#Scotch Pine Gossip

[found--family]

sorry gotta add more re:the domestic life of a gay eldritch horror....

they could've gotten so creative with direction and camera angles and filters etc. seeing the world through cas' eyes - seeing auras and using mirror delay and light tricks and having numerous povs all at once bc cas has many many eyes - it would've be so cool! he's outside observing fireflies and bioluminous mushrooms in the forest behind the bunker while also keeping an eye on sleeping dean.

give us slice of life comfort but also give us UhOh content where cas unwittingly triggers a cursed object and has to save the day before dawn and before the boys wake up - but it's lighthearted. give us sleep-rumpled dean wandering out for a beer or glass of water or midnight snack and encountering cas but not thinking anything is off - even though cas is currently lowkey freaking out (bittersweet but also comedic bc dean doesn't notice things about cas right in front of his face *coughcough* subtext). give us cas sniffing and trying one of sam's health shakes in the fridge and the smell/taste triggering a sense memory from thousands of years ago, a memory he didn't even know he had. give us cas using the laptop for things other than research like watching gay soaps from around the world. give us cas encountering eileen in the hallway and having a brief conversation with her fully in sign language. maybe cas summons crowley to help with the cursed object but he doesn't do much besides drink their good scotch and rifle through personal items and maybe getting blasted away accidentally. give us cas checking in with claire on the phone and we get the sense they do this every week but also text each other, and things start out surface but claire ends up asking for relationship advice that parallels cas' friendship with dean and it's not said and cas may not get the insinuation but the audience knows that claire either thinks destiel is real or that they're both be pining hard.

give us father-son bonding with jack, cas teaching him about humanity but also getting details wrong about humans and human life and jack nodding along like yes that sounds correct. cas reading gossip rags in the library while jack walks upside down on the ceiling to see things from a new perspective.

I just think a late seasons Cas-centric episode would have slapped so hard.

It would have been so interesting to see life in and around the Bunker from his perspective

Like c’mon there are so many possibilities:

He gets a phone call from Claire. He spends time with Jack. Watches. movies. with. Dean!!! He has an existential crisis when he looks in the mirror while everyone in the bunker is asleep. Cleans his angel blade (it doesn't need cleaning). He listens to Angel Radio for a while. He casually heals Dean's heartburn from his bacon pancake breakfast (he has no idea how often Cas does this) (did he really think he wouldn't be suffering with indigestion regularly with the diet he eats at his age). Tries on all sorts of other clothes in a 90s style montage before he puts the suit and coat back on and nobody will ever know.

It's like, he's got this whole other life going on parallel to Sam and Dean's and they just, have no idea what he gets up to all day when he's not actively working with them on a case or researching with them and it is Fascinating

[simlovinggirl]

Scotch Pine Gossip: Two Years Later

Scotch took some time to himself after the show.  Then, he decided to travel to Le Champs, France to start toward his dream of owning his own Nectary.  Now he’s the owner of the local Nectary there and is enjoying the quiet peaceful life, creating the Nectar that he loves. He even sees Paprika from time to time, who is off adventuring on his own and makes it over to Les Champs during his travels.  Overall Scotch is happy with is life and has even found a local girl who might be his next adventure.

@nerdiesimmer thank you for making Scotch.  He was so adorable and I wish things had worked out better for him and Cherry, but their personalities were just a bit too different.  At least for now he’s living his dream of owning his own nectary :D ♥

[scotianostra]

Burns wrote this poem in the winter of 1785 and it appeared the next year in his first published volume: Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect.

Burns’s love of whisky has become almost as famous as his works, but it is unlikely to have had the ill effects on his health that were suggested after his death. Although he assuredly enjoyed a drink or two, there’s little evidence that he regularly drank to excess. He was a prolific writer, worked long hours on his farms and even made a living as an exciseman (a job that was hated across rural Scotland) for a number of years.

This poem was written in reference to the passing of an Act in 1784 that prohibited the Forbes family of Culloden from distilling their popular Ferintosh whisky free of duty. Burns was angered by the British government’s taxation of the drink. Here he celebrates the role whisky played in the life of the ordinary man – from festival days to gathering the harvest and settling neighbourly disputes.

Scotch Drink

Gie him strong drink until he wink, That’s sinking in despair; An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid, That’s prest wi’ grief and care: There let him bowse, an’ deep carouse, Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An’ minds his griefs no more.

[Solomon’s Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7]

Let other poets raise a fracas Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus, An’ crabbit names an’ stories wrack us, An’ grate our lug: I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In glass or jug. O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink! Whether thro’ wimplin’ worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink, To sing thy name! Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, An’ aits set up their awnie horn, An’ pease and beans, at e’en or morn, Perfume the plain: Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o’ grain! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o’ food! Or tumbling in the boiling flood Wi’ kail an’ beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin’; Tho life’s a gift no worth receivin’, When heavy-dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin’; But oil’d by thee, The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin’, Wi’ rattlin’ glee. Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear, Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair, At’s weary toil; Thou ev’n brightens dark Despair Wi’ gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy siller weed, Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head; Yet humbly kind in time o’ need, The poor man’s wine: His wee drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. Thou art the life o’ public haunts; But thee, what were our fairs and rants? Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts, By thee inspir’d, When, gaping, they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir’d. That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in! Or reekin’ on a New-Year mornin’ In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual  burn in, An’ gusty sucker! When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith, O rare! to see thee fizz an’ freath I’ th’ lugget caup! Then Burnewin comes on like death At every chaup. Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel: The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reel, Wi’ dinsome clamour. When skirlin’ weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin’ cuifs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. When neebors anger at a plea, An’ just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley-brie Cement the quarrel! It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee, To taste the barrel. Alake! that e’er my Muse has reason, To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason! But monie daily weet their weason Wi’ liquors nice, An’ hardly, in a winter season, E’er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burnin’ trash! Fell source o’ monie a pain an’ brash! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash O’ half his days; An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor, plackless devils like mysel! It sets you ill, Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell, Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch O’ sour disdain, Out owre a glass o’ whisky-punch Wi’ honest men! O Whisky! soul o’ plays and pranks! Accept a Bardie’s gratefu’ thanks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses! Thou comes – they rattle i’ their ranks, At ither’s arses! Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! Scotland lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips, an’ barkin’ hoast May kill us a’; For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast Is ta’en awa! Thae curst horse-leeches o’ the’ Excise, Wha mak the whisky stells their prize! Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers! An’ bake them up in brunstane pies For poor damn’d drinkers. Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an’ whisky gill, An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, Tak a’ the rest, An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.

And for those that struggled a wee bit with some words , here’s a translation......

bowse = booze drucken = drunken; crabbit = bad-tempered; wrack = annoy; lug = ear; bear = barley wimplin’ worms = winding spiral tubes in a whisky still; owre = over; ream = froth; faem = foam haughs = hollows; aits = oats; awnie = bearded; Leeze me on thee = blessings; John Barleycorn = the traditional personification of alcoholic drinks chows = chews; cood = cud; souple = soft; wale = choice wame = belly; scrievin’ = careering doited = muddled; Lear = learning; sair = sore massy siller weed = very fine clothing; gentles = gentry; wee drap parritch = little bit of porridge; kitchens = seasons But thee = without you; saunts = saints reekin’ = steaming; cog or bicker = bowl or beaker; gusty sucker = tasty sugar Vulcan = god of fire and metalworking; graith = gear; freath = froth; lugget caup = two-eared cup; Burnewin = blacksmith; chaup = stroke airn = iron; brawnie = muscular; bainie = bony; chiel = lad; studdie = anvil skirlin’ weanies = crying babies; clatter = babble; cuifs = fools; Wae worth = Woe betide; howdie = midwife; plack = farthing wud = wild/angry; barley-brie = barley-brew Alake = Alas; wyte = charge; weason = throat; spier = ask Fell = harsh/cruel; brash = illness; Twins = robs; doylt = muddled; hash = oaf plackless = penniless; sets = becomes; dearthfu’ = costly; mell = meddle; gill = a measure of drink blather = bladder; gruntle = face; glunch = sneer cranks = creakings Ferintosh = a whisky distillery that belonged to Forbes of Culloden; hoast = cough Thae = those; stells = stills; blinkers = spies; brunstane = brimstone Hale breeks = trousers with no holes; rowth = store

[iwritefandomimagines]

AARON HOTCHNER x READER: “Are you drunk?”

requested: prompt 10

masterlist

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader

description: you’ve been fighting feelings for hotch for some time now, assuming he doesn’t feel the same. after witnessing office gossip and having a drink or two, hotch makes it clear you were wrong to assume that.

warnings: kissing, but nothing too explicit.

Another day of stolen glances. Another day of accidental touches when he was trying to stay away. Another day of sexual tension lingering in the air so thickly that it could be cut with only the sharpest of knives.

Aaron Hotchner was the bane of your existence, you were certain of it.

You’d been attracted to him since the day you first set foot into the BAU. He was still married to Haley, then, and you’d kept your distance because you respected that, but knew you couldn’t help your desperation to flirt with him. It helped that she knew how you felt -- she’d never liked you as a result.

When they got divorced, you supported him as best as you could. You thought about keeping your distance, not wanting to let yourself fall for him even more in a time of his vulnerability. But you couldn't let him suffer his heartbreak without knowing that, in whatever capacity, you cared.

But now that some time had passed, things had gone back to usual. In the past few weeks he seemed to avoid you entirely. You felt worried, like you’d imposed too much on his personal life and that was why he was avoiding you like the plague. 

Should you have stayed out of it?

He’d seemed incredibly grateful for your concern at the time, but what had changed? You didn’t want to ruin things, not with the man you were certain you were head over heels for.

Despite him trying his best to ignore you, the tension between you remained ever-present. Everyone seemed to notice, the girls taking it upon themselves to gossip and throw endless questions at you. They’d gone so far as to assume something had happened between you already, assuming that was why things were awkward. 

You were finishing up some paperwork, Garcia, Emily and JJ at your side as you pushed your last pile of folders to the back of your desk, “You’re telling us the absolute truth, right?” Penelope pressed, chin in her palm as she nosed at your personal life as ever. 

“Nothing happened between us, guys,” you laughed sourly, and they obviously could detect your tone, “He still loves her, I’m sure of it. It hasn’t been long, has it?”

Emily eyed you curiously, “And how do you feel about him?”

You bit your lip, unsure of how much to give away, “I suppose I’ve been lying saying I’m not even slightly attracted to him. But nothing will happen, he’s never going to feel anything for me... And he’s my boss. Besides, he’s been avoiding me for a while now...”

JJ laughed, glancing up towards Hotch’s office, “Y/N, he’s been undressing you with his eyes all week... And whenever you’re not in the office he’s asking after you, always making excuses about paperwork he needs from you.” 

You blushed, looking up and accidentally catching his eye, looking immediately back at the girls. Did he really ask after you? Of course you’d noticed that there was tension, but you assumed it was more on your part and that he was simply lonely as a result of his divorce.

“I-I don’t know guys,” you stuttered, raising to your feet and slinging your bag over your shoulder, “I’ve gotta head home anyway. I’ll catch up with you guys tomorrow, okay?”

As soon as Hotch saw you stand, his eyes followed you the whole way out of the doors. He gulped, seeing the girls’ eyes trail to him and knowing that he’d been the topic of conversation prior to your exit.

He left his office, pacing over to where they sat with a stern expression on his face as ever, “Is everything okay with Y/L/N?” 

Penelope smirked, “Oh, she’s just a little pent up, I think,” she teased, debating letting the truth slip but deciding instead to just suggest, “I think you should speak to her, sir.”

Hotch just nodded, swallowing hard and heading back to his office to gather hs things and leave. 

“Oh my god, I’ve never seen Hotch leave so early... Do you think he’s really going to speak to her?” Emily whispered, and the girls all felt giddy as they hoped their friends would finally make the moves they’d wanted to for as long as they’d known them.

------

You were just falling asleep when a knock rapped at your front door.

You stumbled out of bed, hardly awake enough to realise the small slip nightdress barely covering your frame. 

You were surprised to find a slightly disheveled looking Aaron Hotchner, his tie pulled loose and his face twisted in an expression you couldn’t quite decipher.

“Sorry for-for turning up like this, Y/N. But I’d like to talk to you if that’s okay,” he took in your sleepy state then, “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

You shrugged, “Not quite. But it’s alright, come in.”

He stumbled a little as he walked in and, considering he didn’t drink much usually you brushed it off and assumed he was just being awkward as he followed you to your couch.

“What is it, Aaron? Is everything okay?”

He sighed, “I’m sorry. For ignoring you, because it’s the last thing I wanted to do, darling. Really.” He sat beside you on the couch, closer than he’d ever usually sit, his warm breath over your face and allowing you smell the scotch on his tongue.

“Are you drunk?” 

Aaron’s hand reached up to your face, his palm cupping your jaw tentatively as his eyes searched yours for the right way to articulate his feelings to you, “I had a drink or two to make this... easier to say. You know I’m not good with talking about feelings, which is why I’ve avoided you recently.”

“What do you mean?” your breathing was ragged under his touch. Was he saying what you thought he was right now?

“I’ve got feelings for you, Y/N. Feelings stronger than I’ve admitted to myself for a long time... Everyone else could see it. Even Haley saw it, as she loved to shove in my face when filing for divorce,” he pulled your face closer to his, his eyes flickering between yours and your lips, “And when you helped me through the divorce I was so grateful but... I got scared. I was scared to let you in and admit that I felt anything for you.”

“Aaron I’ve had feelings for you since the first moment we met,” you whispered softly, pressing a kiss to his thumb as it sat just at the corner of your mouth, “I was afraid I was pushing it and that you just didn’t feel the same.”

He shook his head, “Y/N you’ve been on my mind constantly. I’ve pushed the feelings away for too long and I could see you talking to the girls earlier, when I saw them after they made it quite clear what was being discussed so I... I knew I needed to bite the bullet.”

You drew in a sharp breath as he leaned in so that your foreheads were touching. You’d never quite seen Aaron this tender and gentle, even in his heartbroken state. Shivers flew up your spine and you fought the urge to kiss him for a few moments, but he didn’t give you any more of a chance as he captured your lips in his.

The kiss was soft and didn’t last long, but the passion and longing couldn’t have been more fiery. He drew back nervously, “Sorry. Was that okay?”

“More than okay, Aaron,” you assured him, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips to reassure him, “In fact, I’d quite like it if you kissed me again.”

He laughed a little, the corner of his mouth turning up in a small smile before he kissed you again. This time the kiss was deep, his tongue gliding along your bottom lip as you parted your lips quickly. Your hands flew around his neck as he pulled you onto his lap, panting.

When you pulled back, his brows furrowed, “I don’t want to rush this, sweetheart, but I’d like to give this a try, if that’s what you want. You and me.”

You grinned, beaming like the Cheshire Cat as he nervously looked at you.

“I’d love that, Aaron. More than anything,” your hands found the bottom of his hair, tugging slightly as you kissed him again, “You and me.”

“You and me.”

“Finally.”

Aaron didn’t leave your house that night and, for that entire weekend, it was hard to find a moment where you weren’t occupied with each other. 

After all this time, the man you’d been pining over really did feel the same.

And he more than made up for all the time spent waiting.

-----

thank u for reading! i hope this was okay... feel free to keep requests coming (especially criminal minds ones !!!) because i have so much free time to write rn hahahah <3 if you need ideas, here’s my prompt list & if you want to read more of my stuff -- here’s my masterlist!

