#also today I got crowded into a corner in the metro by a guy who was in the ladies carriage (?)

[considerad]

shaved my legs so I'm a different person now

[sunflowersteves]

bloody & bruised || subway fiasco

Mob!Bucky Barnes x Boxer!Reader

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

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

Warnings: swearing, asshole!bucky

series m.list // m.list

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, baby girl.”

                | 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐫 |                                                                 

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

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, move asshole!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wanna join us doll?”

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

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

“No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See you around, prick.”

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were so fucked.

~~

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

chapter two

[ohdaim]

april fool's day oneshot

hi guys, i wrote this today in one sitting, and it's lazily edited:) i'm recovering from an oral surgery and on strong medication, so i hope this makes as much sense as i think it does.

Ship: Ignis Scientia/female reader Summary: You are a Citadel valet working the night shift, frequently attending to Ignis' car. You have no idea how to talk to him. He has no idea how to ask for your number. Words: 1849 idk if this is considered fluff or just mutual pining but with like,, idiots

__

Stir together bread crumbs, garlic, parsley…

You scanned the rest of the newest recipe on your favorite cooking blog, Feeding The Fussy. As always, it looked delicious. As always, you rated it five stars and typed out a comment.

I followed the recipe exactly, but I left out the bread crumbs and cheese. I used shrimp and bacon grease instead. Terrible recipe. Won’t make again.

Putting your phone away, you came to attention when someone stepped out of a Citadel elevator across the lobby. You worked night shift as a palace valet and hardly saw anyone but for a few regular night owls. One of them approached now, and gods, you were nervous all of a sudden.

Ignis was your favorite regular. He was polite, tipped well, and made small talk so you wouldn't have to. You didn’t know what he did in the Citadel or why he so often left at four in the morning. You just knew you had a big crush on him and, for that reason, could never carry a full conversation without getting sweaty palms.

“Good morning.” He greeted you first. “Quiet night?”

You nodded, entering the info you needed to check his vehicle out of the system. You wanted to say something, anything. Nerves got the best of you, and you excused yourself into the back room to get his car keys. On your way out, you held them up. “I’ll have your car here momentarily.”

Ignis didn’t respond. He wasn’t even looking at you. His attention was on his phone, a corner of his mouth curled upward.

You paused, taking in the smirk with shy curiosity. That was a new look. What was he smirking at? When he seemed to remember himself, he schooled the look and met your eyes. Startling, you repeated yourself quietly and went through the doors leading to the parking garage.

Ignis’ car consistently smelled like coffee wrapped in leather. Your phone vibrated in your pocket as you buckled in. Because you wanted to linger in the nice scent--was this extremely weird? Yes, of course--you checked to see what the buzzing was about.

An email. You’d gotten a reply from the Feeding The Fussy chef. They’d liked your comments in the past but hadn’t addressed your obvious jokes. You stared at the subject line for a beat, then opened the message.

Thank you for the review. Almost as insightful as last week’s eight hundred word description of your current diet and how my recipes conflict. Do you have any suggestions on how to improve this one?

Your nervousness grew so heavy, it burst in bright red over your face, a flame in your chest. The chef was talking to you. You’d chalked it up to luck that they understood your sense of humor and the intent of your comments. Never had you thought they’d give more than a like. You typed a response before getting back to work.

Pro tip: Using a microwave is faster than the oven. Also, I’ve begun a new diet (details to follow), so is there any way to make this recipe without the ingredients?

Ignis’ car was fancy but less so than most others in the garage. You always felt a pinch of regret when pulling it up to the lobby entrance. Driving a car like his just to see how fast it could go, it wasn’t something you’d ever get to do. You didn’t own one yourself, and truthfully, you'd only gotten a driving license to be qualified for this job. Getting out, you waved at Ignis and extended an arm toward the open driver’s seat.

Tip passing from his hand to your own, you bowed and tucked the money into a pocket. He thanked you, getting into his car. You waited for him to drive away, likely the last person you’d see this shift.

“Ah, pardon me,” Ignis startled you by climbing back out, the car door hanging open. He held something out to you. “I believe you dropped this.”

You looked at your phone in his hand, your eyes wide, nervousness becoming embarrassment. Quickly grabbing it, you bowed again. “Sorry.”

Ignis chuckled. “It’s quite alright. Good thing I noticed when I did.”

Nodding emphatically, you wished he’d just go before you humiliated yourself further.

Clearly not reading your mind, he lingered a moment longer. “In truth, I--”

“Have a good day, sir.” You didn’t mean to interrupt him and hadn’t expected him to say more.

He cleared his throat and smiled. “Same to you.” Thanking you again, by name this time, he left.

Back in the quiet lobby, you put his tip with the rest you’d made that night. You sat behind the desk and buried your face in your hands. The sting of feeling stupid in front of Ignis was abated by the underlying excitement that came from talking to the chef you admired.

They specialized in meals for picky eaters, which you were. They used clear directions, so they could be followed by an amateur chef, which you really were. They sometimes added personal anecdotes spiced with sarcasm and dry jokes to the recipe’s background, which made you feel safe to comment. You refrained from checking your inbox, content to wait until you were home to see if they’d replied yet.

