child. Until he turns 19, he doesn't have any memory problems.

Ivan looks for a cure for R's memory loss, but she doesn't have much time as she's supposed to infiltrate a prison. She quite literally drops him into the hands of Trafalgar Law, explains the situation and leaves without allowing him to protest.

Due to R's shyness, he spends the next half a year silent, making the crew think that he might be actually mute only to later on burst into a song in an attempt to soothe someone. The crew never realises this though as they're used to hearing weird sounds in the submarine.

R uses in total three names in this universe: Ren (Revolutionary Army), Eli (Heart Pirates) and Nao (C, later on the Strawhats). They joke that he has just very long name and those are parts of it.The joke later on turns into reality making R's name be Reneli Nao much to his embarrassment.

During Ivan’s search for a doctor who could cure him, R ended up accidentally eating a devil fruit. The fruit was Zoan type, Neko Neko Mi, Model: Black Jaguar. However for convenience, he refers to it as panther fruit as that way nobody can tell for sure if it was leopard, snow leopard, tiger, lion or a jaguar (Panther is the class name of each of these large cats).

R has two bounties, one as Ren and other as Eli, the latter being his "pet" bounty. Whenever the marines see him in his human form, they refer to him as revolutionary army member rather than as a pirate. Somehow they never put together the fact that Eli and Ren are the same entity.

His bounty as Eli is only around 100 beries due to the marines assuming that the black jaguar form is his real form, and thus believing that he’s a pet.

Before the timeskip, R uses black sunglasses to block out the light as he is very light sensitive, post timeskip he's seen using a cap.

During a call, C joked about him being the illegitimate son of Shanks, in Wano this is confirmed to be the case and the duo swear to never joke again.

He too claimed to be from an island which sunk, only for it to turn up on old maps.

R is an awakened Zoan user, which grands him higher speed and durability.

He also has the habit of switching into another language unconsciously when he curses or insults people. He most often calls them fools in Hebrew, which the rest of the crew assumes having been the native language of the island he’s from.

Law is the only one who knows what he is saying, which makes situations where someone assumes that they’ve earned his trust because he’s “giving them a nickname” even funnier.

He knows how to use both rapier and a katana, his old sword was a rapier which he called Shoshannah after his mother (this means lily or a rose), his current sword is named after his real life brother’s cat, Mito, which in Japanese means serene water while in Italian it can mean myth.

During Zou, the only reason why he got hurt was because of his fruit powers suddenly activated making him loose his balance.

He calls Ivankov “mom” on multiple occasions.

His denden mushi was a gift from Ivankov, however, he just can’t bring himself to decorate it claiming that he’s waiting for the moment he’ll be able to pinpoint just what would reflect him and his personality accessory wise.

His trademark colours are orange, blue and purple, which you can find from his hat and the scarf he wears around his waist to help him carry his katana.

R is a terrible liar which he tries to make up for by turning conversations overly philosophical. Most often he ends up accidentally blurting warnings to his captain and crew.

He often challenges his captain without even realising it by asking questions like “Are you sure about that?” or calling something the stupidest thing he’s ever heard right to his face.

He seems to be immune to feeling intimidated by people to the point where it’s thought that he simply doesn’t have any self preservation instinct. Despite of this, R is very careful and plans his moves to ridiculous detail, trying to take in any possible threats and any potential change in the environment.

Law has a theory that R is the reincarnation of Corazon because he seems to know things that only Corazon would know. This theory was debunked once he learned that R is only 3 years younger than he is.

Other

C and R meet one another in Sabaody, where they both start to regain their lost memories. While they're running from the marines, they quickly catch up and exchange numbers so they can keep in touch.

C and R call regularly, but have trouble when someone else picks up, they both are very shy after all. This leads to moments where C asks Usopp to ask whoever had picked up if Nao was available and vice versa.

Penguin and Shachi have a stash of photos from the time R was stuck as a jaguar cub (when they thought that he was a lot younger and that the devil fruit was just a black cat). They tend to show them to C out of spite towards R, who still doesn’t talk that much.

There’s a third person (let’s call them K), who’s sailing with Boa Hancock, C and K haven’t met one another in the OPverse, but R has made sure that the two also manage to talk by giving them each other’s denden numbers.

K likes to mess with R and Law by referring to them as brothers or “cat men”.

R reunited with K when his captain was taking care of Luffy. The latter found R’s situation hilarious.