[utterlyinevitable]

Date Auction Ode edition please please please Dom 🥺

⇢  Part 1  |  Part 2

Music & Secrets (Part 3)

Pairing: Ethan x F!MC (Odette Hall) Rating: Teen+ Summary: The community is throwing a Date Auction to raise money for a good cause. Odette and her friends have agreed to participate. Little does she, nor Ethan, know that there’s a plan cookin’ in Naveen’s kitchen.  Trope: Gala/Fundraiser; Friends Intervene; Pining

A/N: i did a headcanon with the same premise way back when. this is what happens with ode as the mc. thank you for requesting 💕

____________________

The friends didn’t need to rope in Naveen. For the astute Chief of Medicine had come up with his own scheme to help Ethan and Odette grasp the depths of their feelings for one another.   

Ethan and Odette weren’t really dating. They were just two people that flirted covertly at work and over text, spent their free time together, and planned the most generous and thoughtful gifts for the other’s birthday. Little acts of devotion they don’t realize. 

But Naveen knows there’s more to the story than what his two protege’s let on - no matter how many times they say they’re just friends. Something happened between them last year and gosh darn it they shouldn’t throw away a good thing for propriety’s sake! Ever the gossip, the Chief finds the friends and relays his carefully devised plan.  

The gang and Naveen were going to use the Charity Date Auction as a ploy. Every single member of staff were encouraged to participate. Odette had already signed up and planned her outfit. The greatest hurdle is to coerce Ethan into agreeing... 

A spot of late lunch between old friends three days before the event was the perfect setting - the participate log would be locked in and finalized that evening. Naveen, bless his heart, has been peppering the idea throughout their entire meal.  

“I’m not entertaining this idea, Naveen,” Ethan dismissed when his oldest friend broached the subject for the fifth time.  

“So you’ve settled down in the last few days? Congratulations.”

“Naveen…” Ethan chided through a groan, his baby blue eyes rolling back into his head.

The twinkle in the old man’s eye was unsettling. 

“Or are you planning on bidding on Dr. Hall?”

That little bit of information had Ethan looking up from his plate and at his friend - blue eyes searching wise brown for the catch, the punchline of whatever prank that was being set before him. Ethan didn’t know Odette was planning on participating. Come to think of it... they hadn’t talked about the event at all. He knows she just had a dress tailored and can’t make brunch on Saturday because she has a beauty appointment and...  

Naveen had to bite back the grin that was threatening to expose Ethan’s intentions.

With extreme effort, the Director of Diagnostics pulled himself from his thoughts and schooled his features. “I’m not planning on attending, if you must know.”

Naveen’s smile broke free. There was his in;

“Perfect, I’ll add you to the date list.”

They looked at one another once more; Naveen’s bright smile challenging Ethan knowingly.

“Fine.” Ethan’s words were light and dismissive.

A few evenings later in an upscale hotel, the dates were all backstage in the green room off of the ballroom waiting for the fundraiser to begin.

Odette was chatting with her friends while Ethan nursed a scotch in a secluded corner at the other side of the room. He didn’t even think she noticed him sulking in the background. Ethan certainly noticed her.

She looked gorgeous - as lovely as any day, yet more radiant with every passing minute as she laughs with her friends. Ethan was utterly speechless as he tried not to stare at the evening gown hugging her in all the right places. Caressing her in all the places he wished he had the ability to do. As much as Ethan tried to differ, his thoughts ran rampant each solitary night. The memories of her friendly touch were still so potent.

For a brief moment Ethan wondered why he couldn’t just bid on her. She’s the only person in this whole hospital - Boston even - that he’d care to spend more time with willingly. He could never tire of her company. Bidding on her this evening wouldn’t mean anything. It didn’t have to mean anything - a good cause for the public, and Ethan Ramsey has money to spare. 

Though, it would mean something to him. Him and probably all the colleagues whom already speculate about his favoritism of her. And for that reason he simply couldn’t.

Soon Ethan is forced to stop wondering and ogling, for the men are shuffled away and into the corridor awaiting the start of the evening.

The moderator calls Ethan’s name sixth. He walks to the white gaffed mark in the middle of the narrow stage and gives the hundreds of professionals seated before him at expensive place settings a non-committal nod. It was the best he could muster under the circumstances and with four sets of white lights shining in his face.

Bidding opened at $500.

Ethan scoffed to himself. That was 5x the amount he was willing to spend on this blind and forced date. As his price tag rose, he scanned the crowd of vile individuals that participate in this tier of humiliation, taking in as many faces as he could see under the bright lights raising their paddles in his favor.

He managed to rake in $2,200 when Naveen decided to put his the man out of his misery.

For that Ethan was grateful. Even if it was all Naveen’s fault in the first place. 

“I’ll be down in the bar,” Ethan said in Naveen’s ear after walking through the throng of people towards his bidder’s table. “Come get me when it’s time for our date.” The sarcasm and distain in his tone was palpable.

“Yes, darling” was all Naveen replied, patting Ethan’s shoulder.

In no time at all the ladies began taking the stage. Odette was the 11th woman to grace the stage.

Luckily, Naveen didn’t need to come up with an elaborate scheme to allow himself to bid on two dates. He asked to borrow Zaid’s paddle once they looked at the program and realized Inès was not participating.

“She said it was excited for it…” Zaid muttered in disbelief, before giving his number to Naveen no questions asked and storming off.

Odette was oddly popular for someone who keeps to herself and her close knit of friends. An opening bit of $200 effortlessly climbed up to $5,000. Mostly in part due to tall, looming doctor cloaked in the back of the room Naveen couldn’t recognize, countering every bid made. 

More minutes passed in rapid succession, and Ode was beginning to challenge Harper who was called at $8,644.

“And do we have 5.4. 5.4k!” the moderator rattled off. The man in the back rose his paddle. “5.4 to 126. Do we have 5.6?”

No one raised the bid.

“5.4k going once…”

Just as he went to say ‘twice’, Naveen stood and countered to “$6,000!” Going bold to secure the win. The entire evening was riding on this moment. If Naveen wasn’t so focused he could hear Dr. Trinh’s gasp from two tables over. 

Without hesitation the stranger upped it to $6,300.

With a deep breath and tunnel vision, Naveen countered; 

“7,000.”

The moderator saw the bold move and raised, “$7,000 to close. Going once…”

Naveen looked back at the shadowy man who nodded once and backed down, exiting the room altogether.

No one could put a price on love.

At least that’s what Naveen told himself.

Odette made her way over with a radiant, albeit confused, smile; 

“Naveen, if you wanted to have dinner you could have asked. I’d never charge you.”

“As much as I love the pleasure of your company,” he said as he led their way downstairs, “It’s not me you’ll be joining.”

Confusion certainly took over and was present in the crease between her brows as they walked. Her grip on the picnic basket handle like a vice, and her steps cautiously keeping in time with her friend. That was until she saw Ethan at a table for two all alone.

Her heart beat rapidly and even skipped a few beats.

He wouldn’t have would he?

She got her answer in the indiscernible scowl that took over Ethan’s expression as soon as he noticed the pair approaching.

Ethan rose from the bar top. “What is this?” his narrowed eyes pointed dangerously at Naveen. 

The Chief just smiled, one of those Cheshire Cat grins, before informing his very hardworking colleagues: 

“I think the two of you have worked very hard and deserve some time off. Think of it as a thank you. Get out. Have some fun. I promise I won’t ask any questions. Though if I hear you two just stayed here and drank, I’ll need a detailed account of the evening.”

The two young diagnosticians looked at their friend, shell-shocked.

Naveen looked between the two of them - Odette to his left, fuchsia painted lips rounded and gaze trailing down to her vice-like grip on the weaved basket handle, and Ethan before him, arms folded across his chest mouth pursed into the thinnest line of displeasure. Everything was falling into place.  

Then with the brightest smiles, Naveen left his two favorite people to their own devices. One he was sure would not have a single second of awkward tension as soon as he was out of sight. 

Oh how wrong Dr. Banerji was... The silence that fell between Ethan and Ode was relatively awkward for two people that spend on-average 15 hours a day together, and any spare time outside of hospital grounds. 

As soon as Naveen was out of sight Odette turned to face Ethan fully; “What’d you have planned for your date?”

Ethan’s gaze fell to the tiled floor, his hand coming up to sheepishly rub the back of his neck. “Apparently it has been vetoed by our benefactor.”  

She shook her head. Of course.

“You?” he asked, letting himself finally meet her eyes. 

“Sienna made picnic baskets for us all.” She held up the basket, “We’re supposed to set up in the park down the road...” 

“All of you?”

Odette bit her lip before answering in truth, “So we can go home together in case our dates were...” 

She didn’t need to finish the sentence for Ethan to understand the kinds of creeps and entitled asshats an event like this could draw. 

Ethan nodded slowly, thinking. Weighing all the ways an impromptu date with him under the eyes of her friends could go. 

It was Odette who said the words out loud, “A bit weird…”

What was most definitely weird was having to explain to her friends that the Chief of Medicine had set them up on a date for some unfathomable reason, and why both their hearts beat a little faster at the prospect. The thought of the two of them sitting among her friends with their dates was not something either were keen on. Even if they made it clear it’s an evening shared between good friends. 

For Ethan, he would much rather take Odette out for a meal, or ice cream, or… anything anywhere as long as he got to spend the evening with her and that dress away from the eyes of Edenbrook.  

“What would you like to do instead?”

“Let’s have a drink and then get away from all these people.” Her shrug and enticing smile was enough for Ethan Ramsey to go along with whatever the night would bring their way.  

_____________________

> ode and ethan masterlist <

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Ethan:

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[intermundia]

Hello! I love your writing so much, thank you for your incredible stories! I'm trying to read Lex Talonis slowly because I want to savour it and I've CONSUMED everything else 😂 I'd love to know how the Classics department reacts for Obikin getting together (and MARRIED) in My Ananke- were they impressed at their restraint or like 'you MARRIED HIM??? You were just meant to fuck him out your system!!!'

Interesting question to ponder!!!! Because Obi-Wan absolutely did not tell anyone in advance of him showing up wearing a ring—except for his neighbor Plo, who saw Anakin frequently over the summer. Plo’s a good sort of friend, though, and didn’t gossip. His daughter Ahsoka, on the other hand, might have told her classmate Barriss, who may have told *her* mom.

Luminara absolutely saw this all coming, and was not surprised in the slightest. It was during a shared upper level seminar that she had frequent and prolonged observation of the degree of mutual pining. I think she’s a sweetheart, and would be thrilled for Obi-Wan. She knew just how much effort he’d been putting in to keeping things professional.

In public, Mace Windu does not care. He just wants staff meetings to run quickly and smoothly, with minimal drama. His public stance is that everyone would do well to model themselves on Obi-Wan’s sense of propriety. Between him and Obi-Wan, though, he is the sort to give him a very nice bottle of scotch and a firm congratulatory handshake.

Quinlan, the gremlin, would have been very surprised he put a ring on it, at least so quickly. He knew things would escalate quickly, but not *that* quickly. He’s thrilled, though, because it gives him fodder for teasing Obi-Wan for years. Even though he’d been an almost daily witness to Obi-Wan’s restraint, he can needle him about ~surely~ to get married so quickly, there had to be a reason. Perhaps he asks frequently when Anakin is due or mimes a shotgun. Obi-Wan finds that… unamusing.

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

TheGuardian’s Oath, Part Ten

I’m definitely making progress... You can get caught up on previous sections by following the links in the Master List. 

Pairing: Feargal Devitt/ Finn Balor x OFC

Word count: 3,035

Content advisory: Some sexual content, not as graphic as in previous chapters. 

At first, I wondered if Sophia might have made them when she first started talking of her lost younger brother, but even a quick look dispelled that idea. The needlework was that of a skilled worker, a grown woman, not a child. The fabric was very soft and fine and the blanket was edged with a distinctive type of lace. Even the thread used for the embroidery looked expensive. Whoever had made these pieces had done so with the aim of making something very special and had the knowledge of what was needed to do so. Whatever had become of Colin, someone had gone to great lengths to make him something to show that he was loved. 

Perhaps the proper thing to do would have been to put everything away and wait to discuss these matters with my husband but I knew myself well enough to know that the thought that Kate might have lied to me about the origins of “Colin” would eat at my heart until I knew the truth.  So I gathered up both items, carefully folding them because I hated the idea of showing them any disrespect, and went downstairs to the kitchen. 

“Good morning ma’am,” Kate greeted me with her customary cheer. “Can I fix you something to eat?”

“Not right away,” I stammered, laying the mysterious garments out for her to see. “I was making some room in the cedar chest upstairs and I found these inside it. I’m not quite sure what to make of it.”

Kate stepped closer and her eyes widened. She looked every bit as shocked as I was, her jaw falling slack as she turned to face me. 

“These were upstairs? They were with… her… things?”

I nodded. “I remember what you told me about Sophia and I thought at first she might have made them but… there’s no way…”

Kate shook her head, rubbing her hands on her apron as she often did when she was anxious. “Oh no, these are her doing… the first Mrs. Devitt. That lace is from her part of the world. She brought some with her and she made blankets and wraps for Miss Sophia and Master William just like these. It’s been years since I’ve thought about it but doing such work was one of the only things that made her seem happy.”

She pursed her lips a little, as if she felt she’d said too much. 

“So there must have been some background story then, something she shared with Sophia,” I mused. “Is it possible that Mrs. Devitt had a younger brother who died? Perhaps Sophia heard the story when she was very young and confused it in her mind?”

“I suppose it could be something like that, ma’am. Although that name, Colin… that was the Reverend’s late father.”

“True. And the late Mrs. Devitt’s people were French.”

“I suppose they might have chosen that name for their son and then decided to change it to William afterwards,” she offered. 

We puzzled in silence for a few minutes before we were startled by a sharp gasp. We hadn’t heard Susan make her way into the kitchen but more unnerving was the expression on her face when she saw what we were looking at. 

“Oh she can’t have kept those,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “With the name and everything.”

“Do you know what these are, Susan?” I asked her, a little more sharply than I had intended. 

The girl’s face could hardly have looked more shocked if she had seen an actual ghost. 

“I’m sorry for speaking outside my place, ma’am but it caught me off guard. I never realized that they named it.”

“Named what?”

“Well when the Reverend’s first wife disappeared, when she died, she was expecting a child.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Kate snapped at her. “Who told you such a thing?” The cook turned her attention to me before continuing, “Ma’am, I’ve been here many years, and I was here during both of her confinements and I knew practically as soon as she did when she was in the family way.”

“I know she never shared the news,” Susan retorted, “but there were people in the village knew about it all the same.”

“Shame on you for listening to idle gossip!”

“Wait,” I interjected softly, trying to make sense of what I’d just heard. “Susan, why would Mrs. Devitt have told people in the village about this?”

“Why indeed?” Kate huffed. 

Susan shot the older woman a hot look but addressed her comments to me. “It wasn’t that she told people there, ma’am. She went to see my Aunt Anne because she was having a terrible time of it. My aunt always helped ladies in distress that way.”

Kate shook her head a little, her dark eyes furious and I was worried that any word she spoke would cause a fight.

“Your aunt helps with the lying-in?” I prompted. 

Susan nodded, looking a little gratified that I was taking her seriously. “She does whatever’s needed along the way.”