Two attendants arrived for the day shift, and as you hitched the strap of your bag over a shoulder, readying to leave, one of them told you to wait.

“You should pick up a new nametag before your next shift.”

Glancing down at your uniform, you remembered you’d lost yours several days ago. “Oh, right. I will.”

You stepped into an elevator, pressing the button for the metro station level. New nametag. Dumb. You had your work badge but still required a tag. How else would the Citadel inhabitants know who to thank for fetching their expensive cars? You rolled your eyes at the thought, already annoyed. You’d have to come to work early to pick it up. Was it too soon to quit and attend culinary school? You needed to make a bit more money first. Ignis tipped large bills, but still, it’d take years of picking his car up every morning before you could afford tuition.

Grinning to yourself, you weaved through the incoming morning crowds and boarded a train home. It had felt nice, hearing Ignis say your name on his way out. He was the only person who ever addressed you, so maybe getting a new tag was worth it for that alone. Ignis was just-- He truly-- You really liked when he came down, that was all.

It didn’t strike you for another several hours, as you filled out the online request for a new Citadel employee nametag, that Ignis must’ve remembered your name. You supposed a great memory was probably just another part of his polite demeanor. That’s what you told yourself, at least, to keep your crush from growing. You didn’t even know the man.

You attempted the chef’s latest recipe, and as it cooled, you--very casually and not nervously at all--checked to see if they’d replied.

I’ll keep that tip in mind. As for your question, I recommend the following replacement recipe: brew a cup of coffee or tea, sit somewhere comfortable, and enjoy the beverage knowing your comments haunt me whenever I cook.

You read and reread the message, then laughed into a hand. Worth the wait. You ate a bite directly from the dish on your counter, huffing through the fresh heat with mild regret. They deserved a genuine review after such honesty, but it seemed you were doing little more than burning the roof of your mouth. So you took a picture of the food, offering a thumbs up with one hand in frame, and sent it as a reply.

The next night you worked, Ignis arrived much earlier than expected--before midnight, no less. He was coming in rather than going out. Another man was with him, someone blonde and unfamiliar. Ignis opened the back to retrieve something, turning you down when you offered to get it for him. The blonde man, his smile sincere but awkward, complimented your shoes.

“Thanks.” You didn’t really know what to say. People chatting with you was uncommon.

“They match your uniform’s tie… thing.” The blonde man was red in the face. Someone needed to tell him he didn’t have to make small talk. You were just a valet. He persisted, his smile broad. “It’s nice, y’know. You’re, like, coordinated and stuff.”

“Prompto.” Ignis closed the back and proffered a piece of luggage toward the other man. “Leave her be.” When the man took the bag from him, Ignis gave you the car keys. “I apologize for my friend. He can’t contain himself around beautiful women. Add inebriation, and he’s a lost cause.”

You gripped the keys tightly, taking in everything with a slow nod. Yes, of course, right. All of that made sense. Ignis was bringing a drunk friend into the palace. Normal Ignis stuff.

“Do you think Cor’s gonna be mad at me?” the blonde asked Ignis, walking backwards from the car toward the lobby doors. “Iggy, what if Cor gets mad at me?”

Ignis rolled his eyes, a hand checking his inner jacket. “A tad late to worry about that. Go directly to the barracks and try to sleep it off.”

“Where are the barracks again?”

Ignis’ chest broadened with a sigh, and he left the guy hanging. Withdrawing a money clip, he held it out to you. “For your trouble.”

You hesitated taking it. The outer bill appeared to be 1,000 yen, and it was several notes thick… More than the usual tip. You took it slowly, fingertips brushing his leather covered palm, and murmured a quiet thanks.

Ignis remained, his hand lifting to brush loose strands of hair out of his face. He wasn’t as put together as you were used to. Your eyes trailed downward, now noticing the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Huh.

He cleared his throat and began, “There’s something I--”

“C’mon, Iggy!” The blonde man held one of the entrance doors wide open. “If I knew Cor was gonna be mad anyway, I would’ve stayed at Noct’s.”

Ignis gave you a hasty farewell, already walking away to push the blonde man through the door. They disappeared inside, leaving an awkward wake of silence. You settled into Ignis’ coffee-and-leather scented car, a realization hitting you late, as they tended to do. Had Ignis implied you were beautiful? You didn’t entertain the thought for long. Ignis was a professional, royal something-or-other. He would never. You were reading too much into it. Surely.

On the walk from Ignis’ parking spot back to the lobby, you checked for the latest message from the chef. You’d boldly given them your number in a DM when the comment thread became unbearably long. You hadn’t held out hope of receiving a message and read their initial text at least ten times in disbelief before responding and saving the number.

Was this a new friendship? You hoped so.

[michelleleahhh]

“accidentally fell in your lap while standing on this crowded bus” au pLEASE I BEG OF YOU

Oh, anon. If only this would actually happen on my commutes. I changed bus to subway though. 

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Word Count: 1,800

It would be fabulous to be on time. One time. One week. One hour.

Born early, always late. That’s the saying, right?

It is possible that your roommate is to blame, with her taking a 45-minute Good-Morning-Shit.