The denden mushi of C has purple and green stripes and tiny horns, K’s radiates  G A Y  because of glitter. K’s denden also holds a tiny pride flag.

[elphenfan]

Bare My Heart to Your Sleeping Face (Good Omens) 2/?

I didn’t forget, I’ve just had a lot on my plate. Here it is, for all that cares

............................................................

The last part might seem like a very odd thing to say, except that it wasn’t really. It was Aziraphale wrestling a bit of control back from his run-away and traitorous mouth but more than that, it was a promise both to the sleeping demon and to himself.

A promise that despite, or perhaps because of, this momentary lapse in judgment, Aziraphale would never do anything that would jeopardise their current relationship, and especially not when it came to their respective upstairs.

His love wouldn’t waver, he knew that by this point. Too much had happened in the time they’d known each other, and even in the face of all of that, including the threat from both Heaven and Hell, it had never disappeared or even faded. But nor could he allow it to come between them.

That promise was the last thing he said, however, his mouth clamping quite audibly shut as he finally managed to regain control.

Anger and incredulity at what had just occurred and why it had was pushed into the background for the moment in the silent panic of watching out for any indication that Crowley was in actual fact awake despite everything that said he was still fast asleep or that he had heard any of it.

Green eyes scanned over the defined features, then did it again then once more.

There was nothing. Of course, snakes were known to be able to lie completely still for long periods of time, weren’t they? They didn’t need to be asleep for that to happen, either.

But he’s not entirely a snake, is he? He’s a fallen angel, first of all, then a snake demon. So, it doesn’t have to follow that what they can do, he can as well, and he does look as though he’s fast asleep. God knows that I’ve seen him drunk and consequently asleep enough times to know his face when he’s out like a light.

Even so, the stakes were significantly higher here than they’d ever been, at least between the two of them, weren’t they? This could cause severe and permanent damage between them, after all.

The anger was slowly seeping its way back in between the cracks of the panic, aided by the alcohol forcefully leaving his body now, though it was almost purely anger towards himself.

Why had he started to touch the ginger? Never mind that, really, at least in the face of why on earth he had suddenly started to talk about this? Why would he ever bare his heart like that? It made absolutely no sense and he couldn’t blame it on the alcohol, not entirely, as much as he wanted to.

His eyes scanned over the other’s face again, and yet again saw no indication that he was aware of where he was, much less that something had been said or what that something was.

Please let that be the case. Please, just let him be as deeply asleep as he appears to be. Let me not have ruined it all in one fell swoop. Please.

“Crowley,” he called again, softly, as one final attempt. He considered removing the sunglasses for a better look, to be sure one way or the other. But that wouldn’t necessarily give him a clearer answer and it’d run the risk of consequently waking the other up.

So, as there was still nothing, except perhaps for a slight further opening of his mouth, Aziraphale let out the softest, most unobtrusive yet longest of sighs. For all its smallness, however, it was heavily laced with relief.

Now all he had to do was somehow manoeuvre himself out from underneath the lanky body and lay him out on the sofa as though he’d been sleeping on that all along. But that shouldn’t be much of a problem. He’d done that before, after all, and the residual heat of his body on the seat would help convince the demon’s body that it’d been lying on that all along.

It took a bit more effort than usual, mostly because he was even more hyperaware of everything he did and how it might give the whole thing away.

Eventually, though, he managed to do it and clear his normal seat without sending any book tumbling to the floor, which he was rather proud of. With the way the evening had gone, it would just figure that he’d sent them crashing – and they were quite rare and precious books, too. But no, there was no papery carnage to be had this time.

He even found a blanket to drape over the sleeping figure and had managed to settle himself down in his own armchair with a book in one hand and a careful cup of tea, as he hadn’t been able to face a cup of hot cocoa right then, in the other.

In fact, so long passed before Crowley began to stir that Aziraphale had managed to not just pretend to read but actually become engrossed in what he was reading. That wasn’t to say he’d managed to push the whole incident out of his mind, because he was absolutely certain that the day that he managed that would be the same day he actually got hold of “The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter”.

Crowley woke with a serious of small noises that might’ve been annoying to others but which Aziraphale normally found rather endearing. This time, however, he didn’t hear them and didn’t otherwise notice the motions the snake went through as he woke up.