I didn’t need to ask Kate for her opinion because her disgust was painted across her face for all to see. 

“I can’t say what the problem was exactly but she asked me to set up a meeting for her with Aunt Anne and that’s what I did. I never knew what they discussed, as it wasn’t my business.”

Kate ejaculated a hard little laugh and I held up my hand to calm both of them. 

“Clearly, we’re not going to be able to learn anything more on the subject and that may be for the best. I am going to place these back where I found them and I don’t think we should any of us speak on it any further.”

The rest of the day unfolded under a sort of dark cloud that was reflected in the weather. A squall rolled in by late afternoon and everything for miles around was battered by wind and rain. I entreated Susan to stay until the storm passed for her own safety but she remained in such a mood that she refused. Dinner was quiet, with Kate a little tart that I had given any credence to Susan’s story and, I imagined, a little annoyed that she was unable to come up with an argument to categorically refute it. 

“Will you have a cup of tea with me?” she piped up once I had put the children to bed. 

“I would enjoy that,” I sighed. 

She sat with me and asked friendly enough questions about how I was managing and whether or not the children were afraid of the storm, but it was clearly all a prelude to what she really wanted to say. 

“I hope you don’t think I’m being impertinent, ma’am, but that girl’s story about…”

I nodded and bade her continue. 

“I don’t know if you’d decided on saying anything to the Reverend about those blankets you found, but if you do, for pity’s sake don’t start talking about his former wife going to see that old woman in the village. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with her helping young mothers when their time comes but it’s well enough known that she’s hardly better than a witch. You know I don’t believe that the Reverend’s first wife was any saint but there’s wild and then there’s ungodly. I don’t think there’s a hair of truth to that tale Susan told us. I don’t believe she meant any harm because she’s like a lot of the village girls, a bit simple and a measure too fanciful for her own good. But I’ve heard enough about that old woman and goings-on there to know that if you tell the Reverend that people are saying that his wife went to see her because of a family problem that it will be like a knife in his heart.”

“I understand, Kate. I wish I hadn’t found those things and started any of this. When I feel the time is right, I show them to him and ask what he wants me to do with them. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it.”

We sipped our tea, both clearly ruminating about the fact that this was likely the end of nothing. It seemed that whatever I tried to do for this family, now my family, I was forever disinterring their dead. 

Then, from upstairs, there was a bloodcurdling scream followed by a loud crash. Kate and I leapt to our feet and ran to the children’s room, finding them both wide awake and in tears. 

“What happened? Did something fall?”

Both children shook their heads frantically, both of them trying to grab hold of me. 

“It came from upstairs!” William wailed, burying his face against my skirt. 

“Very well then, I’ll go and look.”

As best as I could with the children attached to me as they were, I made my way to the door leading up to the garrett. It felt strange that I was so intimidated, considering that I had still slept more nights in the attic than in the master bedroom. But the narrow door seemed like it led to something dangerous and I found myself hesitating before it. 

“Leave it ma’am, I’m going to go for the watch,” Kate mumbled, grasping my shoulder. 

“There’s no need for that,” I answered, as much to convince myself as her. “If someone wanted to break in, they’d have come in through the ground floor. We are in no danger.”

I managed to extricate myself from the three of them and cautiously opened the door. I could immediately feel something different than I remembered. I could feel the wind and the scent of the sea was thick in my nostrils. I slowly ascended the stairs to my former room, my breath quickening. I wanted to tell Kate to bring the children back to their room, although I knew they would never go. Unlike them, I had no fear of burglars. I knew that something else could be lying in wait. 

The attic was oddly bright and it took my eyes a moment to adjust and understand what I was seeing. The little window from which I had been able to see the ocean was completely smashed and part of a tree hung through it. In the end, I was alone and this was nothing more than a common accident brought on by the storm. As much of a mess as it was, it was neither physically nor spiritually threatening. Nevertheless, I was filled with unease as I observed the carcass of the tree and the shards of glass glittering like stars across the floor. 

“Well I won’t be easy to clean up but it’s nothing too bad,” I sighed, giving Kate and the children a weary smile. “That big Scotch pine’s fallen and taken out the window.”

Kate shook her head. “The Reverend’s been asking Mr. Jones to cut that thing back for two years now. He’s going to be fit to be tied when he finds out.”

“At least I’ll be able to get the worst of it dealt with before he gets home.” I smiled to reassure everyone that I had things in hand. “Please get yourself some rest, Kate. I’ll get these two settled again.”

William and Sophia went back to bed easily enough, their tears dried and their rush of excitement quickly fading. I gave them both a kiss and promised them again that all was well. I was about to leave them when something occurred to me about the sequence of events from earlier. 

“Sophia,” I began, trying to recall every detail of what had happened in perfect clarity, “what was it that made you scream earlier?”

“I was just frightened by the noise,” she answered tensely. 

“Of course, it’s just that I thought… I thought I heard your voice before the tree fell.”

Her dark eyes met mine and, even in the shadows, I could see her brow twitch and furrow just a little. 

“I must have been mistaken,” I whispered. “Good night, sweet girl.”

As I returned to bed, I replayed the events of the night in my head. I tried to convince myself that I’d made a mistake but it was no use. Sophia had screamed and then the tree had fallen. She had seen or heard something that scared her but it was something else, something that had disappeared in the commotion afterwards. It could easily have been that she awoke and was frightened by the grotesque shadows cast on the wall by the trees outside. But there was that other possibility; I knew that there was that other figure who lurked here and now it seemed that he had approached the children. 

“The arrangement is that you don’t touch them,” I whispered aloud. “You do what you want to me but the children and their father are spared.”

I realized in my heart that I had no power over him and that I could not depend on him honoring our bizarre ‘contract’. Still, I repeated the phrase again in the hopes that he would hear: 

“They are to be kept safe.”

*

I shouldn’t have been surprised that the following day I had a terrible headache. Shifts in weather often had an effect on me and with the stress of having to deal with Mr. Jones and arranging the repairs, along with another sleepless night, I was in so much pain I found myself having to squint. 

Mr. Jones was none too happy about being called in to deal with the tree, all the more so when I insisted on hiring men from the town to repair and replace the window rather than allowing him to bring in members of his family to do the job. He cursed at me under his breath whenever he thought I was out of earshot. 

Strange men were in and out well into the evening, filling the house with the sound of shouts and heavy footfalls. The men who had come to work on the window were aggravated that Mr. Jones insisted on cleaning up the remains of the tree at the same time. Kate and Susan were aggravated that there were so many people coming in and out of the house. An argument broke out when Mr. Jones fell from his ladder and insisted that one of the men inside the house had distracted him and caused the accident. The foreman was equally adamant that none of his men had been in the room at the time and that our old gardener was trying to stir up trouble. 

By the time everyone was done for the day, I was so exhausted I could barely speak. Seeing the state I was in, Kate ordered me to bed. I did not like to impose on her any further, since she hadn’t had an easy night either, but I was in no state to put up a fight. I retired early and would have fallen asleep right away but for what I saw when I entered the bedroom: three lines scratched roughly into the floorboards just inside the doorframe. 

I wanted to cry out but there was nothing that I could say. Although the workers hadn’t been in our bedroom, they had been moving throughout the house. The marks could easily have been an accident. Even if they had been made on purpose, there was no sinister meaning to such markings that I was aware of. Still, their presence was a torment to me. It wasn’t enough that he could come and claim me whenever he wanted, Balor needed me to know that he was always there, always watching, even when I couldn’t see him. 

I fell asleep quickly and found myself dreaming of a walk in the coastal forest, of wandering and trying to find something, my way home or something I had lost. As I walked, I found myself growing shorter and shorter of breath, until I realized that I was underwater, that I was struggling to breathe because there was no air for me. I awoke some time after dark, gasping, aware only of a weight on top of me and rapid, hot breaths on my neck. His claws were wrapped in my hair and I could feel his sex pressed close to mine. His shoulder pinned my face to the pillow and kept me from seeing anything. I might as well have been running through the underwater forest still. 

His touch was rougher and more insistent than ever but I felt a little relieved because if he was focused on me, it meant that he wasn’t marauding through the house or targeting the children. I even slipped an arm around him, pressing my hand against the base of his bony spine and encouraging him to take what he so obviously wanted. He bit down hard on my neck, enough that I felt blood droplets form and trickle from the wound as he thrust into me. 

As always, I tried to resist surrendering to the ecstasy he made me feel and, as always, I failed, becoming an eager participant in our ungodly coupling. 

He was exceptionally animated, a stream of filth and curses flowing from him amid declarations that I was his and no one else’s, that I had been made for him, body and soul. I wanted to tell him that he was a monster and I was meant only for my husband, and at the same time, I felt connected to the very force of life when I was with him in a way that I never could without. In the end, my mind seemed to become confused as it shifted between Feagal and Balor and all I could do was mewl and whimper in reply to his goading. 

When it was finished between us, Balor ran his tongue slowly over the length of my collarbone, sucking gently at the hollow where it connected to my throat. He spoke in a rough whisper, tapping his fingers against my shoulder, a beat for each word he uttered. 

“One. Two. Three.”

And then he was gone. 

[minah-delacroix]

At any price (part V)

Universe: Dynasty AU

Characters: Minah, Sungjae, Tyler, Tara, Ashleigh, Daniel, Jane, Mark, Jaehyun

Word count: 2 k

Wilde

“Minah,  we’re about to leave, come down now or you will have to drive yourself to your grandparents’” Tara warned from the foyer, where Jane, Jaehyun, Daniel, Tyler, Mark, and herself had been waiting for the Delacroix heiress for what it seemed to be an eternity —though Mark had pointed out it’d only been fifteen minutes.

“For God’s sake, calm down, T. I’m all ready” Minah spoke and all eyes turned to look at the top of the stairs, where she had made her appearance looking like taken straight from a runway, clad in a sexy Elie Saab crop top and short skirt ensemble of glittering burgundy sequins. A Stella McCartney fake fur coat rested on her shoulders and covered her bare arms up to where a pair of satin gloves hid her skin.

Everybody looked pretty much ready for the party, but the moment Minah stepped in, her friends suddenly looked underdressed or paling in comparison. Not even Jane’s see-through dress posed her much competition and even Jaehyun seemed to have sucked in a breath the moment Minah finally made it down the stairs.

“Wow, you look-” Tyler’s mind ran through a litany of adjectives from gorgeous to the cliched stunning, but when he eventually picked one Daniel was speaking for him.

“Overdressed” He deadpanned.

“You’ve never read Wilde, right?” Jane threw a nasty glare at the man and slid a hand in the crook of Jaehyun’s elbow, pulling him forward till she was close enough to wrap her free arm around Minah’s shoulders. “You look amazing, your grandfather is probably gonna pop a vein” She reassured, slightly pushing her friend toward the door.

Laughing, Minah hoped her grandfather would rather ignore her presence. One of the benefits of attending an event in a property bigger than a stadium was that avoiding people was not supposed to be that hard of a task.  

Minah was about to let Jane drag her outside the manor when Tyler cleared his throat. She broke from her friend’s hold and spun to face him, her smile vanishing when she took notice of how handsome he looked. She paused to look at him from head to toe. Tyler wore a black suit with gold details that caught the dim light of the entrance hall and gave him some sort of god-like glow. She had a brief recollection of standing in front of him at the winter ball of Le Rosey when they were teenagers and she had to gulp when she realized the frisson of electricity waving through her did not exist in high school.

“Is there a problem?” Minah asked, not knowing what else she could possibly say. Tyler laughed shaking his head and enjoying the confused expression on her face, he took her hand lightly into his and lead her to the limousine waiting for them.

Tara and Mark followed them, but before walking through the threshold the woman turned around, looking at Daniel inquisitively

“Why are you standing there? Aren’t you coming?”

“What did Wilde say?” He asked, as though Tara wasn’t looking at him with thinly veiled annoyance etched on her face.

“A good friend will always stab you in the front?” Tara offered, her face softening a bit as she spoke.

“No, babe, I think Jane meant, you can never be overdressed or overeducated.” Mark corrected his girlfriend as he slid an arm around her waist.

As Daniel slipped into the car and took the only available seat between Jaehyun and Mark, he thought to himself that Tyler’s little sister and Oscar Wilde were right. Watching Tyler practically wrapped around Minah, acting as though he would’ve kissed the floor she walked on really felt like a stab.

Closing doors

After briefly watching the garden's decoration —including the 25-feet tree that was supposed to be lit up at midnight— and having Tara gush about how the Delacroix Manor could as well fit the description of the fairy palace of some fantastic tale she’d been told as a kid, the group of friends split up in different directions. Tara and Mark met up with some of their college friends and were dragged by a very excited Arabella Black to greet their old classmates. Jane and Jaehyun had been summoned by Jane’s aunt and they were trapped in a business conversation with Minah’s great-aunt Adelaine, and Daniel had bumped into some old flame —or at least that was what Tara said— as soon as they set foot in the patio. That left Minah and Tyler walking into the Delacroix Manor on their own.

The first thing that caught their attention was the large group of children dressed in outfits that resembled terribly the unmistakable Vienna Boys' Choir uniform following a very stressed-looking man that Minah recognized as the bursar of Wiener Sängerknaben through the foyer.

“Don’t tell me, your family-“ Tyler scoffed in disbelief.

“They’re an NPO, they need help with their expenses and my family has the money to waste on ridiculous things like trees and flying a team of fifty people from Austria.” Minah said unapologetically, “Besides-“ She blocked Tyler’s way to stop him from walking further into the house “It sounds hypocritical coming from a man who has his own patissier and eats food engraved with his family’s coat of arms” she teased. “Not to mention the girls who offer to undress him before a bath like servants from the fourteenth century” She added, moving to the side and leading Tyler through the spacious hall where waiters served glasses of port and offered cocktails exclusively created for the occasion.

“For your information, I don’t need to pay anyone to undress me” Tyler replied defensively “And besides, they only offered because I told them you were a princess and they took it literally,” he said cheekily, giving Minah a lopsided smile.

Minah was so entertained that she didn’t notice Sungjae and Ashleigh arrive.  

____

It was nearly midnight when Tyler managed to save Minah from a boring conversation with Countess de La Condamine, an avid gossip better known as Radio One France. The middle-aged woman had been passed down a fortune almost as great as the Delacroix’s, but she surely lacked their manners and class, so when Tyler rang Minah from across the room, she sighed relieved to have an excuse to avoid answering questions about who the handsome man with Jane Durand was or why the granddaughter of Madame Amelia Wu was dating the son of Korean immigrants.

“Took you long enough,” Minah said moving through the crowd, her phone still pressed against her ears and her eyebrows raised judgmentally.  

Tyler laughed on the phone “I thought I would let you have some fun before interrupting” he also started working his way through the crowd to meet Minah halfway.

“As much fun as one can get being interrogated by the Gestapo” She scoffed on the other end of the line.

“So, tell me, Miss Delacroix, what’s the best spot to watch the Tree Lighting?”

“Meet me at the staircase, I know the best spot for it”

——

“Welcome to my hidden refuge,” Minah said ushering Tyler into a spacious suite on the top floor. The room had a sloping roof and huge floor to ceiling windows that gave views over the extensive gardens of the manor. Though the place was as equally elegant and expensive-looking as the rest of the house, there was a certain relaxed vibe to it. Tyler thought to himself that it had a lot to do with the plush sofas in pastel colors arranged opposite each other in front of the fireplace, where flames flickered. Or maybe it was the Christmas tree decorated with cute animals like owls, deers, and squirrels or the fact the suite smelled like a mixture of pine and lilies that reminded him of Minah’s room in the winter campus of Le Rosey.