It is also possible, you can blame the people above you, with their stomping and yelling at all hours of the night.

Truly though, the blame is with you and your proclivity for always running late. It really is a disgusting habit. The snooze button is just such a good way to start the morning.

Tomorrow, you decide, will be the day you’ll be on time.

Yes, tomorrow is the perfect day for that.

Today, you are already late.

You can hear the subway approaching, so you quicken your pace, slightly embarrassed that you’re puffing for air. As you swipe your metro card and race in a hurry down the cement steps, you’re greeted with a crowding of people around silver doors.

God may be shining on you today. You know, since the train appeared just when you got there. It’s the most amazing kind of kismet.

You throw some elbows, step on a few toes, and manage to squeeze your way into the middle of the subway car. You are forced to face a row of seats, clasping the silver bars overhead to keep you anchored as the train zooms off. The man in front of you man spreads, his long legs bumping into yours.

Only seven stops until you can get to the Avengers Tower.

Ever since you took your new job in Media Relations (VERY different from Public Relations, you’d like to add), you have been getting in later nearly every day.

You peer around you, finding people pressed against one another. It’s silent as every morning commute should be. If you had to hear one conversation, you were going to go on a murdering spree.

When you make awkward eye-contact with a far too good-looking gentleman on the other side of the train you quickly divert your eyes. You lick your lips and try to sneak a glance out of the corner of the eye, hoping the man was looking at you.

You say a silent bargain: if he is looking at you, then he’s your soulmate.

He is not looking at you.

That is more disappointing than it should have been.

After two, uneventful stops, the train slows down, sputtering to a rest.

You ignore the three internal panics thrumming through you. They are ranked as follows:  

One, you’re on a crowded subway and stuck in between two different stations. This could be the end.

Two, it is extremely hot and you’re pretty sure you’re sweating through your shirt. This could get embarrassing.

Three, (and really what should have been priority) you are going to be late.

After a minute, the overhead speaker dings and a distorted voice echoes through the car.

“N, Q, R, and W trains are running with significant delays in both directions due to a police activity at 42nd Street Times Square that caused all lines to run on the local line. We apologize for the delay.”

A rapid domino effect ricochets through the subway car. People groan and shuffle around as if their display of aggravation is going to make the subway resume its course.

You drop your hands from the handlebar and pull out your cellphone. You unlock the screen and begin sifting through music, hoping that if you keep yourself busy it will make the delay move by faster.

After a few minutes, you land on a suitable song and try to send text messages hoping you appear busy. You type messages to in the following order to friends, family, and bosses:  

One (friends), you’re pretty sure you’re riding on the subway with your soulmate. Should you get his number?

Two (family), yes, you will make sure to text your aunt happy birthday. (And you’re pretty sure this guy is your soulmate. I mean, look at his hair, it is perfectly coiffed.)

Three (bosses), (and again what should have been priority) you’re going to be late because there are delays.

Unsurprisingly, none of the messages go through.

When you glance up from your phone, you realize the man sitting in front of you has been studying you. You quickly avert your eyes, telling yourself not to look at him. He keeps his gaze on you then finally huffs and shuts his eyelids. After a few moments, you steal glances at him.  

He has black hair, high cheekbones, and an irritable mouth.

He’s beautiful in the only way a man can be. (But definitely not your soulmate.)

Without any warning, the subway car begins to move. You’re so caught up in your phone that you forget to reach for the bar overhead and stumble around, trying to catch your footing.

You tumble and land in the lap of the beautiful stranger in front of you.

He gasps, his hands coming to rest on your hips and keep you from making even more of an ass out of yourself.

You try to pull yourself up, but the subway has begun an un-even jerking motion that keeps even the most sure-footed commuters swaying from side to side.

“Just wait until the train stops,” he nearly snarls in your ear.

A fever of embarrassment flows through your bloodstream. You purse your lips, tightening every muscle in your body.

You glance at his hands on your hips, looking at the dull, pale fingernails and studying them. They dig into your clothes, almost roughly, promising something that you have yet to understand.  

They’re the type of hands that would draw designs amongst flesh, ones that would force pleasure and heartache from every crevice of your being. You are adamant that you could understand everything from a person’s hands. And these hands, they speak volumes. They are full of scars, long, slim fingers ended with blunt nails, and though there are lines around his knuckles, he didn’t look to be older than his mid-thirties.

He coughs from behind you to get your attention. You glance over your shoulder, seeing his eyes are raised at you in an annoyed, yet amused expression.  

People have begun to rush off of the subway, a woman that was sitting next to him gets up, eyeing you like any annoyed New Yorker would, muttering blasphemies under her breath.

You shuffle to your feet with as much grace as a baby elephant. You swallow thickly, looking at the seat next to him longingly.

What if… he is your soulmate?

You nearly cringe at the thought, what a sure way to discourage any romantic inclinations than to fall in the lap of a stranger.

Then, you do the unthinkable, you turn right around and sit on the seat next to him.

The subway moves again, though the man doesn’t look at you.

So, you do the worst thing any morning commuter could do. You talk.

“Thank you, by the way.”