He did clock the somewhat mussy-sounding, searching call of his name, though, and couldn’t help the small extra beat of his heart at the thought that the first thing out of Crowley’s mouth when he woke was his name, even if it was probably merely because he’d fallen asleep in his bookshop and didn’t know where the other was.

“Take your glasses off, you’ll be able to see everything much better,” he said, not looking up from the page. Studiously so, one might say. He didn’t need to see the lanky body slowly wake up and not just because he knew well enough what it looked like.

“Don’t want to. Far too bright as is,” answered Crowley, a slight hiss to his voice. However, he didn’t sound quite as drunk or even as hung-over as one would expect with the amount of alcohol he’d downed. Or perhaps it was more that he didn’t sound as tired as he ought to, given the fact that he’d only just woken up.

Aziraphale didn’t notice that.

“Well, if you will drink that much…” he chided as he turned a page. He conveniently forgot to say anything about how much they normally drank or how much he himself had consumed.

The ginger, however, didn’t.

“You drank more than I did!” Crowley said and whether that was protest, accusation or indignation wasn’t at all clear. “And you had booze in your dessert!”

That last part definitely was accusation. He’d sat himself up at that, the blond could tell by the creak of the sofa and the soft noise of the blanket shifting.

“That hardly counts. You’re supposed to have alcohol in a trifle, it really isn’t a proper trifle without it.”

Aziraphale still didn’t look up from where he was reading his book. At least, ostensibly he was reading it. In reality, he’d stopped being engrossed in its plot and not purely because he had to carry on a conversation with Crowley at the same time. He could multitask in such matters rather well after so much practice. That he chose to block out the rest of the world to focus on his reading was another matter entirely.

Just because he was no longer engrossed didn’t mean he was going to look up, however. He was quite content where he was, thank you ever so much. Ahem.

“But you picked one that had kirsch in the trifle and the cherries on top were soaked in it, too.”

That he was almost entirely coherent now Aziraphale wasn’t surprised by. He’d undoubtedly pushed both tiredness and hangover out with a small miracle or whatever was the demonic equivalent.

But it was nice to fall into something as ordinary as their normal chat, even in its good-natured quibbling form, and he grabbed at it gratefully, in the hope that if he worked hard and kept things bottled up and under mental lock and key far better than he had – preferably, he never got drunk around Crowley again, either – then things could continue like this between them forever. Which would be all that he could wish for, really.

“And as I recall, you stole most of those cherries, one of them off my very fork.”

The smirk the demon had had when he’d done it, too – and the fact that it was a small smirk hadn’t diminished it in the slightest, either.

At long last, he managed to turn a page. Now just to remember what the last paragraph on the previous page had been about. Something about…about…

His view of the page was suddenly obscured by locks of shoulder length red hair. Then the rest of his vision was filled up with the visage of Crowley who was rather too close for comfort. Especially as he was at the perfect closeness for a kiss.

Aziraphale immediately reared his head back a fair bit and did it quickly.

In the back of his mind was the thought that it was good his panic to keep from overstepping – and why was it suddenly so constantly difficult to refrain from that when it wasn’t even as though it was a recent development, even by their standards? – could look as though he was just shocked at Crowley disrespecting personal space.

“You still drank more than me,” drawled Crowley, as though that somehow concluded the argument.

“Well, then I guess what we can conclude from that is that I hold my alcohol far better than you do,” Aziraphale replied, a tad sniffilly, trying hard to ignore the desire to…well, so much, really, it was hard to keep track of.

But Crowley only grinned.

“Hah! As if. You forget that I know you, angel, and I remember…” He paused, at first just frowning. Then it became his whole face that scrunched up for a beat, two.

“Excuse me,” he said around a noise that might’ve been a suppressed burp.

“Really,” Aziraphale said, sounding for all the world like a mildly scandalised housewife from the fifties. But then, Crowley did excuse himself, that was, well, something.

“Your blessed cherries,” Crowley said, stifling another one. “Trying to make a run for it. Oh, Satan…”

He pulled away, looking genuinely uncomfortable, one hand finding the lower half of his abdomen – calling it a stomach or belly seemed almost wrong when it was rarely anything but concave – while the other stayed in the vicinity of his mouth.

Concerned, Aziraphale closed his book and put it away.

Then he handed Crowley a glass.

The demon stared at him for moment but took the glass without comment and downed its contents.