“I can’t believe we’ve known each other for so long and this is the first time I’m watching how the Delacroix kick off Christmas season” Tyler commented, admiring the scene through the window.

“Hey, here’s to new traditions” Minah handed him a glass of scotch and held her own glass up high.

“To new traditions” Tyler repeated, toasting with a flourish.

Minah watched delighted how the  Christmas lights were progressively lit up throughout the garden, offering quite a spectacle. Meanwhile, people started to gather around the patio as the Tree Lighting neared.

“This couldn’t get any better,” Tyler said, watching the hundreds of golden lanterns lighting up across the courtyard.

“Oh, no, believe me, it does” Minah pulled open the French doors and lead Tyler to the narrow balcony that reminiscent of the Parisian Haussmann buildings, was decorated with low, wrought-iron railings painted in black. “It’s the best view to the gardens”

“Not to mention I have the prettiest girl in this party beside me” The corners of Tyler’s mouth curled up, making a soft laugh escape from Minah’s lips.

“Oh, shut up”

“Make me” Tyler closed the space between them, enjoying the feel of Minah’s skin as he slid his hands around her waist. She tipped her head in return, showing her neck for Tyler’s lips to attack. The next bit seemed quite inevitable, but then, the distant sound of a giggle and moaning caused Minah to push Tyler so abruptly he nearly fell on his bottom.

Minah mindlessly rushed through the balcony and Tyler’s voice floated behind her as she turned the corner, trying to stop her. Whether he could anticipate the scene that was about to unfold in front of them or not, it was already too late when he caught up with Minah. She’d already caught Sungjae and Ashleigh having sex in what once was supposed to be their secret spot.

“Oh my god, are you kidding me?” Minah’s jaw dropped open “Whatever happened to setting boundaries?” She could only hear the words fell past her lips as though some stranger was speaking for her because her attention was focused on the way Sungjae was still gripping Ashleigh's hips and all of a sudden images from the past four years flashed before her eyes.  His lips pressing into the skin of her neck, lips eagerly making their way down her body, the way he whispered love phrases into her ear. The weight of the memories was enough to make Minah gasp for air, as if some invisible force was preventing her from breathing.

“This is not what it-“ Sungjae began.

“Wait, does this mean you two used to do what we were just doing up here?” Ashleigh questioned, eyes on Sungjae as she tried to hide behind him.

“Every year before the Tree Lighting Ceremony” Minah shook her head “This is my house, I’ve marked my territory all over this roof” She stated shamelessly, although she could barely keep her voice even.

“Is that why you brought him up here?” Sungjae glared at a spot behind Minah, which she assumed was where Tyler stood.

“No!” Minah denied with a scoff.

“Why do you care?” Ashleigh asked covering her scrawny figure with Sungjae’s shirt.

“I don’t” Sungjae replied defensively “It doesn’t mean anything”

At this point, Minah was surprised there was no steam escaping her nostrils. Feeling anger wash over her, she let out a forced, vicious laugh.

“Yes, he is right. It doesn’t mean anything” Minah picked Ashleigh’s polyester top from the floor and something that she recognized as one of Sungjae’s many black blazers “Clearly nothing is sacred anymore”

“Minah-“ Whatever Sungjae was planning to say, he didn’t because Minah turned around and threw their clothes over the railing.

“I should’ve listened to Tara when she told me to close the door on you” Minah inhaled sharply, walked through the balcony’s doors, and shut them close in his face, securing them from inside. As she turned around she could hear Sungjae’s voice calling after her, but surprisingly enough all she could think of was that she needed to find Tyler and head back home.

...

[emospritelet]

For the Sutheracey fic : "I never saw a candy cane I didn’t want to suck”. And because of the trailer of course : “Well, looks like the power’s out!” Bless you for writing this darling!! :*

I know Cobra isn't out yet, but lack of familiarity with source material has never stopped me from writing Robert Carlyle characters having sex with Belle or Lacey and it never will.

The smut is not in this chapter but will be coming soon :)

[AO3]

The scents of pine and cinnamon were hanging in the air, the sound of cheerful conversation and light, pleasant music surrounding him. The room was dominated by an enormous Christmas tree covered in warm-toned lights, set next to the grand marble fireplace. Robert Sutherland shook the hand of the French Ambassador as they finished going through the obligatory diplomatic small talk. Little of substance would be discussed at the Christmas party, he suspected, but the niceties had to be observed.

The French Ambassador moved on to speak with the Foreign Secretary, and Carrie de Ville was back by his side as though she had appeared from nowhere. Tall, slim and elegant, draped in a cream silk beaded dress, she was carrying a glass of champagne between thumb and forefinger as she eyed the crowd of politicians and diplomats that had arrived for an evening of drinks, expensive canapés and gossip.

“We’re almost done with the meet and greet,” she said. “Just a few to go.”

“You could have brought me a bloody drink,” he grumbled. “I’ve been standing here making small talk with everyone that passes for half an hour.”

“Yes, you must have spoken to a grand total of ten people, how dreadful.”

“It’s been at least twenty, and you know it.”

“Oh, have this one, if you’re going to whine about it.”

She shoved the glass of champagne into his hand, tossing her blonde hair with a sigh. Carrie was his Principal Private Secretary and, it often seemed, self-appointed big sister. Despite being younger than him. He took a slurp of the champagne, wetting his parched throat, and Carrie eyed him.

“No getting pissed and passing out under the Christmas tree,” she warned. “If I have to get Lance to carry you upstairs it’s not gonna be pretty.”

“My days of drunken shenanigans have been over for some time,” he said dryly.

“Pity. Drunken shenanigans are always the most fun.”

Sutherland shifted, uncomfortable in his suit, his tie a little too tight. He tugged at it to loosen the knot, grimacing.

“Leave it alone,” said Carrie severely.

“Why did I decide to put this tie on anyway?” he demanded.

“Because Ursula bought it for you, and you could never deny her anything,” she said. “Besides, it’s nice. Red and white striped silk. Perfectly respectable.”

Sutherland sighed.

“I look like a bloody peppermint stick,” he said sourly.

“Don’t be silly. It’s a festive choice.”

“Right, because festive is exactly what I feel like, waiting to welcome in every ambassador who’s staying in Britain for Christmas. I thought the storm would keep them away.”

“Free food and drinks at Chequers and the opportunity to bend the ear of the Prime Minister? Not even the worst snowstorm in a decade will keep them away.”

“Sounds as though that’s exactly what’s heading this way,” he said. “Tell me this party will be over before the worst of the snow gets here. I don’t want to be stuck with this lot for company if we get snowed in. I’m not sure my skills at small talk extend that far.”

“You know perfectly well that schmoozing is expected for a man in your position,” she said. “Goes with the job of being the boss of all of us, I suppose.”

“I’m the boss, am I?” he said dryly. “Bloody news to me. If it were up to me, I’d be spending the evening drinking whisky in my underwear.”

“Well, you could still do that,” she allowed. “But let’s at least wait until the press pack has gone. I imagine a shot of you in your boxers swigging Scotch would definitely make the front page. And not in the way we want.”

Sutherland chuckled, and stiffened as two new arrivals entered the room. A tall, somewhat heavy man with a receding hairline, dressed in a dinner jacket and tie and looking every bit as uncomfortable as Sutherland felt. Clutching his arm was a very pretty young woman with reddish-brown hair tied up in a messy bun, the blue sequined dress she wore covering her slender body to the neck, a thigh-high slit in the skirt exposing a pale, shapely leg.

“Ah, it’s the new Australian High Commissioner, Maurice French,” said Carrie, in an undertone.  “I believe that lovely young thing is his daughter.”

As if she had heard, the High Commissioner’s daughter glanced over at Sutherland, raised an eyebrow, and smirked a little.

“Prime Minister,” said the High Commissioner, holding out a large, meaty hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“High Commissioner.” Sutherland shook his hand. “Likewise. I understand you’ve only been in post a week or so?”

“My predecessor had the poor timing to go and have a heart attack, right before Christmas,“ said Mr French heartily. “Thought I’d better get over here and settle in as soon as I could.”

A waiter wandered past with a tray of drinks: tall glasses of gin and tonic, ice cubes and lemon wedges clinking beside red and white straws that reminded Sutherland uncomfortably of his own tie. Miss French snatched one from the tray and put the straw to her lips. Sutherland looked back to Mr French.

“That must have been quite a change of scene to come from summer heat to the worst blizzards in a decade.”

“Well, at least it’s festive, I suppose,” said Mr French, looking around appreciatively. “Lovely place here.”

“Thank you. They say living at Chequers is the only good thing about being Prime Minister.”

“Beats arguing with a bunch of politicians and journalists,” he said. “Must be tough to heat the place in this weather, though. What is it, seventeenth century?”

“Sixteenth,” said Sutherland. “But it’s well-insulated. How are you finding your own residence?”

“Makes a change trying to keep the heat inside, I have to say.”

Sutherland had to smile at that.

“Is the South African High Commissioner here?” asked Mr French. “I wanted to taunt him about the cricket. You a cricket man?”

“Ah - no, Scotland's focus is more on football and rugby than cricket,” he said. “We don’t really have the weather for it.”

"So I see."

“The South African High Commissioner is talking to the Chancellor of the Exchequer,” put in Carrie. “I suspect he’d far rather discuss cricket than the Chancellor’s gardening exploits.”

Sutherland grinned.

“This is my Principal Private Secretary, Carrie de Ville,” he said. “She’d be delighted to introduce you, I’m sure.”

The young woman tapped Mr French’s arm, and he started.

“Oh, this is my daughter, Lacey,” he added. “She’s my plus one for the evening.”

Mr French wandered off with Carrie, chattering about cricket and leaving his daughter frowning after him, gin and tonic in her hand.

“Miss French,” said Sutherland, making her look around. “Welcome to Chequers.”

Lacey French gave him a long, appraising look, eyes sliding up and down his form and coming to rest on his tie before flicking up to meet his. They were clear blue, ringed with dark lashes, and she had a very blunt, direct stare. The tip of her pink tongue wet lips painted the deep, luscious red of holly berries, and she raised her chin a little.

“You look like a candy cane,” she said, and Sutherland’s hand automatically went to the knot of his tie.

“It was a gift,” he said lamely, and she smirked.

“Oh, don’t feel bad,” she said lazily. “I never saw a candy cane I didn’t want to suck.”

She locked eyes with him as she raised her glass, red lips closing around the end of the straw, cheeks hollowing as she sucked, and Sutherland felt his eyes widen as a pulse of heat shot down through his body to his groin. Miss French smirked, licked those full lips, and walked away, hips swaying. Her dress was backless, the blue sequins just skimming her shoulders before plunging down to expose a tantalising amount of pale skin. He swallowed hard, and threw back the rest of the champagne in his glass. Well. That was bracing.

[butcanijustnot]

Dating Natasha Romanoff would include:

Tagging @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69

(If you have a character you want to see written, or you want to be tagged, PM me and I’ll add it/you to the list.)

You met her when she first joined S.H.I.E.L.D, tasked with helping her become accustomed to her new life on the right side of the law.

You ended up spending a lot of time together, helping each other with work and casually hanging out afterward.

Natasha didn’t usually trust anyone, especially having just come out of her assassin career, but she just got a good vibe off of you. You were calm and caring, but strong and brutally honest when you had to be. You did your job well and didn’t take any unnecessary shit from anyone. She just felt like you were worth her time and trust.

You had a flirty friendship, and over time you developed feelings for her, real feelings, but you never acted on them

“She’s straight.” You’d tell yourself. “And even if she wasn’t, she’d never be interested in someone like me.”

She continued to flirt, but now each long touch and strung out word burned a hole in your heart. She was something you didn’t think you could ever have, but little did you know she had the same feelings for you.

Both of you stayed in this nebulous limbo for a long time, flirting but never going anywhere, until one day you were out for drinks.  

You were both a little tipsy and in the bathroom in the club reapplying makeup. You were giggling to yourself and Natasha looked at you confused.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I love that lipstick on you.” You cooed to change the subject and shoot her a compliment. You loved the bright red lipsticks that she wore and was secretly jealous of how well she could pull them off. If only you had that confidence.

“You wanna try it?” She asked, a devilish smirk on her face.

Eh, you probably weren’t going to spend that much longer at the club anyway, you could jazz it up for the remainder of your time. “Sure!” You agreed.

Her lips crashed onto yours before you could register it and time seemed to slow right down to a standstill.

She tasted like everything you dreamt of, Scotch and lipstick and something you hadn’t tasted anywhere else that was uniquely Natasha.

She pulled away for a second and you suppressed the urge to whine at the sudden loss of contact. “Are you alright with this? I’ll stop if you’re not comfortable.” She asked.

“Please don’t stop.” You reconnected your lips with hers, full on making out this time.

Needless to say, you two hooked up that night. You promised yourself that it wouldn’t let it change the friendship you had with her, and Natasha seemed to make the same promise because your friendship remained the same after this.

Except you would sleep together every once in a blue moon. Just one major difference. Everything else was the same.

You two had this relationship for a while, friends with benefits until one-night things changed.

“Have you thought about us?” Natasha asked you as you lay in bed next to her. “About us actually…”

“Dating?” You finished for her.

“Yeah.”

“Yes. I think about it a lot actually. Why do you ask?” You questioned.

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been watching the other avenger pair off. Tony and Pepper are on their three-year anniversary, Steve and Sharon are a ‘thing’ now, and Clint’s just had his fourth kid. Hell, even the resident robot’s got a girlfriend!”

“Vision and Wanda are finally together!?!” You squealed. Last you heard they were relentlessly pining for one another. You didn’t know the Avengers personally but Natasha told you all the good gossip.

“Yeah, they're pretty adorable.” She took a deep breath and continued. “I want to be happy like they all are, and when I think hard about who could really make me happy…” She paused and looked over at you. “I can only ever think of you.”

Your heart almost exploded right then and there. You enveloped her in a soft hug. “Natasha Romanoff, that is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. I’m so glad I can make you as happy as you make me, and if you’ll have me, I’d be honoured to be your girlfriend.”

To be honest, your relationship didn’t change too much after you got together. You went out more together, either for coffee before work or dinner and drinks after. It was simple but you liked it.

Your relationship was never truly monogamous until you both stopped working for S.H.I.E.L.D. Both of you had jobs that involved seducing people for information and assassination, so you both had to be comfortable with the other doing so. Luckily, Natasha trusted you and you trusted her, and you were both very open and honest about what happened on missions. There were no secrets between you, why would you need to have them?

Natasha didn’t tell the other Avengers she was dating anyone until a couple of months down the track. In fact, she didn’t tell anyone for about three months. You were a little confused but didn’t question it. Then, when she finally did tell them, you immediately found out why.

“They want to meet you. All of them.” Natasha said, flopping down on the bed with a groan. “They asked me about a thousand stupid questions.”

“I’m happy to meet them, but all at once sounds pretty daunting. Plus, the questioning will make me super nervous.” You mumbled, petting her hair as she lay face down in the mattress.

“I know. I told them to wait and I’d introduce you in due time when you’re ready.” She got up and nodded.

“Thanks, babe.” You whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

Of course, it didn’t work out that way.