You look at him, hoping you remembered to put on mascara this morning.

He merely grunts, his eyes closing again and he tilts his head back. “Perhaps next time, you should pay attention to your surroundings.”

You scoff ad turn to stare forward. “Ass,” you mutter under your breath.

A small, wry smile sneaks to his lips that you couldn’t miss if you tried.

You pull your phone out and look at the time.

You were going to be extraordinarily fucking late.

Finally, after a few uncomfortable stops, 57th Street is announced and you stand.

Much to your agitation, the Ass does too. He is tall. Like a tree or beam poll. He is all legs, and torso, and gangly arms. You want to climb him, intrigued at what the world would look like from that height.

He cuts off your pathway walking ahead of you and out the doors of the subway car. He’s a specimen, a true specimen, but he’s also a classified Ass.  

His ass is also perfect.

Damn.

You follow him out the doors, and oddly enough up the same path and into the same underground entrance of Avengers headquarters.

What the hell?

You decide then, you’re going to put your speed to good use. You stretch forward, pushing yourself faster so you can speed past him (after all nothing is more awkward than going the same direction as someone who you embarrassed yourself in front of on the metro).

Paces turn into a run, steps into stomping, breathing into huffing. You manage to defeat him. When you get to the security table, you open your purse searching for your ID.

Your heart sinks, now he’s going to pass you, see you, as you have to register as a guest with the security team upfront.

“I believe you dropped this.”

You turn to look over your shoulder, finding the Asshole Specimen dangling your ID in front of your face. You swipe it out of his hand and fist it tightly knowing you certainly did not drop it.

“Did you pickpocket me?” You try to sound scandalized, you’re afraid it came out as impressed.

“It was quite easy.”

You scoff again, shaking your head. “Ass,” you say louder this time and directly to his face. With that, you spin on your heal and swipe your ID entering into the elevator bank.

“Yes,” he agrees, falling in step behind you. “I believe you said that already.”

You get into the elevators, heart sinking and hammering when he does as well.

Shaking fingers press on floor number 15. He smiles wolfishly, leaning very close to you and hitting 52.

52?

52?!

Isn’t that where the Avengers floors begin?

Isn’t there like a separate elevator bank for them?

You bite your lips, tapping your feet on the elevator as you wait to get to your floor.

“So, you work here or something?” You finally ask, lifting an eyebrow to find that he’s been staring at you the whole time.

“Yes, something to that effect,” He articulates.  

Everything he says is just so… pompous.

He’s a Pompous Ass you decide.

The elevator dings, the doors opening on floor fifteen. Without another word, you step through the threshold and onto your floor.

When the man speaks your name from the elevators, you turn to him.

He knows your name? Of course, from the ID. But you don’t say a word. Instead, you raise your eyebrows and shoot him a deadly glare. He merely cocks his head, a serpentine smile on his lips as the elevator doors close.

One Shots: @fairlightswiftly​, @javelinamilk​, @wannabebr1t​, @joyofbebbanburg​, @schmidten17​, @winterisakiller@addyliners, @iamverity,  @kybaeza, 

[vernonfielding]

Life Writes Its Own Stories

Amy/Jake Newspaper AU, Chapter 2! (And at AO3.)

Amy’s family had not taken well to her announcement that she was leaving education to go into journalism. It wasn’t the leaving part that had bothered them – it was the ‘going into.’ Her family didn’t agree on much, but they were pretty united in their mistrust of the mainstream media.

Her dad had been a career cop with the NYPD, and three of her seven brothers had followed his footsteps. Her mom had been a full-time social activist, which didn’t pay as well as detective (as in, at all) but required the same level of commitment. Three of Amy’s brothers had taken after their mom and were now working for various human rights organizations in and around New York. Her youngest brother was the only other outlier, and he’d really gone rogue – he was a singer/actor/writer trying to make it onto Broadway. They’d all been gently indulgent of Amy’s decision to go into education, but when she’d shifted to journalism the fallout had been immediate and vehement, and come from all sides. Including David the singer/actor/writer, which seemed profoundly unfair.

Amy had been passionate about the news – and newspapers in particular – for as long as she could remember, but a career in journalism had seemed as outlandish to her as a child as David’s drive to go into entertainment. In a way, it had been his incremental successes that had given her the final push to follow her own dreams. That and the fact that she was sick to death of teaching 9- and 10-year-olds how to make sun collages and watercolor flowers. Kids were loud and messy (and also most of them sucked at art).

Of course, journalists were loud and messy too, Amy thought, as she leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms over her head, peering about the newsroom. At the desk directly across from Amy’s, Gina was screaming at someone on the phone that no, she was not going to write an expose about toxic government immunization programs.

“Fucking anti-vaxxers,” Gina snapped as she slammed the phone back in the cradle.

On the far side of the newsroom, Charles was asking Terry if dog shit really smelled different from human shit, and if it was necessary to include that in Hitchcock’s story on street pooping. Hitchcock himself was watching a video turned up way too loud on his computer; it sounded like porn.

Amy loved her job.

“Santiago,” Terry called, yanking Amy out of her musings. Holt was the editor in chief of the Bulletin, but it was Terry who ran the metro desk, the heart of the newsroom.