Without question, either, Aziraphale realised a little belatedly. He could’ve filled that to the brim with holy water – not that he ever would, mind! Just the thought of it was abominable and made his insides churn and writhe. What had been in the glass was water and something to calm the stomach whatever ailed it. But the point was that he could have done it, and Crowley would’ve drunk it, without hesitation or question.

His heart was beating painfully in his chest as he watched Crowley let out a sigh of relief, the pain not entirely bad.

This. This right here, the trust in him, the inclusion, the care and all the rest. Wasn’t this worth the heartache, the troubles and the pining?

What an absolutely silly question.

---------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t long after that, about a year or so, that Crowley got his assignment to deliver the Antichrist to his foster parents and the countdown to Armageddon officially began.

Well, technically, of course, that countdown had begun the moment Earth had been created, really, but the home straight, as it were, had arrived and as always in such circumstances where you’re mainly sure you didn’t want to reach what lay at the end of the countdown, time seemed to pass just a bit faster.

At the same time, though, the fact that it all ticked down to an endpoint, the endpoint, you might say, made things take on a new importance along with the urgency, and thus it felt slower, somehow. As if the world was being run at eight-tenth of its normal speed. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

The fact that they were trying to prevent it from happening at all didn’t make much of a difference in that scenario, unfortunately.

What it did do, however, was push Aziraphale’s fears about what he’d done and whether he’d made a complete mess of everything into at least a modicum of background.

Having the demon somewhere in the world, safe and sound even if Aziraphale would never see him again because of what he’d revealed, however inadvertently, was preferable to have him discorporated or outright destroyed through Heavenly means when the battle, the war finally arrived.

Even in the scenario where it was Hell who won the war – and Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling awful and terribly guilty for even contemplating that possibility, because he shouldn’t – there was no guarantee he’d be safe or even come out of it alive.

No, preventing Armageddon had…further benefits than making sure the Earth and its inhabitants didn’t perish in the struggle between Heaven and Hell to see who was, ultimately, the deserved victor.

But the fact that it’d been pushed into the background in favour, if such it could be called, of more worldly concerns did not equal that they were gone or even that they would stay in the background. Of course not.

The first time they surfaced was while they were both ‘employed’ by the Dowlings to look after little Warlock.

He had feared that it would happen sooner, to be perfectly honest.

When they had, in their attempt to cope with the fact that the End of the World had gone from some nebulous future point to an actual, concrete time of roughly eleven years from then, begun to drink, Aziraphale had a few extra issues to deal with. Such as the panic over drinking with Crowley again and the determination that nothing would pass his lips, never mind allow either of them to fall asleep. The fear that being drunk would loosen their tongues, too, and that either would let something slip that they shouldn’t.

Even so, the drink was very much needed in light of what he’d learned, and he couldn’t help the almost copious amount that he downed.

Thankfully, though their talk was decidedly drunken and just a bit silly despite the seriousness of the situation, there was no mention or even hint of Aziraphale’s confession. As for the risk of falling asleep drunk, that was thankfully taken care of by his need to sober up in order to cope with what they were talking about. And Crowley following suit, of course. Most definitely.

In the intervening five years, until Warlock was, they felt, old enough to have a nanny that could also function as a governess and could teach him thoroughly, they saw each other, yes, to find out whether there were any more murmurings from below or above and keep notes on how the ambassador and his wife was handling their little hell-spawn.

Granted, they did also go out to purely enjoy themselves sometimes. Aziraphale wasn’t quite able to enjoy it all as he normally did, at least not for the first two or three years, but after nothing seemed to come of it, he began to relax just a little.

And they were busy with other stuff, too. Impending Armageddon ought really to either speed every activity on earth up as things needed to be wrapped up and everything made ready for the rush or come to a grinding halt as there was no longer much point to try and enact anything. It would be like ordering a buffet option five minutes before closing.

But looking after the Antichrist, balancing out the influences, that brought them into closer…not exactly contact, as there wasn’t too much reason for a nanny and a gardener to interact, but certainly proximity and for a longer period than they ever had. They even did interact from time to time. Of course, they were careful to keep their talk strictly professional, well, mainly, and most certainly didn’t discuss the nature of their little charge while either Warlock or his parents could overhear.

Sometimes, however, Aziraphale thought there was an odd cadence to Crowley’s voice when they talked that was new. It was only occasionally but it happened while in-character as Ashtoreth and Brother Francis – and well, he would have to admit that the slight burr in the softened nanny-voice was…quite lovely – as well as when they otherwise met up and regardless of the circumstance, Aziraphale was still able to detect it.