First, Steve and Sam ‘run into you two’ out on a morning jog. Sam maintains that it was a total accident.

It wasn’t.

They ask you some questions and you answer politely. Natasha’s a little ticked off that they’re here but doesn’t say anything, just shoots them glares when you aren’t looking. Eventually, you split up and head home, you waving goodbye and Natasha grumbling under her breath.

“I like them.” You say, catching her off-guard. “If all your friends are like that then I can’t wait to meet them.”

Next day your home and hear a knock at the door. When you open it, a short brunette kid is staring up at you. He looked at you and his eyes widened. He almost seemed shocked you had opened the door.

“Hello there. I’m Peter and I’m here to…. Check the…. Check for…. Gas! I want to check on your gas pipes! I’m in the area surveying gas pipes!!” He said, clearly lying. You recognized the name but it took you a second to place it.

“Peter? As in…. Peter Parker? The Arachnid kid?”

“It’s… It’s Spiderman. How’d you know? Did Natasha tell you? She promised not to!”

You raised your hands in surrender. “No, I put it together myself. A kid gets a Stark internship and starts hanging out with Tony Stark, and at the same time, Iron Man gets a new, smaller, younger-looking sidekick? Doesn’t take a genius, man.”

“…. I’m not his sidekick…”

“Whatever… Did Tony Stark send you here?”

“…No.”

“You’re an awful liar. Come in, I’ll teach you. I just made Hot Chocolate.”

Later that day Natasha comes home to see Peter curled up on the couch watching movies with you. He purposefully avoids her glance. She knows.

You look up at her, one arm slung around Peters' shoulders. “Nat, I better meet your friends or they’re never going to stop turning up in our life.”

So, you do, at the next huge Stark party. Despite it being a Stark party, all the attention was on you, which was a strange new experience. They seem to really like you. They approve of your influence on Natasha and firmly believe you love her, which you do.

You patch her up after fights, no matter how much she complains.

“Y/N, I’m a grown woman, I can patch my own bullet wounds.”

“I know you can but you shouldn’t have too. You’ve got a girlfriend for that.”

She lies back and grumbles. You know she’s really feeling angry at herself for getting hurt and making you worry and you’re trying to help her.

You guys have spoken about adopting a child, a little girl most likely, but have made the decision to wait until you’re both out of the dangerous jobs you’re in and can fully cater too, support and protect a child in your care.

Until then, it’s just the two of you, which is absolutely perfect.

[oohlovergirl]

You and Roger are Best Friends, But He Wants to be Something More [Roger Taylor Imagine]

Pairing: Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor x Reader

Word count: 1186

Contains: angst?

A/N:  I’m currently writing a part 2 of this piece, so hold tight! (It will probably come out tomorrow). Also, would you guys want to see a part 2 of this one? Let me know. 

When you left your house this morning, you were excited. Excited for exactly two reasons. First, your last class just ended and winter break has officially started. Second, you were going to visit the boys at the house they’re currently holed up in, recording their new album. Roger invited you to stay for a bit, and you happily agreed, not wanting to miss an opportunity to see your best friend and watch the band create music. You and Roger actually knew each other since you both were babies, and he introduced you to Brian when they were still at Uni. You, also majoring in Astrophysics, already sort-of-knew Brian as you shared many of the same classes and quickly became friends (he was also the best study buddy). 

But a couple hours in, whilst sitting on the couch in the recording studio, your eyes begin to droop a bit. Maybe it was because you got absolutely no sleep due to that damn paper you spent all night working on (wanting to get a head start on the winter homework) before driving down to visit the boys. Your head falls forward, and you quickly jolt up, annoyed. But not even a second––okay, maybe like five seconds––later, you let your head rest on Roger’s shoulder, and he immediately wraps his arm around you. It wasn’t unusual. In fact, it was familiar, snuggling close to him. You and Roger always had a very touchy-feely relationship ever since you were little as you both are very touchy-feely people. 

You feel your eyes drooping again. But you couldn't help it. Roger’s warmth, (he’s always unusually warm––you don’t know why––but he’s like a furnace all year round), the way his arm is wrapped tightly around you, and the feeling of his hair lightly tickling the top of your cheek are all making you oh-so comfortable. 

And oh-so sleepy.

 I’m just going to close my eyes for a second, you think as you snuggle deeper into his side. His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. 

––––––––––

“I just feel like there needs to be something else––it’s just––it seems like something’s missing,” Freddie explains with furrowed brows. 

“Well, I like it,” Brian says, shrugging.

“Yeah, me too…what did you think about that Y/N?” Roger asks. No response. He looks down and sees you: your eyes closed, breathing heavily through your nose, your nose twitching a little. 

And his heart clenches at the sight. 

“No, I need to figure this out.”

“I’ve got an idea!”

“Shut up!” Roger whisper-yells, looking pointedly at each member and then back down to his sleeping best friend. Brian raises his eyebrows, giving his friend a knowing look, but Roger pretends he doesn’t see. 

“Y/N,” he says, gently shaking your shoulders. 

You rouse, blinking up at him owlishly, which causes his heart to flutter once more. 

“Hey, Sleepy, you wanna go back and take a nap in a proper bed? I don’t think I’m a very comfortable pillow.” You nod your head, rubbing at your eyes. 

“Sorry, guys, I stayed up late writing this paper…stupid Professor Gable…I don’t even know why I took his class,” you say through a yawn. 

“Oh! I had him, I can give you my notes if you want,” Brian offers. 

“You’re actually the best, Bri,” you say before walking out with Roger. 

––––––––––

“Here, you can crash in my room,” he says once you make it back to the main house. 

Spotting the plush bed in the middle of the room, you immediately flop face first into the fluffy sheets. 

“Oh my God,” you groan. You flip around, burrowing yourself in the blankets. The bed wasn’t made, but it smells like Roger, and you sigh in content. Roger comes over, and nudges you over, so he could take a seat at the edge of the mattress. 

“I’m glad you were able to make it,” he says. 

“Of course, Rog. I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see my best friend’s beautiful face. Anyway, I haven’t seen you in like forever.” You yawn, closing your eyes. He chuckles lightly. 

You guys talk for a bit, just catching up. Him, asking you about the drive down, schoolwork. You, asking questions about the new album, the band. 

“I should be getting back,” he says lowly once he notices the way you start responding back to his comments with incoherent mumbles. But he doesn’t move. Stays there next to you for a bit longer, not wanting to leave as he thinks you look absolutely breathtaking with the sun’s orange rays filtering through the window, painting your face in a warm glow. As he’s about to leave, you gently touch his wrist. 

“You know, you’re very comfortable, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, Sweet Cheeks,” you say, your voice a tad slurred, sleep about to have you in its clutches. He smiles fondly down at you.

“Sleep well, love,” he murmurs before treading lightly across the room and walking out the door. You don’t hear it as you’ve already fallen fast asleep, face smushed into the pillow. 

After grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen and walking back towards the makeshift recording studio, he overhears his bandmates talking. Talking specifically about him. 

“Why won’t he just tell her he likes her?” Roger hears John ask. 

“Because he’s scared,” Brian responds, and he hears Freddie hum in agreement. Roger clears his throat after opening the door. 

“I thought we were recording an album, not gossiping about my love life,” he says, strolling back into the room. 

“Well, we were waiting for you to come back. Done pining over Y/N, yet?” Brian asks while strumming a few chords on his guitar. 

“Fuck off,” he says, but it lacks venom, not wanting––too tired––to think of a better comeback. Instead, he pops a cigarette in his mouth and lights it, taking in a deep inhale of the smoke. 

––––––––––

Later on in the night, after you’ve woken up from your nap, and now “feel like an actual functioning human being again,” the boys and their girlfriends, who were also invited, sit around the fireplace in the living room. You’re snuggled up with Mary, the two of you sharing a wool blanket, each holding a glass of red wine. Someone in the room says a joke that causes you to laugh. But, Roger didn’t hear the joke, too busy watching you. Watching you laugh. The one that makes you throw back your head and scrunch up your face. The one that Roger absolutely loves. Especially loves when he’s the cause of that unfiltered happiness. The one that makes Roger fall in love with you over and over again.

And as he’s sitting by the fire, holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other, gazing at you, his heart clenches in a different way. Clenches, thinking about the fact that you have a boyfriend. Clenches, thinking about how he’ll never get the guts to admit his feelings for you. 

[simlovinggirl]

Atlantic won 4-2, and with a perfect score she automatically moves to the final round!  Awesome job girl ♥

[caffeineivore]

Mako-Neph dedicated to @antivanruffles

Because of reasons. *cough H6H6H6H6H6 cough*

Set in a ficverse not yet published. M/N, mentions A/Z, and Minako. N is a part-time model who’d featured on some cover of some romance novel called ‘His Thundering Highland Heart’ by Katie Satine. Just... sayin’. >.>

**

The atmosphere of the pub is dim and low-key, with wood panelling and a pleasant sort of unpretentiousness, and though Noah doesn’t consider himself a soccer fan, he makes himself comfortable amidst the group currently watching the game on the television screen. Zack, who could only have been more besotted had he actually been the hero of a fluffy teenage rom-com from the ‘90s or early ‘00s, possibly played by a young Freddie Prinze Jr., had left with Amy a few hours ago. Dinner with her mother. And if that wasn’t super extra serious for a guy who’d met a girl two years ago and spent all of three days with her…

But then again, Zack, despite being generally easygoing in that amiable midwestern way, could not be swayed from his path once he’d made up his mind, and his mind was apparently made up. Certainly it was serious enough for him to buy a plane ticket, book a hotel, and travel across an ocean to find this girl again. Noah had come along to keep him out of trouble, of course, and also to be able to say that he’d been to Europe.

The weather, of course, leaves something to be desired. And no one knew a damn thing about football-- oh, excuse him, AMERICAN football. Not the David Beckham stuff. But the beer, he had to admit, was superior. Europeans knew their way around a damn brew.

“Oy! What are you doing here?”

Noah swivels his head over in the direction of the shout, and grins. Even a borderline-rude question like that sounds sexy as hell in that Irish accent of hers. Amy’s roommate is tall and stacked in the best of ways, a stunner from the top of her curly head to the bottom of her boot-clad feet. “Oh, hey. Just chilling. Grabbing a beer and a bite to eat, since this is walking distance from the hotel. Zack’s hanging out with Amy, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

“I did.” Mary Kathleen takes a seat across from him, and he sort of appreciates the directness of it rather than a dance-around asking for permission to sit as though she had any less right to be there than he did. “I had to coax the story out of her last night, but I’d known something was different. She’s always been a quiet girl, but she’d come back from summer hols two years ago and I’d just known something had happened. Nothing bad, but just significant, all the same. She’s never been the sort to pine after a lad, you know. Too sensible, by far. But she’s happy to see him, still. Quite happy indeed.”

“Oh, they’re adorable together, and he’s a lovesick puppy, and someday, I have a feeling you and I will be Maid of Honour and Best Man, respectively, at their wedding,” Noah quips, only half-joking. “I’d heard the story, of course, from Morgan. She was sort of there in Italy when it happened, and was probably the first witness to their storybook romance. She’ll be happy that it worked out, I’m sure, and that your friend didn’t have to call security to throw my friend out.”

“‘Tis funny to hear you talking about one of the most famous supermodels in the world like she’s just another bird, though I suppose to you lot she would be.”

“Morgan’s pretty down-to-Earth for being who and what she is. But Zack and I are also not as deep into this whole business as she is.” Noah finishes his beer, then playfully flexes his biceps. “I’m surprised you recognized me, actually. The, uh, picture on that cover has my face in profile.” The picture in question also had most of his chest bare aside from a tartan covering only a small area for modesty. Noah doesn’t remember too much else about the book in question aside from it being set in the Scottish highlands in the Middle Ages and was quite popular with its target audience. Lots of bodice-ripping, undoubtedly, by Laird Carmichael of the shirtless tartan fame.

“It’s the hair, and the pecs.” Unapologetically, Mary Kathleen taps a knuckle on his chest and grins, even as the barman brings her her own beer. “‘Twas not a bad look for you a’tall.”

“Thanks. You saying so makes the several hours spent with baby oil covering all exposed skin on my body worth it.”

She laughs-- a full-on, belly laugh, not a girly giggle, and orders some food. He joins her and does the same.

**

Three or four beers later, they’re both tipsy, and jolly, and embroiled in a friendly debate over local foods from both their hometowns. Noah tries to explain exactly what a chimichanga is, and he’s not quite sure that he’s successful, but he does agree that as mildly horrifying as a Scotch egg looks at first sight, it’s pretty damn good. And much to his relief, Mary Kathleen does not seem like the depressing sort of girl who’d order a garden salad, dressing on the side, for dinner and then look mournful and hungry for the rest of the evening.

They talk, mostly about school, though also about their friends. Mary Kathleen majored in Electrical Engineering, and there’s enough commonality with his own major, Physics, that there’s room for shared stories about uppity TA’s and labs and the like. They’re both far from home-- she’s originally from a tiny village called Carran, in County Clare, before she’d moved to London at the age of fifteen. He’d lived in Sedona, Arizona until moving to New York City for school and work, and both of them agreed that the crowded, busy, big-city life was not for them.

They eventually leave the pub together, and she walks with him back to his hotel. He pulls out his phone at the door, and gives her his best smile. “So that was fun.”

“It was. I wonder if our friends are back yet? Amy’s not really the sort to do anything naughty, but he is awfully pretty. And there’s that whole pent-up two-years’-worth-of-longing.”

“Zack’s not the type to do anything naughty either, nor the type to pressure a girl into it if you were worried about that. He’s surrounded by beautiful women all the damn time in modeling, and sees enough sleazy shit to never want to go that route, himself. He’ll never do anything to hurt your friend if he can help it, and that’s even if he weren’t besotted, which he totally is.”

“That’s good to know.” Mary Kathleen relaxes fractionally, and Noah knows, without her saying so, that the reassurance assuages a protective streak within her. She doesn’t comment on it, though, and instead holds out a hand for him to shake. “You’re not bad company, for a Yank obsessed with Mexican food.”

“Nor are you, for an Irish girl obsessed with half-naked Scotsmen,” he returns, taking her hand in his and holding on. “So since we’re now buddies and I’m not an idiot like Zack, do you have a phone number or email or Facebook or something? You know, so we can keep in touch and gossip about our friends and all that.”

That gets another one of those wide, cheeky grins. “If I give that to you, am I going to get any more half-naked kilt pics?”

Noah laughs so hard that his stomach aches with it. “I don’t know, do you want any?”

[theallknowingoz-blog]

Echoes Across Time

Amber colored eyes gazed over the soft ripples of water while a small breeze ruffled my long black hair. I knew better…why I didn’t just listen to myself. Why am I even here? I’m not supposed to be here, I feel it…something is wrong with me – and God I am just so fucking tired.

I could not appreciate the way the moon sent a dazzling silver reflection over the water’s surface, or how the stars shined brightly in the sky. My mind racing, running, screaming – reaching up with clenched fists, I hold my head tightly while my mind replayed the conversation with Seth again.

“I cannot live this way…not with you, I’m sorry. I just don’t love you anymore Bree,” he had said trying to convince me of how unhappy he was.

“Then go Seth,” I told him quietly. God, he had looked so relieved when I told him to go. I watched him grab his jacket and the keys to his car before turning back to look at me with his hand on the doorknob.

“I’m sorry Bree,” he said before opening the door.