“What’s up, boss?” Amy said, as Terry walked up to her desk.

“What’ve you got for me today?” He was staring down at a battered legal pad in his hands, on which Amy knew was written the stories everyone was working on and when they expected to have them done.

“Um.” She usually had three or four things to pitch him, but the past few days had been unusually slow and she’d already written three stories that had been on her evergreen list. She was perilously close to coming up dry for the first time since she’d started at the Bulletin.

“Look,” Terry said, planting his palms on her desk and leaning toward her, “we’re okay for tomorrow’s paper, but it would really help if you could come up with something good for the weekend.”

Amy knew that “it would really help” was about as close as Terry came to ordering a story, so she squared her shoulders and nodded. “Roger that.”

Terry frowned at her and narrowed his eyes. “You’re starting to sound like a cop,” he said. “It’s weird.”

Amy shrugged. “Hazard of the job, I guess?” She hadn’t told anyone that she came from a long line of NYPD cops. She worried Terry or Holt might pull her off the beat if they thought she was biased.

Terry just grunted and scratched a note, then called out “Hitchcock” and moved on.

Amy slumped in her chair. She’d dodged the daily bullet, but now she needed to come up with something really good for the weekend edition. She pulled up her evergreen list – stories that, in theory, could be written up and published any time because they had nothing to do with current events – but the ones left were boring or would take more than a few days to finish.

Amy set her chin in her hand and checked the NYPD Twitter feeds, and then the neighborhood blogs and even The Times local news website, but there was nothing going on. What she needed was a good tip, some murder or weird robbery or identify theft case she could expose.

She thought of Peralta. She’d actually tried looking him up, the day after her story was published, but she’d found almost no public records on him. A search of the NYPD staff database had provided his name, rank and current assignment to the 99th Precinct, but no photo. He wasn’t in the Bulletin archives at all, and he didn’t seem to have a Facebook account or any other social media presence. She wondered if he was normally an undercover cop, which would explain the low-key identity. Or else he just didn’t do very interesting work with the NYPD – but somehow Amy didn’t think that was the case.

Amy tapped a pen against her reporter’s notebook and wondered – not for the first time – why he’d picked her out of the crowd to tip off about the ex-boyfriend-slash-cop. And she wondered what other interesting stuff he might have hidden under those rolled-up sleeves.

At that thought, Amy groaned to herself and chuckled. Detective Peralta was cute and he’d given her a good tip, but that was hardly anything to be fantasizing about. Besides, he was a cop, and she’d had enough cops in her life to know that though there were some amazing ones – like her dad and two out of her three brothers – a lot of them were power hungry, egotistic, self-righteous and borderline corrupt. Just because Peralta had helped her out once didn’t make him one of the good guys.

She turned back to her computer and pulled up the NYPD Twitter feed again. She might have to write that feature on the new anti-graffiti task force after all, Amy thought with a sigh, and began taking notes.

+++

Jake stared at the board in the briefing room, trying to find the link between the string of pawn-shop robberies he and Rosa had been investigating for two weeks. They had pins marking spots all across Brooklyn, plus a few in Queens, and there was no obvious geographic connection. He sat down on the edge of a table and ran a hand through his hair. Beside him, Rosa sighed and blew a strand of hair out of her face.

“Maybe it’s not the same guy,” Rosa said, picking up their stack of reports again and flipping through the pages.

“Or girl,” Jake said, just to be a jerk. Rosa kicked him in the shin. He flashed her a grimace and rubbed his leg. “Look, it’s obviously one guy, or a couple working together. It’s the same MO every time: Break in just after midnight, take out a security guard, grab the cash on hand, and out the way they came in.”

“And they never show up on the security cameras, so they’ve obviously staked the place out.”

“Right.”

They both stared at the board some more. Jake let his eyes go a little crossed, like maybe if he skewed his vision he’d make some sense of the puzzle in front of them. He was reminded of those old “Magic Eye” pictures from when he was a kid. He’d always been good at finding the hidden image. He didn’t see anything now, but he could feel a subtle tickling in the back of his brain, a familiar itch that let him know he was missing some piece, and that he was close. If he could just relax, open his mind, he was sure he could figure this out.

“Peralta!” called a voice from the bullpen. Jake jolted out of his musings and jumped off the table to poke his head out. The Vulture’s assistant, Penny, waved at him. “Phone call. It’s at your desk.”

Jake turned back to Rosa and nodded toward his desk and she waved him off. The bullpen was a zoo – the Vulture was cackling wildly in his office, some dude was screaming at a prostitute in the holding cell, and for some reason there was a group of Boy Scouts crowded around the sergeant’s desk. All the noise was distracting, which was part of the reason he and Rosa had retreated to the briefing room.

He picked up his phone and said, loudly, “Peralta.”

“Detective Peralta?” came the voice on the other end.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Jake said. He pressed the phone into his ear.

“Oh, hi. It’s Amy Santiago. With the Brooklyn Bulletin?”

“Shit!” A spike of alarm shot down his back. Jake looked quickly around the bullpen to see if anyone was watching him.

“Excuse me?” Santiago said.