The oddity mainly came from it seeming to be, of all things, something like optimism, like hope. It wasn’t exactly beaming but it was there, a soupçon infused in many other expressions and tones. Which would make sense if it related to how things seemed to be working, that the heavenly influences really were balancing out the hellish ones, which seemed to the blessed case, rendering the child wonderfully normal.

Crowley had voiced the thought that perhaps he was too normal a few times already but Aziraphale had resolutely pushed the idea aside.

Though he could admit he was hardly an expert, Aziraphale didn’t think the optimism and hope was to do with their apparent success. It felt unrelated to it, among other things because it appeared at occasions and in conversations that had nothing to do with the little boy they were looking after.

It wasn’t only that, either. If it had been purely that, Aziraphale might’ve been able to write it off. As what exactly, he wasn’t sure and didn’t dare examine, in case that it crumbled before him, when he thought that it was in fact solely that.

What was in addition was the occasional long stare from equally long distances that seemed incredibly thoughtful for the demon’s normal range, visible through the sunglasses, and didn’t stop when the blond caught it. Not immediately, anyway, as if Crowley didn’t mind being caught watching. Once or twice there was even just the hint of a smile, highlighted by bright lipstick when nannying, that hadn’t even a hint of a smirk in it.

There was also the fact that he sat himself closer than he’d done before or moved so that he was almost, almost touching the blond without quite getting there and even that sometimes, very rarely, Crowley would open his mouth when there’d been silence between them, and start to ask a question, only to seemingly think the better of it and shut his mouth, then often enough start talking about something else entirely. Sometimes he wouldn’t get further than a noise before he clammed up.

That last part was in itself not really odd but in conjunction with the other things and the fact that they were all rather new additions…

Whatever the actual reason for it, it made the angel’s fear that something must’ve gotten through to the demon of that confession while he slept despite everything, and he was telling him that he knew ratchet right back up.

Aziraphale’s hands bunched into fists against his thighs as he sat in his chair in the bookshop one evening and contemplated it. He wasn’t exactly keen on doing it, but he’d put it off for a long while by that point and it was starting to affect him.

But no. No, that didn’t make any sense. Why would he wait this long to start giving him hints if he’d remembered all along? Or perhaps a better question, if he’d only just remembered or pieced something together, was why he was hinting at it in the first place? Why not confront him outright? It wasn’t as though Crowley could ever be termed as ‘shy’, was it?

It was simply Aziraphale’s paranoia doing the talking and nothing more. Yes, that was it.

However, that left the question of why he’d then been doing all of those things. What other possible explanation could there be? It was hard, to say the least, to think of any that would fit the criteria.

You could always ask Crowley, an inner voice suggested. Be the one who confronts him.

Oh, yes, and how would that look? ‘Crowley, I believe you keep doing this and that and so on, little things that add up to something else, I feel. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I cannot help but be worried and slightly unsettled.’

Yes, that’d just work outright marvellously, wouldn’t it?

Especially seeing as ‘unsettled’ only worked as something not completely horrible, coming from an angel to a demon, when it was used in the context of Aziraphale’s fears and worries. Which was exactly what he was trying to hide.

Using other words wouldn’t work much better either, he felt, because he was, implicitly or explicitly, saying that he was keeping Crowley under observation and monitoring their conversations and for what?

No, there was a number of reasons why that could be construed wrongly. Nor was it as though he was likely to get a good explanation or even an explanation at all out of it. Even if that was the case, the risk to reward was quite disproportionate.

What should he do instead, then?

Oh, he didn’t know!

His closed hands slid down his thighs then back up in frustrated fear and apprehension.

Why had he done it? No amount of alcohol or even the combination of Crowley’s presence in his lap and copious amounts of alcohol should be capable of sending his guard down so fully as that. He should have known better. Should’ve been able to stop his mouth – and his hand!

That was another issue.

In comparison to six millennia, five years was, well, the blink of an eye, really, if even that much. Add to that that Aziraphale had, when the circumstances were right – whether that was by his choice or not was another matter – quite the crystal, almost eidetic memory, and you ended up in a situation where certain moments still felt as though they had only just happened.

Perhaps it was also the fact that it hadn’t been some random person he’d touched. It was Crowley.