I watch the door close and mutter softly, “so am I.”

I will endure this new failure…as I have done many times before. What is wrong with me? Why don’t I care about this, about him…shouldn’t I care? Wiping again at the tears of failure that fell, I take a deep shuddering breath of the warm summer air. Closing my eyes digging deep into the dark silence I know will comfort me, I just need to push it back down deep; I am a survivor, I can endure I tell myself.

Finding the dark, welcoming silence that brought me comfort since childhood; I mentally embraced it to me. Wrapping myself in the sudden quiet of my mind, I wipe the last of the tears that would ever be shed for this lapse of judgment from my face and turned away from the view of the moon kissed water.

Closing the French doors that led to the deck behind me, I walk by the blinking answering machine and go straight by it for my liquor cabinet. Pulling out a bottle of Glenfiddich, I measure out about three fingers of the eighteen-year-old scotch into a glass and throw in a couple of ice cubes before taking a healthy swallow. Closing my eyes, I press the glass to my forehead as my phone rings – again. Ignoring it, I take another drink as the machine kicks on.

“Hey, Bree…I uh…I just heard. If you need someone, ya know…to talk to. Well – shit, just call me if you need me….Oh, it’s Shanda.”

I will not, ‘need’ you Shanda, I thought annoyed at the message. Everyone comes out of the woodwork when they pretend to be your friend just to get the gossip.

The machine clicked off, and I set my glass down and move to turn the volume of the machine down and the ringer to the phone off. Picking up my drink again, I walk to the living room and sit in the overstuffed armchair. Gazing around the room I suddenly realize that there is nothing that reflects even a history with Seth. Well…I guess that could be considered convenient, I joke with myself morbidly before draining the last of the scotch and set the glass down deciding sleep was in order.

The sounds of the birds warning calls in the canopy of pines overhead went a long way to sooth the anger I felt, even in my dream state.

Move

My mind told me, and so I did. I moved through the forest with a single focus on finding the calming silence I had held so tightly to myself for sanities sake for so long. Moving until I reached the end of the forest, I saw a small flash of green light from the corner of my eye and turned to investigate.

What is that my mind questioned at the site of the small tendril of green smoke. It sat in the mouth of a cave, almost beckoning me closer like a finger curling towards me, calling me closer. I step closer to get a better look at it feeling compelled, and I suddenly smell ozone. Like before the rain comes, one of the first odors you notice as the winds pick up and clouds roll. The sweet, pungent zing permeates my nostrils. Somewhere in my subconscious, I realize that this is a very realistic dream, and take a small step away from the green smoke in the mouth of the cave.

The green smoke swirled and thickened around my feet. Hurriedly, I try to step even further back out of its reach and feel the cold touch of the green smoky fog as it wrapped tightly around my legs the more I struggled, and a sudden panicked feeling set in.

With a scream of fear, I can feel myself being dragged forward into the cave and fought even harder. The green fog wrapped around my entire body now and dragged me in roughly while I screamed with terror. My amber eyes scanned the area, while my lungs heaved with exertion and fear. I scan the area again and find only blinding darkness. I don’t know why, but I don’t think I am still in my dream – so where? Some kind of in-between place? I wrack my brain trying to think of where I am, and why I can’t wake up.

Mythal listened to her mental comments and folded her arms unable to stop the laughter from escaping. Oh, she is ready and will do quite nicely, she thought suddenly pleased with herself.

A dark laughter echoed through me, sending streaks of fear at the sound as it bounced around me in the dark abyss.

“Still ever the clever child I see. You have nothing to fear from me daughter of the people,” I hear suddenly echoing around me in the blackness.

“People? What people…I don’t know any people. What do you want?” I say aloud while my eyes look for where the voice was coming from. Somehow it sounded strangely familiar.

“Oh child, you certainly have people. But I have brought you back to them so you may help them. Will you do that?”

“Brought me back? What happened?”  I say quickly while my eyes squint at the sudden light. A woman walked towards me through the darkness, a light on her back so I couldn’t see her clearly but only an outline.

“Only what needed to be done. Our people were waring with each other, enslaving them. Most of us became drunk on our own power, and as you well know it corrupts.”

My eyes and head followed the woman warily as I could finally see her, as she walked around me in gilded armor.  I notice the sharped tipped, elongated ears and recognized she was an elf. There was something very familiar about this woman.

“How do I know it corrupts…I don’t know any of this. Why should I help you fix something that has absolutely nothing to do with me?”

“There was a time you would never have questioned; it is good to see you have grown lethal’lan. Alas, he would never have done it had you not been taken from him. I am sorry about that. I never meant to keep you away from your own for so long, but it could not be avoided” she offered cryptically. She stopped to gaze into my eyes with her own cat-like yellow ones and stroked my forehead almost affectionately.

“I would not know, I do not remember anything you are even talking about.”

The mystery woman laughed boisterously at me as my eyes stared at her cautiously.

“You will soon child. I would not send you into this world completely unprepared. I apologize for the pain you must endure reclaiming what I took from you, but it cannot be avoided,” she said calmly.

My body stiffened at the words, and suddenly I felt the warmth of something ripple over and through my body. It was agony to have information thrust into my mind but suddenly, I can feel other changes burning through me as well. Contorting on the ground in pain, I cry out and feel her hand gently caress my cheek.

“You must find a way to help them, or they will surely perish, and so shall you child.”

My eyes slide slowly closed as my body surrendered to the awaiting darkness.

[thelastswallow]

What Tears Us Apart, Ties Us Together

Chapter 9

John - Legwork

In which there is home made spaghetti - Alan Tracy learns the origin of a nickname - Lieutenant Cooper Waverly pines after an imaginary woman - Virgil Tracy has an assignation with a real one - a young man crosses the border into Turkey and it is a long way to Illinois

There’s something about deserts that has always appealed to John.

Something about the horizon. The towers of empty space and the flat, lunar surface. It makes him feel calm and clean.

Like a moth to a bug zapper, Grandma used to say, as she attacked him with the tube of sunscreen when he was a kid, or painted the tip of his nose with aloe Vera when he came home pink and peeling. He’s not built for the desert. Only Gordon’s sallow skinned and quick to tan, buy of the five of them John burns the quickest, roasts the colour of poached salmon in the time it takes to boil an egg; some unfortunate throwback to the Scotch-Irish roots of the Tracy clan. But Man wasn’t made for space either, yet his Dad stood on the face of Mars. So maybe it’s natural that John wants to explore the places he doesn’t belong.

When he was 11, the six of them had spent one February Fourth in a specially built capsule in the Mojave Desert that mimicked the lunar simulation modules the SETI Institute had used in the early 2000s, when NASA had been prepping to go back to the moon. John doesn’t remember a time when he’d been happier than he was staring out the porthole of that cramped little module, imagining himself among the company of the great men and women who had walked on the moon.  

Sometimes, when he needs to gather himself, John imagines himself curled up in the porthole window, watching the lunar landscape of the Mojave.

Yet But when he imagines the desert, this isn’t what he pictures. It looks all wrong as it hurtles past the window, in blocks of olive and grey under a forget-me-not sky. This desert doesn’t make him feel calm, just sweaty and anxious and itchy all at once. It looks yellow and scrubby and full of rattlesnakes; scar tissue on the landscape. It hurtles past and he wishes he were somewhere else.

A good first test.

There’s a chime above his head that signals the magnet train is slowing down and he breaks his fixed gaze on the winding landscape. His tablet has gone unattended for long enough that it’s gone dark. He’s too easily distracted all of a sudden.

He gathers his bag and tablet and rises. A few people make note of his movement, but nobody else in the carriage makes a move to disembark.

The magtrain glides to a halt and there’s a whoosh of hot, dry air as the door unseals itself. He steps out onto the raised platform. Along the train’s length passengers, most in uniform, diffuse in and out of the train. No one pays him any attention as they hurry towards the stairs and the exit, swiping their passes through the scanner. He follows.

There are convoy trucks waiting to pick up officers in the parking lot, and a dusty town taxi idling out in front of the red brick building, looking for business. He ignores it and makes the short walk into town.

By the time he gets there, there are dark patches of sweat beneath his armpits.  He wipes his brow and stops at a dispenser to by a soda.

Avalon is a small, neat little place that mainly serves to support Rainshadow Airbase. There’s a county hospital and a couple of mom and pop stores, though most of the business has drained out of the centre of town. School kids wander around in packs. An elderly woman walking a tiny poodle smiles at him as he sips his pop. He finds McGruck’s, a sports’ bar, in a big lot off the main street.

The bartender is quick to ID him, but only shows real interest in his birthdate and not the person attached and after he’s been satisfied, leaves him nursing his beer and his tablet at the bar. Off duty airmen come in in dribs and drabs, and he earns a couple of curious looks, but nobody bothers him.

A little before seven there’s a tap on his shoulder, “Tracy?”

A rangy man in captain’s stripes has come up behind him. There’s a stir from the peanut gallery. This is not, John guesses, habitually a bar where officers come to drink. “John Tracy, right? I’m Skip Guerra.”

They’ve met before, though Skip probably doesn’t remember and John doesn’t remind him. Skip and Scott had been at school together and though Skip had been some years older, they had made friends running varsity track together. Scott had dragged John round to the dressing room to meet Skip the night he led the school football team to state. He had been gracious as he accepted John’s congratulations, though obviously wired to the moon and unlikely to remember. Skip had left for the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs the same year Scott had gone off to Yale. Now they serve in the same unit.

Skip is big in every dimension, has inches even on Scott. A small moustache makes him look older than his 26 years, and he is, John can tell, despite his bluff handshake, nervous.

“Thanks for coming.”

A tight nod. “I’ve got a car outside.”

They drive out of town, talking around the subject in question. Skip talks about the weather, their old school, Williams’ Prep and the differences between the GDF and the space programme. They reach Skip’s house, which is off base, where Skip’s wife Lisa and home-cooked spaghetti are waiting to ambush them.

John’s impatient to get on with the task at hand, but it’s rude to say no, particularly when he’s asking such a big favour, so he accepts as graciously as he can manage.

Skp and Lisa have got an 18-month-old son, Jake, and from the size of Lisa’s belly, another one on the way. Jake is fascinated by John’s red hair, and John – for whom babies have always been a separate country he is not planning on visiting – puts up with his interest. Lisa asks interested if routine questions about WWSA and Skip tells anecdotes about air force life. If it’s all designed to make John feel guilty, he thinks, as he passes around the basket of garlic bread, it’s working.

But when dinner is over and the plates are cleared Skip rises. “Time for John to be going,” he says. “I’ll be back later.” He kisses Lisa’s cheek.

As John closes the car door he says, “You don’t have to do this.”

“Sure, I do.” Skip starts the engine and puts the car into gear.

They drive. Within minutes they’re approaching Rainshadow Base and John feels his throat constrict.

Dad is Dad so of course he heard through channels first.

Scott is AWOL.

Or, to be precise, he is only guilty of Failure to Repair; but at 0900 hours yesterday Lieutenant Scott Tracy did not report to base after leave, and by 1700 hours he still has not reported to his commanding officer.

He’s not the only officer ever to fail to report in after leave. Maybe he missed his flight. Maybe he got the dates wrong. Maybe his mates, in high spirits, duct taped him to a pole and have forgotten where they left him. This sort of thing happens all the time.

Just not to Scott.

From the expression on Skip’s face he thinks so too.

Dad had called just as John was out for his morning run, having spent most of the night bailing Gordon out of a premature court marshalling at the WASP gala. “I’m telling you this,” Dad had said once he had broken the news, “Only because there’s a reasonable chance where you’re working that you might hear through other channels.”

John had never thought of himself as someone to be gossiped about or at. Maybe it was different with Scott. There was enough cross-over between the WWSA and the GDF that there was a possibility he would hear from some other source.

“You haven’t told the others?” he had asked.

“I don’t think there will be a need to.”

“When was the last time you heard from him?”

“The morning he left the island he called me a selfish, conceited son of a bitch. So at least we know he wasn’t acting out of character.” The attempt at a joke had fallen flat.

“He’s been missing a week?” He had been bundled up against the arctic cold. Suddenly his brain had felt as numb and clumsy as his hands.

“Absent. Not missing. Your brother’s always been good at letting me know he’s upset. Torching his career is certainly a potent signal fire.”

“Dad…”

“Kyrano’s already on his trail. And we’ll find him. I want you to stay where you are. Attend to your studies. If he contacts you, of course, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll update you periodically.”

“Dad, can I…”

“This is a good first test for you.”

A good first test. A test that he’s failing.

John Tracy is hacker like no other. John Tracy writes code the way Paul McCartney wrote pop hits. John Tracy has never met a digital door he did not want to open.

John Tracy cannot find his stupid, ignorant luddite of an older brother.

It should have been easy. Scott’s financial records, his flight history, his passage in and out of the security net that encircles the globe, it should have led John to him like a luminous contrail.

But Scott had landed in Algeria, withdrawn 2,000 dollars’ cash at the airport foreign exchange, disappeared into the city and…

Nothing.

No Scott. No trail. Nothing but white noise. Not even a starting point.

John spent half his time in MIT thinking and writing about search heuristics; for search and rescue; for stars; for prime numbers. Even the most basic search needs a node to start from.

And so now, here, with Skip, smiling politely in the passenger seat as they were waved through gate at Rainshadow Airbase, looking for somewhere to begin.

Scott had been the one to ruin their trip to the Mojave, hadn’t he? For three days all six of them had lived in close quarters, in the lunar simulation module, mimicking the lives of the first settlers on the moon, and how Dad had lived with Captains Taylor and Tsang when they had been building Shadow Alpha One. But on the morning of the fourth day, Scott had stumbled out of bed, and out the airlock, to relieve himself against the side of the capsule, decompressing the pod and killing his father and four brothers in the process.

Scott had been apologetic but unconcerned. Said it was an accident and that he had forgotten where they were. He had been nearly 14, unhappy about Dad’s decision to leapfrog him two years ahead into ninth grade, and ready for a little kickback. John, on the other hand, had been distraught, not ready for the adventure to end. He had begged Dad that they be allowed a do over, but Dad had said no. There were no second chances in space.

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that now.

Scott lives in unaccompanied officers’ quarters. Skip pulls up to the squat block of condos and parks. “This is it.”

“Thank you, Skip.”

Skip shrugs, nods. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

Not really. Some clue or hint. Some trace of where Scott’s going or where he might be going, or what he might be thinking. An impression. A scent. “I’ll know it when I see it,” he says.

“John, I hope you find what you’re looking for, but you should know, I don’t think you’re going to find your brother in there.”

What a strange thing to say.

“You and Scott fly together, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re friends?” He’s got a sudden overwhelming feeling that this was a bad idea.

But Skip gives him a cryptic smile. “I’m not doing this because you asked politely. He does talk about you.”

“He does?”

“And I get the distinct impression that if anyone can find that squirrelly motherfucker and get him back where he belongs then it’s you. Yeah, we’re friends, John.”

A good first test.

“Okay.”

They get out of the car. Skip’s swipe key gets them into the building and up the stairs to Scott’s condo.

The first thing he notices is how clean it is. It’s at odds with the Scott he knows, who leaves dirty dishes in the sink and a breadcrumb trail of his clothes from the bathroom to his bed every night when getting undressed. Any habit can be learned, he supposes and somewhere along the way, someone has beaten neatness into Scott.