“Why are you calling me here?” Jake hissed.

“I’m sorry, I just called the main line-”

“I can’t talk to you on this phone.” Jake glanced toward the Vulture’s office; he was sprawled back in his chair, feet on his desk, laughing at something on his cell phone.

“Okay, sorry, I just had a quick-”

“Look, I’ll call you back. Is this the right number?” He read back the digits that showed on his phone and Santiago confirmed that was her number. “Okay, give me five minutes.”

Jake hung up without waiting for an answer and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, then ducked back into the briefing room. “Hey, I’ve got to hit the head, I’ll be right back,” he said to Rosa, and left when she just waved him off again.

Jake took the stairs to the first floor and walked all the way down the block, toward the deli where he got lunch every other day. He leaned against the wall around the corner from the precinct and dialed the number he’d memorized.

“Amy Santiago-”

“I can’t believe you called me at the precinct!” he said, trying hard not to raise his voice. “Did you give anyone your name?”

“No,” Santiago said, quickly. “I just asked for you and they transferred me. No one knows anything.”

“Okay, good. That’s good.” Jake released a long breath.

“Seriously, I’m sorry for freaking you out,” Santiago said, and she did sound contrite. “I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you.”

“It’s fine,” Jake said. “But why were you trying to reach me anyway? And how did you even get my name?”

“Someone called your name at the press conference and I looked you up,” Santiago said. “As for why I called, I had a favor to ask.”

“Haven’t I done enough favors for you?” Jake huffed. “Nice story, by the way. Front page and everything.”

“Thanks,” Santiago said. “And yes, I appreciate the help. I promise, this one is not nearly as big of a deal. I’ve got the whole story already worked out, I just need you to confirm one little detail before I can publish.”

Jake closed his eyes, wishing he’d remembered to grab his sunglasses before darting outside. He really should end this conversation now, before things got complicated. Rosa would kill him if she knew he was out here even listening to a reporter. But he had to admit, he wanted to know what she was working on.

“I can’t promise I’ll help, but tell me what you’ve got.”

“Okay, here’s the story,” Santiago said, and Jake knew after half a sentence that he was screwed.

She’d somehow caught on to the fact that the deputy commissioner’s son had been tagging police vehicles with penises, and that he’d been caught multiple times and let go with no repercussions. She told him that her sources were solid but no one could confirm with absolute certainty that the kid was definitely the deputy commissioner’s son. He had the same name and was the right age, but there was the slimmest possibility that could be a coincidence, and Santiago said the story was too big to bet on coincidence.

Jake himself had barely dodged this particular nightmare a few weeks earlier, when the Vulture had demanded he drop his own case against the kid. Jake had been sorely tempted to arrest him anyway but Rosa had stepped in and told him it would be career suicide without his captain’s backing. It still bugged Jake that the brat had gotten away with it.

“Look,” he said to Santiago, “even if I had information that would help you, I couldn’t share it. The kid’s a minor. Those records are sealed up.”

“Ah, I thought you’d say that,” Santiago said. “Turns out Trevor Podolski is 18. About to be 19, actually.”

“What?” Jake yelled into the phone. “That little shit lied to me? On an official police report?”

“So you do know about this case!”.

Jake winced. “Fine, yes, I worked it for a few days. But seriously, I can’t help you with this one. It’s too risky.”

“Come on, Peralta,” Santiago said. “This is your chance to set things right.”

Jake groaned and bumped his head back against the wall.

“I mean it, I’ve got everything already.” Santiago’s voice took on a desperate edge. “I just need you to tell me the story is true. That the kid is the deputy commissioner’s son.”

Jake bit his lip, glanced up and down the street. A car was parked on the opposite corner. He recognized it immediately as an unmarked police vehicle because of the giant dick spray-painted on the driver’s side door.

“Detective?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you’re still on the phone? Or yes-”

“Yes, your story’s right,” Jake said. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Thank you!”

Jake gave her a quick “Welcome” and ended the call. He glared at the penis car, then pushed back off the wall and headed back to the precinct.

When he returned to the briefing room, Rosa scowled at him and said, “Where were you? I checked the bathroom.”

“You went in the men’s room?” Jake said, then shook his head and walked up to the board. “Never mind. I solved the case. It was the guys who installed the security cameras.”

Rosa stared at him, then picked up their notes again and began flipping through them, a slow smile spreading over her face. “How’d you do that?”

Jake just shrugged, and ducked his head to hide a small smile. For all that Santiago had nearly given him a heart attack, Jake had to admit, talking to her had actually cleared his head. 

+++

The next morning, Jake had just slung his bag onto his desk when the Vulture called him into his office. Pembroke had two tones when he yelled out his detectives’ names: impatient and furious. This tone was not impatient.

Rosa narrowed her eyes at Jake and he shrugged back in return before heading into the Vulture’s den. Or nest, Jake supposed. But “nest” didn’t sound nearly terrible enough.

“Wha’s up, Captain?” Jake said, tapping his knuckles on the Vulture’s open door.