Yes. That most certainly made a lot of, if not all the difference.

But he could still feel at least a phantom of that cheek underneath his fingers, the thick, red hair between them and it made him ache, in more ways than one.

That brought him back to the question of why he’d done it. He’d known that it was a bad idea from the off, had always managed to curtail any inclinations to take it where he so wanted but couldn’t take back.

The worst part was…he had no answer. Not a one.

Even after spending what felt like hours on it, he was getting nowhere except feeling further sense of misery about it all.

Then he sighed deeply and got up from his chair.

He would have to be back at the Dowling house in just a few hours, in full smiling buck-toothed ensemble and with a disposition to match as he nudged the actual hell-spawn towards something more…divine, and he did have some actual work to do before then.

Right. Slip back into who he was meant to play – and that wasn’t purely the gardener persona, either.

[amythecinnabunny]

Apartment 42 -- A BuckyNat AU

Master and rival assassins unknowingly live together for almost a year, making sure their real jobs remain a secret from each other and everyone around them.

Chapter 3

James needed to plan everything perfectly. He had no idea where to begin, though. He'd spotted Howard a few times. His bodyguard had been close behind, always watching from behind large sunglasses and a hoodie. James wondered if that was done to be inconspicuous or if it was done to he so blatantly obvious, he should have glazed over it. Either way, it didn't work and James picked out the bodyguard near Howard instantly.

How was he supposed to make an attack on Howard when the man only went to public places and was driven around with his bodyguard in the car every time?

"James?"

"What?"

Natalia sat up straight, startled. "Are you okay?"

James looked up from his mutilated steak. "What?" he asked again, softer.

"I'm not being rude or anything, but the food usually has a bit more . . . kick. That, and you're usually very picky about presentation. I'm not complaining! I'm just . . . concerned."

James shook his head. "It . . . it's work. That's all."

"I thought you were an exterminator. Don't you just, like, point and shoot with that hose-pipe looking thing?"

James's mind wandered to his rifle. Hose-pipe looking thing. He laughed.

"James, are you sure you're okay?" Natalia reached over the table to feel his forehead for a fever.

He smiled. "I'm fine. And the extermination thing was a part-time job."

"Was?" Natalia asked, sitting back. "What happened?"

"Oh, I quit. I almost exterminated myself way too many times. I'm an assassin now."

He had no idea why he'd said that, but thankfully, Natalia took it as a joke. After all, which assassin would actually reveal that? Certainly not her.

"Very funny, James. But seriously, you seem tired. Maybe we should order something tomorrow? You can sleep in tomorrow morning as well, I know how to not poison myself."

Poison! James felt like an idea had hit him over the head so hard, he would fall out of his chair any moment.

Howard always visited the same café for a morning coffee. If James found grab a job there, he would have access to Howard's coffee. The idea was brilliant!

"James."

"Huh?"

"I know a psychologist on our floor. Do you want his number? He takes walk-ins at home on Saturdays."

James smiled. "I'm fine, Natalia. I promise."

///////////////

The next morning, Natalia had left already, taping a note to her door. She knew it was the first thing James saw when he left his room.

Gone to work. Attempted waffles and instant porridge. Shitty iced coffee in the fridge. Good luck.

--Nat

He was amused at her signing the note despite the fact that it could not have been written by anyone else. Having woken up in a good mood, James didn't even notice that she'd forgotten the sugar in the porridge and burnt the waffles, and that calling the drink a shitty iced coffee was an understatement.

He dressed well, making sure his titanium prosthetic was disguised properly, before locking up the apartment and leaving. He knew Hydra had an eye on him as soon as he was out in the open, but he knew they'd merely write his good mood off as a front to fit in with civilians. Hydra wasn't very big on having emotions. Ever.

They'd even sent an agent to the same apartment block. James had asked why he couldn't dump his weapons with the agent instead. He was told not to question orders.

Then they asked him why he picked an apartment that had someone else living in it. It had taken ever five of strength not to get sarcastic. Instead, he took two deel breaths and reminded Karpov that no one paid him money ever and the little bit they'd given him to survive meant that he had to get a cheap apartment. Nothing was cheaper than the small little space whose rent was split over two people.

He'd gotten a little snappy and said that if they wanted him away from civilians, they should pay for a better apartment. Hydra did not want to waste resources and so they reminded Karpov to keep James in check, periodically remind him that he was nothing more than a weapon.