The kitchen-living room is sparse, impersonal. He rifles through the kitchen, but the cupboards are bare of anything more exciting than protein powder and cereal. The fridge holds nothing but ketchup and mustard.

He tries the bedroom. Skip follows.

In here too is neat and orderly, the corners of the bed are squared off. There’s a Light Type interface built into the desk that would have connected to Scott’s personal drive. When Skip isn’t looking, John takes a HUB from his pocket and sets it down, activating pre-set commands to clone everything that the interface has processed over the last two months.

He doesn’t linger by the desk and crosses to the other side of the room. The closet contains only neatly pressed uniforms, a couple of casual shirts in blue and cream, and rows of folded white t-shirts. There’s a small safe in the bottom of the closet, but it hangs open and any valuables have been cleared out.

There’s a digital picture frame on the windowsill that clicks to life when it detects motion, but the photos it cycles through are curiously blank of personality. A group picture of Scott’s squadron, a formal photograph of him smiling starkly at the camera at the receipt of his bronze star and a family portrait, the same one that goes out to the press when they’re looking to write about “Billionaire industrialist Jeff Tracy and his five fine boys”.

John feels a creep up his spine, like razor scraping bone. None of this feels genuine. It’s like he’s walked into an exhibition showcasing the life of one, ‘Lieutenant Scott Tracy’ rather into a place where anyone actually lives.

Angry again suddenly, he yanks open the drawer of the nightstand.

Inside the drawer are a flotsam of personal effects; a string of condoms; a blue inhaler, 11 months out of date, because Scott always forgets to resupply his prescription unless he’s having one of his infrequent asthma attacks; a Rubik’s cube, half-solved and then forgotten; a slim book.

He takes the book out of the drawer, turns it over, recognising it. It’s a copy of Slaughterhouse Five. The red and yellow dust jacket and leaves are real precious paper and the publisher’s seal says the volume was published in 1972. John had sourced it himself, from a small antique book dealer in San Francisco. It had been a rather pointed Christmas gift to Dad and he remembers noting now, how it hadn’t been on Dad’s book shelf the last time he was in his office.

It looks well-thumbed. There are greasy finger marks along its spine and its pages are dog-eared, like it’s been read and read again. He doesn’t remember it ever being a favourite of Scott’s

He’s about to open his mouth to ask Skip if he knows anything about it when Skip puts a finger to his lips. Outside there comes the murmur of soft voices and the bleepclick of the latch unhooking.

John puts the book back and slides the drawer closed.  Skip quickly crosses the room and switches off the light. He motions for both of them to step into the bathroom. There are footsteps in the outer room, the jangle of keys and then nothing.

Through the crack in bathroom the door John peers out into the bedroom. The light in the outer room comes on, throwing a slim rectangle of white light against the bedroom wall.

He glances at his watch. It’s 9:45. There’s no reason for anyone else to be here.

“Are they looking for us?”

Skip gives the slightest shake of his head.

If I’m caught, he thinks, I’ll just step out. No one needs to know Skip was here. His pulse is hammering in his ears.

A rhomboid of white light slides across the floor as the door swings open. Whoever is outside, they are coming in.

“This is it. Be quick, okay?” says a woman’s voice in a whisper. “I’m deep in the shit if they find you here.”

“Okay.”

John’s still trying to figure out what’s going on when Skip surges forward. “Goddamn it to hell, Stubbs, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

The electric light comes on and the light box vanishes from the floor. He hears the woman falter at the sudden appearance of Skip. “Captain!”

“Airman, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Sneaking civilians onto the base? Breaking and entering. Do you know how many charges you’re risking?”

“Please, it wasn’t her fault. I asked her to,” says a voice, a familiar voice, a very familiar voice.

“Virgil?”

“John?”

He steps out of the shelter of the bathroom and sees Virgil standing in the doorway. His younger brother practically looms over the young Airwoman with dark hair standing in front of him. Skip looms over them both, but flinches when John sticks his head around the door.

“What are you doing here?” Virgil gapes at him.

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

“I…uh…”

“Well, isn’t this a clusterfuck?” says Skip, placing his hands on his hips. “Stubbs, I oughta write you up.”

The airwoman fidgets. She’s tiny, with black hair looped in a tight braid and anxious sloe black eyes. “I know. I’m sorry, Cap. Really I am. But they’ve been talking shit about… There’s been inappropriate talk about Lieutenant Tracy in the mess, Captain and why he hasn’t reported to duty. And he,” She taps Virgil on the shoulder “Was so determined to find him. I wanted to help him, you know?” She gives John the side eye and the flash of a smile. “I guess you do know. Which one do you got?”

“The astronaut. Who’s that?” Skip glares at Virgil. “The Olympian?”

“The artist. Except he says he’s a pilot now.”

He says he’s a what?

But Skip just rolls his eyes. “Go figure.”

“We have names, you know,” says Virgil, peevishly. “We’re not a collectable set of breakfast cereal toys.”

“Of course not, kid,” says Skip, placating but patronising. “What’s your youngest brother again? The congressman?”

“He’s in middle school!” both John and Virgil snap, simultaneously.

Joh scowls and Virgil digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“What are you doing here, Virgil?” John asks.

“Same as you. Looking for Scott.”

“You’re supposed to be at school.”

“Yeah, well. You’ve got better places to be too, right?” Virgil raises his chin so he’s looking at John and not the floor. There’s a stubborn jut to it, at once familiar and out of place on Virgil. Something seems different about him and for a moment John can’t place just what it is. Then he realises. Virgil’s always run to stocky, ungenerously even to chubby. At thirteen it had made him self-conscious enough to start to camouflage his weight with layers of shirts and t-shirts. Somewhere in the last week he’s shed those extraneous layers. In just a pair of faded jeans and a v-neck grey t-shirt it’s immediately clear what should have been obvious last week. The puppy fat is gone. Virgil’s tanned and fit and for the first time in his life, probably in better shape than John.

He’s still got that stupid moustache though.

“Hey, Stubbs,” Skip says, a little louder than is necessary. “Come out here for a sec, I got something real important to show you in the kitchen.”

“Yes, Captain.” Stubbs winks at Virgil and they both step out of the room, pull the door shut behind her.

John eases himself away from the bathroom door and Virgil pushes off from the wall. They shuffle a little closer to each other.

“I didn’t think you knew he was missing.” John says. “Did Dad tell you?”

“Sort of.” Virgil’s fingers brush the tucked in corner of the bed. “I was with him when he got the news.”

“He came to see you in Chicago?”

“Something like that,” Virgil murmurs. “I’m surprised he told you.”

“There’s a lot of air force personnel with the space agency. I suppose he was afraid the news would get to me anyway.”

“And did it?”

“No. Why would it?”

“I dunno. It seems like Stubbs was saying there’s a lot of talk about him.”

“Maybe I just don’t’ pay attention to that sort of stuff.”

Virgil looks around. “Does he really live here?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No.”

Virgil jostles past him, as if he doesn’t trust John to look, or as if maybe Scott’s hiding in the bathroom too.  He looks inside, brushes the shower curtain back, and then pulls the wardrobe door open. His fingers grope right to the back of the empty safe.

John lets him at it, goes to retrieve his hard-drive where a one-two-three blink tells him it has finished its work. He pockets it and picks up the digital photo-frame. It cycles to the family portrait, the five of them smiling blandly on the balcony of the New York penthouse. Teeth immaculately white, hair immaculately brushed, each of them arranged so that John’s red hair won’t clash with Alan’s blonde and Scott’s height wouldn’t look comical among his smaller brothers. Dad’s wearing a black bomber jacket, like he’s just leapt off the gantry of Artemis 5. Heroic astronaut and family man. They look perfect.

The reality was that they had been miserable. None of them had wanted to give the first day of school holidays over to the dreary photoshoot. Virgil had crashed through arpeggios on the baby grand piano between set ups and Alan, who had been only seven, had thrown a DEFCON One tantrum because he was jet-lagged and out of sync with the time zone and it was way past his bedtime. Every time John found a quiet place to read he was disturbed by a stylist trying to stick yet more safety pins into his hated grey and green sweater vest.

Scott had turned up at quarter to six, fresh from his first year at college and with Miss Rhode Island in tow. He’d showered, thrown on the white shirt and slate grey trousers selected for him, thoroughly charmed the stylists and posed for the photos without ever alerting anyone from the press that he and Dad weren’t even speaking to each other.

That had been the same article in which Dad had said, “the future of space exploration is the property of the capitalist” John remembers, with a wince.

He wonders what it is about that photo that makes Scott want to keep it around, want to display it here people can see it. Why he wants this reminder of their wax figure selves, so artificial that if you tapped them hard enough they might shatter. John can never believe just how dreamy and dim he himself looks in those photos, or how Gordon looks butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth angelic.

And the louche Scott in the picture looks nothing like the immaculate model soldier who fades up as the balcony photo fades out. The buttons on his uniform and the medal pinned to his chest sparkle. He gleams.

Virgil is peering over his shoulder now, his brows knotted together. “Hey, Scott,” he says to the photograph and then to John, “There’s nothing here,” Virgil says.

“No.”

“I thought there’d be something.” He sounds disappointed.

“What are you doing here, Virgil? Were you expecting to find him hiding out in the bathtub?” It comes out more harshly than he mean.

But Virgil just seems amused. “You’re going to give me grief about being here? What are you doing here? Guilty conscience?”

“Of course not. Why would I have a guilty conscience?”

Virgil gives him a look. “Gee, I don’t know, Johnny. Maybe something to do with the shouting match you had just outside my door last week.”

“You heard that.”

“Grandpa Grant heard that.” Virgil pulls one of Scott’s hoodies over his head and puts his hands into the pockets. “And I’m here because I thought this would be as good a place as any to start. Figure out where he’s been, so I know where he’s going. Talk to his friends. I’m going to find Scott,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “Drag him home kicking and screaming if I have to. You can help. Since you’re here.”

“Gosh. Thanks.” But suddenly he does feel guilty. Not about Scott, but for Virgil. Poor Virgil. Of course, he wants to help. Of course, he wants to be seen to be doing something useful for once. It seems petty to point out if Kyrano can’t find Scott, if not a single digital rock John’s turned over has offered up one lead there’s precious little Virgil’s going to be able to do in the situation.

“It’s not like he just disappeared. People don’t just van – ” Virgil breaks off, colours suddenly. “I didn’t mean. Sorry, John.”

“What? Oh. That.”

When he was nine years old John had been kidnapped. He had been walking home from school one day when Scott had stayed late for basketball practice. An arm had gone around his waist and another over his nose and he had been picked up and tossed into the back of a van. One of his kidnappers had brandished a knife at him in the van, told him that good little boys were well treated but bad little boys had their fingers cut off one by one.

After that they had been civil to him, fed him cold spaghetti hoops and given him a gamegle to play with.

He wishes he could say he had been brave or plucky or clever, that he had outwitted his captors and escaped on his own, but the reality is that he had spent a long weekend playing Tetris Masters in a cramped duplex in downtown Portland. At the end of the third day there had been terrifying sounds outside and he had buried his head beneath his blanket. But when the door creaked open it had been Kyrano who had been outside, ready to scoop him up and take him home.

When he looks back on it now it seems like something that happened to someone else.  The worst part had been when, firmly held in Dad’s arms, he had had to wade through the sea of flashing cameras and shouting reporters from the steps of the hospital to the car.

In the aftermath, Dad had insisted on subcutaneous GPS transmitters for each of them. Before leaving Algiers, Scott had cut his out and flushed it. John’s seen the records It had transmitted for three days from the bottom of a reservoir outside Algeria before blinking out.

John feels a sudden creep along his spine. Had it been flushed? Had Dad sent divers to retrieve it? Had they checked the rest of Scott wasn’t down there with it? And why hadn’t that occurred to John before now? He’d just assumed that Scott had taken himself off to sulk, to lick his wounds in private, to throw his disapproval in Dad’s face by torpedoing his career. Before now he’d never considered other possibilities. He had thought Scott understandable, quantifiable, a problem he had already solved.

But who is this Scott who can make himself vanish without leaving a digital trace? And who is this person living a carefully studied half-life in place of his dreams?

John’s legs give out from under him and he sits down on the bed.

“John.” Virgil’s hand grips his shoulder. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“I’m fine.”

A good first test.

But Dad hadn’t meant that finding Scott was his first test. He had meant:

When you’re 200,000 miles above the Earth’s surface, dropping everything and coming home is not going to be an option available to you.

He had meant: You’re going to have to learn what it costs to be able to do nothing when people you care about are in trouble.

He had meant: I need someone cool, collected, dispassionate. Someone who can be rational even when people they care about are in danger; especially when people they care about are in danger.

So, John’s already failed this test, because he’s here, chasing his tail in the desert, imagining worst case scenarios and achieving nothing as the possibility of finding Scott gets more and more remote.

Fuck you, Scott.

Because even in his absence Scott’s deconstructing him, making him doubt himself, pointing out he’s not the man he thought he was.

“Come on, John.” Virgil takes him by the arm. “We should go. He’s not here, okay.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He’s quiet as Virgil says goodbye to Stubbs and as Skip drives them back off the base. They pull in in the parking lot of a 7eleven. Beneath a no loitering sign a beat-up jalopy stands parked. “This is me,” says Virgil.

The car looks like it runs on rust and prayer. Skip raises an eyebrow as he pulls in. “Is this what the Tracy boys are driving nowadays?”

Virgil scratches his head, embarrassed. “It belongs to Dave, my neighbour. He loaned it to me in exchange for a painting and my bike. I don’t think he ever thought I could get it to run.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“Wait a second.” John allows this to sink in for a moment. “Your neighbour? In Chicago?! You didn’t drive clean across the country in that?”

Virgil nods, shrugs. “Had to. Dad grounded me.”

“Virgil, you’re nearly nineteen. He can’t ground you.”

Virgil shrugs. “Froze my assets then. Revoked my clearance to my bank accounts, even the ones he wasn’t supposed to know about.” John doesn’t miss the way Skip’s eyebrows go up. “Gave me sixty dollars a day to live on and five days to clear out my apartment and hand my notice in at my job.”

“Why?”

Virgil shrugs, sanguine. “Maybe he was afraid I’d take off to New Mexico to look for Scott.” He opens the door of Skip’s car to let himself out. “Thank you very much, Captain Guerra.”

“Nice to meet you, Virgil. And nice moustache.”

John jumps out of the car after him. “You’re not going to drive back in that death trap?”

“Sure. Wanna ride? Where you going?”

“I’ve got a 7am flight,” he says stiffly. To LAX with no connecting flight. It had seemed a good international hub to start from. He had figured by then he would know where he was going. “I’m booked into an airport hotel in Albuquerque.”

“Yeah. That’s on my way. I can take you.” He reads John’s expression. “Or I can drop you back to town and you can get the train.”

“Come back with me.” John rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay for your flight.”

“I don’t need your money, John.”

“No, you need a miracle to keep that thing running.”

“Anyway, I promised Dave I’d have the car back.”

Dave, John decides at once, is clearly a frustrated serial killer.

“Virgil, I… I’m pulling rank. I can’t let you drive that thing across the country.”

This is the part where Virgil folds. It’s where he always folds. If it were Gordon or Alan it might be different, but Virgil can be relied upon to be sensible and obedient. Except this Virgil is grinning a most un-Virgil like grin, and folding his arms on the roof of the car. “Then I guess you have until Albuquerque to convince me not to.”