Pembroke replied by holding up a copy of the Brooklyn Bulletin and shaking it so the pages rattled. Jake squinted at the front page and read the top headline out loud: “’Expose: Parking Fines Lining Police Pockets.’” Jake paused and scratched the back of his neck. “Ouch, there goes your retirement in Long Island. Sorry, sir.”

“Not that bullshit,” Pembroke cut in. “The other story, below it.”

Jake scanned down to the story in the lower left corner. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh! ’NYPD Official’s Son Is a Painter -- of Penises on Police Cars.’” The Vulture slapped the newspaper onto his desk. “What the fuck, Peralta.”

“Wait- what?” Jake stepped fully into the office, kicking the door shut behind him. “You think I had anything to do with this?”

Pembroke glowered at him. “You were the last guy to work that case, and you made it clear you were pissed about how it was handled, so yeah, I think you leaked it to the pretty reporter and probably got your dick sucked in return.”.

“Okay, first off,” Jake said, “that’s disgusting and super offensive. And second, no – I didn’t leak anything. I wouldn’t even know how to leak something like that. I don’t even know who-” he paused and made a show of lifting up the paper to peek at the name on the story, “Amy Santiago is.”

“She’s hot and she’s been busting our asses lately,” Pembroke said. “You really didn’t tip her off about the Podolski thing?”

“I swear, I had nothing to do with that.”

Pembroke eyed him warily and Jake just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, forcing his face to stay relaxed and give nothing away. Finally, Pembroke turned back to his desk. He flipped the newspaper into his trashcan – Jake was tempted to make a comment about recycling but now probably wasn’t the time – and said, “Fine, dismissed.”

Jake turned to go, then remembered he actually had a case he wanted to bring up.

“Uh, one more thing,” he said, plowing on even when Pembroke got that look on his face that meant their conversation had already gone on about five minutes longer than he’d prefer. “I got a text from a CI last night. He said there’s this new drug, some kind of fentanyl analog. They’re calling it Jazzy Pants-”

“No-go,” Pembroke said, cutting him off.

“Sir, with all due respect, if there’s another high-potency fentanyl on the street this could be a huge case.”

“I said drop it,” Pembroke said. “Anyway, the Seven-Eight has a task force. Let them handle it.”

“Oh, well, if the Seven-Eight has task force,” Jake said, not bothering to hide his scorn.

“Dismissed, Peralta.”

Jake walked out without another word.

+++

“You’re crazy, man,” Rosa said later that day, over lunch.

They’d gotten deli sandwiches to go and were eating them outside, sitting on the benches at the neighborhood playground. Kids were screeching and racing around the asphalt, climbing the wrong way up the slides and shoving each other on the swings. Normally Jake would be itching to go out and play with them – and honestly, sometimes he did; he figured it was good for police-community relations – but today he was on his phone. He was buying a digital subscription to the Bulletin.

“I know,” Jake said, mumbling around the credit card he’d stuck between his teeth. He plucked it out to type in the number and added, “But you have to admit, it was pretty great seeing that jerk kid’s mugshot in the paper.”

Jake had picked up his own copy of the Bulletin not long after leaving Pembroke’s office. Rosa had followed him outside and when she’d accused him of the same thing the Vulture had, Jake hadn’t bothered denying it, though he’d explained that he hadn’t been the original source. Rosa hadn’t seemed impressed by that detail.

“Yeah, it’s great that the kid is going to get in trouble for drawing dicks on cop cars, but is that really worth risking your career?” Rosa said. “Don’t be an idiot, Jake.”

Jake finished entering his credit card and personal information and hit “submit” on the subscription form. When the confirmation page came up, he tucked his phone back in his pants pocket and turned fully to Rosa.

“I’m not being an idiot,” he said. “So I helped her out a couple of times. It’s not like she’s putting my name in the paper or anything.”

“Not yet.” Rosa plucked a pickle out of her sandwich and flicked it into a nearby trash can. “What is it about her anyway? It isn’t like you to-” She paused, a frown of distaste twisting her lips. “Trust someone.”

Jake rolled his eyes and groaned. “I don’t trust her, Rosa.” She gave him a very dubious eyebrow lift. “Okay, I have on two occasions trusted her, but it’s not like I trust her as a person. You know I only trust three people-”

“Your mom, that weird friend whose name I always forget-”

“And you,” Jake finished.

Rosa gave him a thin smile that was part pity and part fondness. “I’m just worried that trusting this reporter is going to bite you in the ass later. It seems a little reckless, man.”

“Well, thank you for your concern, but I’m not reckless.”

Rosa sighed the way she did when Jake was being obtuse, and he slumped back on the bench. Because she had a point. Jake had come close to being burned before, almost a decade ago when he’d gotten drunk and mouthed off to a reporter from one of the tabloids. When Jake had called the reporter to beg him not to use his quotes or name him in the story, the reporter had refused. It was only dumb luck that the same reporter was arrested as part of a federal sex trafficking scheme the very next day, and was now in prison. Which reminded Jake -- he should probably check on Jimmy Brogan’s parole date.

He hadn’t been a fan of journalists since then. He wasn’t a regular news consumer, but he did pay attention when a case he was working on or familiar with got some coverage, so he knew the media bungled the facts almost as often as they got them right. Jake had seen a few cases actually mangled beyond repair by a reporter’s shoddy work. And even when the facts were technically right, they were missing context, or they were twisted in a way to make the NYPD look bad. 