Having now spent four consecutive weeks in the presence of other humans, James was ready to give Hydra the finger, but he also knew that when this was over, they would provide a bed and sustenance, however menial. If he left, he'd spend the rest of his life running and hiding. At least this way, he could be out in public and claim he was just appearing natural to strangers.

Hydra lapped up his lies with no questions. After all, why wouldn't you believe what your told when you're sure you've trained your pets well?

Whistling, James waltzed into the café right behind Howard and his bodyguard. He waited to see what Howard ordered and who made the drink.

"Your usual, Mr Stark?" the barista asked, offering the billionaire a smile.

"Uh, yes, Milo."

"You know I'm going to have to supervise, Milo."

The calm voice pierced James's brain and he froze. He stared at the counter.

"Yes, yes, of course. I remember. Come on through."

"Thank you, darling."

James stared in growing horror as the woman walked behind the counter and spoke softly and casually to Milo as the young boy fixed a drink for Howard. James could tell that she stood at an angle to both watch Milo and keep an eye on Milo.

He knew Howard Stark somehow managed to hire an assassin without even knowing, but how the hell did Howard Stark get dumped in the hands of the Black Widow?

James would know that voice anywhere. He had no idea how long ago it had been, but he knew he'd already failed against her once.

///////////////

The Winter Soldier saw her, sprinting across rooftops as he ran in the street. The woman was after his target. He pushed faster, racing her now. If she got to the target first, the Red Room will have gained a prisoner with knowledge both organisations needed. He knew he had to get there first.

When he made it to the 'safe house', she was leaving with the target. Spitting violent curses, he jumped through the window she'd broken.

The Black Widow had the target protected deep within bundles of materials and stuffed into a sidecar of a cheap bike she'd stolen just for this. He swung through the beams of the weak building and perched on the roof. He took aim and fired.

He never missed. He knew that.

So when the shot missed her heart and caught her hip, he knew she had dodged the bullet.

And he knew she was a force to be reckoned with.

She radioed in to the chip Hydra had placed on the scientists. "How kind of you to bundle him all up like that for me, it really made kidnapping him off your hands a lot easier." She laughed as though she weren't in danger of bleeding out. "Thank you, darling!"

///////////////

James suddenly realised Howard and his bodyguard had left. There was no way he would be able to slip even an extra spoon of sugar into Howard's coffee. Oh, how he hated that voice.

So light, so airy. So damn superior. He hated it. He hated that he could still hear her laughter. He felt like she was mocking him with that laugh. Mocking him for missing. But he knew that he had aimed right. She was the one skilled enough to dodge.

He loathed the Black Widow.

///////////////

"Again, Anthony."

Anthony lay on the floor of the boxing ring, frustrated. "I'm never gonna get it!"

"Well, if you never get up, obviously."

"You are such an adult. Old lady."

"Hey, I'm only five years older than you, mister."

Anthony mocked her under his breath. Natalia nudged his arm with her foot. "Get up, Anthony," she said, "and if you're so  convinced I'm that much older than you, I expect you to start treating me with a little more respect. Your choice."

"So, what? My choices are switching you between best friend mode or aunt mode?"

Natalia shrugged. "The words came out of your mouth."

Anthony sighed as he sat up. He stretched an arm out for Natalia to grab. Barely straining, she pulled him up.

"What did you say your nickname was?"

"Tallie."

"Okay. Considering that you are an old lady--"

"I'm twenty-two, Anthony, I'm not--"

"-- I'm gonna start calling you Aunt Tal."

"Good lord," Peggy said as she walked in, "if Tallie is an old lady, I dread to think what I am."

"Ancient," Anthony responded instantly.

"Anthony!" Natalia scolded. She grinned when Anthony looked at her in pure surprise. "You chose aunt mode."

Peggy laughed. "Oh, very nice. I've got a teammate!"

Natalia laughed softly as she exited the ring. "What are you here for, Peggy? Does Howard want to go somewhere?"

"No, actually. He's staying in tonight. I understand that you're meant to always keep tabs on Howard, but am I right in assuming you ate allowed to do what you like once you leave the manor?"

Wiping her forehead with a towel, Natalia nodded. "Yeah, why?"

"Well, he can't leave the manor unless you're present, and we know he's safe in here. So this essentially means you're off the hook now?"

"Yeah," Natalia said slowly, waiting to see where this went.