*

There was a time, when gasoline was cheaper and more readily available, that freeways were the arteries of America, but that was before economies of scale in fusion tech made public transport the faster, cheaper option. Nowadays, automobiles are mainly used for short distances. Driving is a dying art. The freeways are half-empty and poorly maintained, populated mainly by the huge 26 and 48-wheeler transport wagons, itinerant nu-gypsies and the occasional motoring hobbyist.

They speed along in silence that stops just short of companionable. The night is squid ink black and full of stars. The head beams of the transport wagons dazzle him as they harrumph out of the darkness and rattle past. There’s music playing softly over the speakers. It’s neither unpleasant nor identifiable. Virgil’s always been an early adopter when it comes to new music.

The jalopy doesn’t even have an autodrive function so Virgil has to steer, but they’re making good time. John can’t shake the sensation that he should be saying something, but he’s just not sure as to what it is. Every time he tries it gets turned into a clearing of his throat or a groan.

But a sign tells him that Albuqueque is only a hundred miles away so he clears his throat once more and asks, “Did you know about any of this? Did he confide in you?”

Virgil keeps his eyes on the road as he says, “Johnny, Scott doesn’t really talk to me at all, except to say, ‘Uh, how’s the art thing going, Virg?’ like I’m seven.”

“Oh… uh, how is the art thing going?”

“I quit.” Virgil’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m going to Stanford in the fall, on Dad’s dime. Engineering.”

“Oh.”

He wants to ask more but something in Virgil’s manner strongly discourages it and a minute later he pulls into one of the roadside gas stations and stops. “I’m starving. Getcha anything?”

John shrugs. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

“I’ll get two of everything then.”

A second later John remembers the danger. “No granola bars, Virgil.” He calls at his brother’s retreating back. “And I don’t want a kale smoothie!” John’s got an astronaut’s general outlook on health but a computer programmer’s compulsive need for E numbers.

“Sure thing, John. Just caffeine, cocaine and gin.” He waves a hand and keeps walking.

He gets out of the car to stretch his legs and goes for a short prowl around the tiny outdoor seating area. Just as he’s stretching out his quads, his phone rings.

“Hey there, polar bear.”

Rest, and a day of forced routine attending lectures, have obviously done Gordon some good. He’s evened out a little, lost that manic gleam. Last night – or rather in the early hours of this morning – it had been all John had been able to do to coninvce him to get some sleep. He had spent most of the evening stuck between gears, trapped between being furious at this Lady Penelope and being utterly besotted. One minute John had been talking him down from turning her and himself in to the Admiralty, and the next he seemed about ready to start carving “GCT hearts PCW” into bulkhead walls. He had paced back and forth, bouncing up onto his hammock and back down again, peeling off one item of clothing at a time until he was down to his t-shirt and boxer-briefs, repeating things that had been said to him or about him, collapsing with a sigh in his chair and then leaping up to say, “And another thing!”

This evening at least he seems calmer, though the first words out of his mouth are still, “I’ve been thinking about that Lady Penelope chick.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Yeah, really,” says Gordon, who is maybe not as oblivious to sarcasm on the subject as John had thought. He’s tipped back precariously on his chair, slurping kelp noodles with a pair of ceramic chop sticks. “Do you think you could track her down?”

In fact, there’s already a burgeoning file about the Lady Penelope Creighton Ward in John’s personal vault, locked behind every digital protection John can come up with, but he’s not going to tell Gordon that. “I’m not sure.”

“Oh, come on, Johnnycakes. You can find anybody.”

John winces. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel tonight’s session. Something’s come up.”

“No prob. Everything okay? John?” Gordon’s looking hard at him now and the edges of his smile are starting to droop. He looks unsettled.

“Everything’s fine,” John says and to change the subject he says, “What would you say if I told you Virgil wanted to go to Stanford to study engineering.”

Gordon nods. “Makes sense. Good school.”

“It is a good school. Don’t you think it might be too good a school? Virgil’s always been more focused on the arts then academics.”

“That’s… true.”

“Some of the guys I work with studied engineering at Stanford. They said that was excellent but intense. Might it not be too much for Virgil? He barely scraped through high school math.”

Suddenly Gordon cracks a broad smile. “Oh no. Are we about to have the birds and the bees talk? We are! Oh, no. Johnny!” He throws back his head and laughs.

“Gor… Cooper!”

“Sorry. Sorry. So. When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much and the mommy and the daddy both have IQs pushing 160…”

“Cooper, be serious.”

Gordon slurps a kelp noodle back into his skull. “What I mean is… John, you know Virgil’s good at math, right?”

“Of course, he’s fine, sure. But there are standards–”

“John, you know that Virgil is smart, right?”

“Of course, but multiple intelligences are -”

“No. Not multiple intelligences. Not everyone is special in their own special way. Not everyone get out your crayons and form a circlejerk because we are all about to be blowtorched by the fiery intellect by John Glenn Tracy… I’m losing the run of this metaphor. To rephrase: You know Virgil is smart, like smart smart. Like, you smart.”

There is a moment’s silence, then Gordon groans. “Oh man, you didn’t. Oh, no. I was counting on you to tell Scott. Does this mean I’m going to have to tell Scott? I’m not telling Scott. Why do you think his ‘math tutor’ was an emeritus professor of mathematics instead of the usual broke post-grad?”

“I thought… I thought that was just Dad being Dad.”

“Well, yeah, sure, little bit. Also, no! C’mon, Dude, he got 1007 on his SAT scores the year the mean score was 1006. He nearly failed basic trig yet somehow managed to get by in all those AP calc courses. John, he actually read your dissertation.”

For just a moment John goggles. “Oh, shit.”

Gordon’s noodles nearly come back down his nose. “Johnny, you said a bad word!”

“I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Don’t forget to keep up with your reading.”

“Yes, teach. Say hi to Virgil for me.”

By the time Virgil returns with supplies John’s already got their route to Chicago planned out along with appropriate rest stops and gas stations for re-supplies. “It’s a 26.2-hour drive to Chicago traveling at 60 miles per hour. We’ll each take two six hour shifts, with fifteen minute breaks every two hours. Why don’t you take first shift, while I work out our rest stops.”

“Okay, Johnny.”

Virgil takes the first six hours and John the second. By the time he finishes his shift he’s been awake for 39 hours, so while Virgil drives he dozes in the back seat.

When he wakes up, they’re already in Kansas.

[marveldcmistress]

Kings and Queens Pt. 1

Summary: Reader is the daughter of Tony Stark, 2nd biggest mob boss in New York, and first in Malibu, California. When he wants to strike a deal with fellow mob boss Steve Rogers, Steve comes with terms. Rogers will do business with Stark, if he would allow him to date his daughter. A/N: I've been reading a lot of mob!Au's, and thought I should try one. I'm going to be honest and say I'm a slut for a mob boss Steve Rogers. ********************************************************************************************** Tony Stark sat at his desk, looking over the many books from his many clubs. Everything looked to be going well, for now. He was making enough to cover your student loans, which you didn't know he was helping pay off. You would've yelled at him if you did. You were so determined to do everything on your own. Had been since you could walk. It warmed his heart, knowing you could take care of yourself when he was gone. A knock on his office door made him look up from the papers on his desk. "Who is it?" he yells. "Rhodey.m Steve Rogers is here to see you." a man says through the door "Come in." James Rhodes, Tony's right hand man, walks through the door, followed by the Brooklyn King himself. Steve Rogers was the most powerful mob boss in New York, followed by Tony. "Steve! Welcome! I hope my people were hospitable towards you. You are a very important ally, you know. Must be treated as such." Tony says, reaching out his hand. "Of course. I've always had welcome feel when we meet, Tony. How is Pepper?" he asks, shaking Tony's hand, then taking a seat. "Wonderful, as always. When I told her we were meeting, she insisted I ask you for dinner some time this week. And you know you can't tell her no." Tony chuckles. "Of course I can't. Tell her to let me know when to come over. I miss her cooking." Steve smiled. "I also heard your daughter is back from her residency in Seattle. (Grey's anatomy reference guys.) What's it like having her home?" he asks. "Relieving. I feel better having her home, where I can keep her safe." Tony sighs. "Two years was too long to not have her under my roof. I don't know how I'm going to handle it when she finds an apartment." He rubs a hand down his face. Steve just chuckles. "You'll be okay." Tony looks up. "You want a drink?" he asks, standing to move to his cabinets to get the alcohol. "What do you got?" "Scotch, bourbon, whiskey." Tony says, back to Steve. "Scotch, please. Now, about this plan of yours. I've had my men speak with yours, my accountant taking a look at your books. You're not doing too hot. But because you've helped me in the past, I'm willing to accept this deal. Though I do have some conditions. We split, 60-40, on your gun manufacturing. You supply us with the merchandise, and we'll get it out onto the streets for you. We get the 40% profit until you make enough and then it goes 50-50. It'll take awhile, but your books will start looking better, at least for your street numbers." Steve sips the drink Tony handed him, blue eyes going back and forth between Tony and Rhodes. "Sounds fair enough. When will you need the first shipment?" Tony asks, taking a seat at his desk, Scotch in his own hands. "There's one more condition." Steve says. Tony lifts a brow. "Oh? And what might that be?" "I want to meet your daughter, Y/N. I've seen her around. She picked my interest when she was working for you during college. Arrange a meeting for us, and you can send the first shipment of 50 samples in 2 weeks. We'll test out what we like, then give you an order of the ones we want. But, no date, no deal." Tony surveyed him for a moment, brown eyes looking into blue. "Fine. Her birthday is coming up. I will send you the details of when and where the party will be. Expect your first shipment of samples in 2 weeks or less. I'll have someone tell you when it's in and where we can make the exchange." "Perfect. What would she like for a present? It'd be rude to show up empty handed." Steve said. Gone was the businessman. For the first time ever, Tony saw Steve nervous. "I'm getting her a car. Maybe diamonds? Rubies to go with her skin tone and fiery temper. Sapphires. It's all up to you, Rogers. Speaking of, she should be getting off work soon. I am having dinner with her and her mother. I'll have my men show you out." Tony said, waving to Rhodey.  "It was a pleasure doing business with you, Steve." "Likewise. I'll wait for word on the party details and when we will get our shipment." And with that, he walked out of the office. Rhodey closed the door behind him. "What is wrong with you? Using your daughter as a pawn in a business deal. You know how Rogers is with women!" Tony just looked up at him, brow raised. "That's a bluff. He uses that to keep his reputation as the biggest and meanest mob boss. He's actually the most respectful man when it comes to a woman he commits to. He showed Pepper the utmost respect when we took him in after his dad died. And you know Pepper. She's the most kind hearted woman. That's why I married her. She offered him if he needed anything, that we'll be there."   "Do you think he'd hurt her?" Rhodey asked. When you were born, Tony had made him the legal guardian if anything should happen to him and Pepper. He had loved you like his own, and refused to see you harmed. "Do you remember when she was first in college, and didn't want me to pay for anything, but took the waitress job I offered her at the bar? He would come in every shift, sit in her section, and order the same thing every day. When I noticed, I warned him to stay away. He was 6 years older than her, and I wanted her to focus on school, and not be caught up in what we do. And he listened. But I guess he's still infatuated. Besides, all he said was a date. Just a chance. He's not going to cut off the deal if she doesn't like him." ************************************************************************************************* Steve Rogers was by no means a solitary man. He loved interacting with people, showing them that they were not to fear him. If they stayed on his good side. But his favorite place to go was to his right hand man's house. He and Bucky grew up together, their father's being partners. Until Steve's dad had become power hungry, stealing away his partner's half of the gang and had him killed. Steve vowed Bucky would not suffer the same fate, not allowing Bucky to have any share in the running of the business, though he was an advisor. Bucky embraced this with a whole heart, wanting no part in becoming a boss, being content in just working for his best friend. Steve pulled his car into the driveway of Bucky and his wife, Isobel's, home. He was happy for them. Isobel knew exactly what Bucky and Steve did, Bucky making the vow to keep nothing from his wife, unless he had to for her safety. Isobel must have heard him pull in, because before he could get to the door, it flew open and out ran the brunette woman, wrapping him in a hug. "Hello to you too, Isobel." he chuckled, hugging her back. "It's been a month since you've come over for dinner. You, mister, are neglecting your poor sister-in-law. I am personally hurt." she said, pulling back, punching him lightly in the arm. He chuckled again, ruffling her long, dark hair. "Upsetting my wife again, punk?" Bucky says from the porch, arms crossed and leaning on the porch rail. It was obvious to that he was head over heels for his wife. It shined in his eyes. "Of course not. She's the one giving me a hard time. She doesn't understand I get busy." Steve says, nudging her with his side. She just rolled her eyes, all three making their way up to the house. Bucky helped his wife with the food while Steve set the table. Once they sat down and started eating, the conversation flowed easily. "So, Stevie, how did Stark react to your condition of your deal? Will he let you see his daughter, the beautiful waitress who worked through college to become a surgeon?" Isobel asked. Steve had told her all about you from the moment he laid eyes on you to his idea of asking Tony to arrange a meeting. "I'm going to her birthday part in a week. I don't know what to get her, though. I was gonna ask, if you would help? I could use a female's opinion on this." he asked, looking at her with pleading, hopeful, puppy dog eyes. "Of course. Are you excited?" she says. "I'm nervous. I've wanted to meet this woman for years. What if I fuck up? Can't speak?" he says. Gone is the suave, confident mob boss. "You'll be fine. You're a good looking man, she'll like you." she pats his hand. "Babe, did I tell you about my friend Y/N/N from work? She had three surgeries to perform in a row. 18 hours with no rest. How she's still healthy from lack of food and sleep is beyond me. She's got 2 days off, though, and told me she's having a big dinner with her dad tonight." Isobel keeps talking about her friend from work. Bucky, being the gentleman and good husband he is, paid attention to his wife, despite being bored with her work gossip. He wanted to speak with Steve about the deal with Tony Stark. Once dinner was over, the dishes washed, and Isobel doing paperwork upstairs in their bedroom, Bucky brought Steve to the living room, sipping on whiskey. "So what did Stark really say?" Bucky asked. "Exactly how I told you. He had to think about it for a second, of course, it's his only daughter. But he knows the man behind the reputation. He knows I won't hurt her. I'm just scared she's going to run before I even get a chance." Steve said, sighing. "I was born into this life. I couldn't get out if I even tried. But it doesn't mean I can't have a good life outside of crime. With her." Bucky just watched his best friend. His dad always said, "A man in love can see it in another." Bucky has watched his best friend pine and fall for this girl for 6 years. Steve knew everything there was to know about her, mostly. But he just wanted the chance. "And he told you to come to the birthday party? With a gift?" "I want to bring a gift. My ma taught me better than to show up empty handed. I just don't know what to get. She's having dinner with Tony right now, so I can't just call him and ask." Steve rubbed a hand down his face. "You're scared she's going to be afraid of you because you're a mob boss. Like she doesn't know what Tony does. She has to have some clue as to why her dad is so wealthy. Not as wealthy as you, but a close second. You don't want her to know?" Buck says, eyes scanning Steve's face. "That's exactly why. I don't want her to reject the idea of giving me a chance because she believes the reputation. I've been so into this woman for so long that I just want it to be right." "It will. Just woo her. And then make her fall for you. But don’t fuck up the deal with Tony.”

*******************************************************************************************

@nothingbutimagines @waywardimpalawriter @aquabrie