"Well, we were wondering, that is, Ana and I, if you'd like to come with us dancing tonight. There's a little bar we frequent on weekends. Mr Jarvis often accompanies us, merely to escort us back once we've drunk enough to intoxicated several people. I know you're several years younger than both Ana and I, but--"

"I'd love to," Natalia said, smiling. She didn't tell Peggy that this would be her first time going out with friends. "I think it would be fun. It's about time I got to know Ana, anyway."

"Really?" Peggy asked, delighted. "You'll join us?"

"Absolutely!"

"Splendid! You can wear something of Ana's, unless you'd like to go home to change?"

Natalia thought about the apartment, a good eight minute drive away. "I'll wear something of Ana's. Are you sure she won't mind?"

"Mind? She's making a new friend. She's going to be thrilled!"

Excited, Peggy grabbed Natalia's hand and dragged her through the manor, through the courtyard and into the Jarvis household that stood comfortably on the other side of the property.

Anthony stared up at the ceiling. "Wow," he murmured to himself.

///////////////

Natalia laughed so hard she snorted. Embarrassed, she tried to hide her face. Peggy was so amused with Natalia, she almost fell off her chair. Ana Jarvis watched the pair with slight amusement. "You think I'm joking, but Edwin never lies about his tales with Howard."

"Unbelievable!" Peggy cried. "There's no way Howard sat on a whoopee cushion four times in one hour."

Ana shrugged. "Peg, you know Anthony. He always gets his way. Besides, Edwin helped him."

Natalia took a sip of her drink. "Is there footage of this?"

Ana shook her head. "Howard had it deleted."

"I'm sure I can recover it," Natalia said. "How long ago was this?"

"Hmm, I think about two or three nights ago? Edwin says it was long after you'd both left."

"Oh, I would love to see it," Peggy said, "do call me if you get it right."

"Of course."

The three of then fell silent, each trying to picture Howard's face every time he sat down on the damned things.

"Tallie," Ana said after a while.

"Hm?"

"Peg and I aren't young any longer, but you still are."

"Yeah, so?"

"I'll give you five dollars if you go over there and say hi to the tall one at the bar."

Peggy glanced over her shoulder. "I'll give you an extra five if you come back with his number."

Natalia's jaw dropped. "What? No! That's silly!"

"Another five if you get him to dance with you," Ana cut in, scowling at Peggy.

"Wait! This is--"

"Total twenty if you ask him on a date," Peggy said, shooting Ana a smirk.

The two elderly women held each others stare for a moment before simultaneously pushing Natalia off her chair and in the direction of the bar. Resisting the urge to flip them both off, Natalia straightened Ana's blood red dress and walked with her head held high. She could manipulate some random guy into one date, right?

She glanced back to her table and gestured to a blond man ordering a drink. Both Peggy and Ana shook their heads fiercely and motioned for her to move on. There was only one more person at the bar if she continued in that direction, so she assumed they must mean the lone brunet.

Cautiously, she took a seat next to him and prepared her opening lines.

"Work end early?"

Natalia frowned. "James? What -- are you okay?"

James shrugged and lifted his head from his hand. "Bad day. You?"

Natalia shrugged. "Okay day. Good evening. I'm out with friends. I should've called--"

"No," James said, waving her apologies aside, "you don't have to. I don't need to know your every move. Anyway, if you didn't recognise me, why'd you come sit down?"

Natalia smiled. "Well, my friends are being super childish and if you agree to go on a date with me, I'll split the twenty dollars I'll be getting with you."

James thought about it. "Ten bucks for a date? Sounds fun, let's do it."

Natalia passed him her phone. "Act like you're giving me your number."

"You're having fun, aren't you?"

"Totally. I was worried about getting an idiot attached to me, but this is so much better. Imagine the lies I could tell. You'd back them up, obviously, right?"

"Every one. I'll be extra convincing if more money is involved," he added, grinning as he passed Natalia her phone back.

"Very funny, James. Listen, if you're not feeling great, I can come home with you . . . that sounded bad, given the charade I've just started. You know what I mean."

"I know, Natalia, and I promise you I'm fine. You enjoy yourself. I'll be fine."

"Okay," Natalia eventually said, sliding off the bar stool. "Take care of yourself, James."

Peggy and Ana were stunned and refused to give Natalia the full twenty dollars until she actually went on her date, claiming that she never actually danced with the handsome stranger.

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