Jake wasn’t an NYPD apologist, and he didn’t expect cops to be fawned over by anyone, but he believed in the work they did and he knew most of his colleagues were good people who deserved fair treatment, at least. Journalists weren’t interested in fair, though.

“I’ll be careful,” Jake said.

“That implies you’re going to keep talking to Santiago.”

Jake balled up the paper his sandwich had been wrapped in and tossed it toward the trashcan. He missed.

“I won’t,” he said, and pushed up off the bench to throw out his garbage.

+++

Jake didn’t think much about Santiago or the Bulletin until later that night, when he got bored during an episode of Real Housewives of Dallas and started fidgeting with his phone. He pulled up the Bulletin app and searched for Santiago’s name, and the next thing he knew he was reading through all of her articles.

He had to admit: Her pieces seemed surprisingly balanced and accurate. He read a few where she hadn’t gotten the facts entirely right, but he knew that was a lot to ask when she was probably dealing with reluctant sources (cops) and people feeding her misinformation (everyone else). She was also a pretty good writer, from what he could tell.

And he’d meant what he’d said to Rosa – it had been nice to see justice served in two cases where he’d been unable to get the results he wanted on his own.

He knew Rosa was right to be concerned for him about making this a habit, and he promised himself that wouldn’t be an issue. He really didn’t trust people generally, and Santiago wasn’t just “people,” she was a journalist, which made her, well, if not necessarily an enemy, certainly not a friend.

Still, he reasoned it wouldn’t hurt to let Santiago know that he’d read her latest piece. He took out his phone and pulled up the number he’d dialed the day before, hoping it was her cell and not a land line. He opened a text message and wrote, “Front page again. Congrats.” He hit send.

Jake tossed the phone aside and turned back to the TV. The text alert chimed and Jake leaned over to look at the screen: “Thanks.”

A minute later another message popped up: “We make a good team.”

Jake stared at the screen for a moment before turning it off without replying. He wasn’t sure what to make of that text, but for some reason the words stuck with him for the rest of the night.

CHAPTER 3

[beckzorz]

Out of Nowhere (2/21)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/OFC Summary: An offhand comment at work draws Jesse Kaplan into the orbit of Bucky Barnes. Bucky’s excited at the prospect of normalcy, but there’s nothing normal about falling in love with the Winter Soldier. Words: 3577 A/N: HELLO FROM PART 2!!! Enter Bucky! :D And enter some unconventional formatting... A lot of this is drawn from my personal experiences, and a lot of my personal experiences involve texting my friends about what’s going on a hundred times a day XD (Sorry @kentuckybarnes​!) The song for this chapter is “Solitude” by Duke Ellington from In a Sentimental Mood. Hope you enjoy :3

PART 2: “SOLITUDE”

     Today, 6:38 PM

itsadrian: ahhh you look great!!!!! jesse.kaplan: Thanks :3333 jesse.kaplan: I’d feel better about this if I had a cocktail dress newer than the 1950s itsadrian: lol itsadrian: that’s what you get for only buying vintage clothes jesse.kaplan: My jeans are brand new Adrian… it’s my soul that’s the Real Old™ around here jesse.kaplan: don’t judge itsadrian: can’t help it itsadrian: at least it’s a nice one tho! the 50s are back in itsadrian: and black is classic itsadrian: i think if you went in a dress from the 40s you’d raise some Actual Old But Also Young™ eyebrows itsadrian: 50s seem pretty safe in comparison jesse.kaplan: don’t judge… but I had that same thought process haha itsadrian: SMART itsadrian: that’s why i keep you around :P jesse.kaplan: Well thank god otherwise I’d be having a panic attack on the metro which is never a great look jesse.kaplan: my roommate said it looked ok but I trust you more haha jesse.kaplan: oh geez here we go ttyl!! itsadrian: take a selfie with pepper potts!!!! byeeee

—

Jesse stuffed her phone in her clutch and adjusted its long strap across her body as she ran up the stairs to street level. The benefit was at a fancy hotel in Midtown, a block and a half from the subway. She was grateful she hadn’t given in to the urge to wear her fanciest shoes; her low black heels weren’t debilitating. Not yet, anyway. Hopefully there wouldn’t be too much standing in place.

She hummed jazz to herself as she walked briskly along, not meeting anyone’s gaze. Was it obvious where she was going, dressed up as she was? The benefit wasn’t hugely publicized, or at least she hoped it wasn’t. Sure, there might be a few supers there, but not the whole Avengers squad.

As soon as she rounded the corner, she sighed in relief. Though guests trickled in, the photographers corded off from the entry ignored them. No doubt they were waiting for the famous people.

Jesse hurried to the door, fished out the invite on her phone, and flashed it to the security guard as she went in. She heard sudden calls from the street, but the doors closed before she could see who was arriving.

Inside was cool, fancy—art deco carpeting, gilded columns, a gleaming reception desk. The odd tourist gawked; Jesse ignored them as best she could as she followed the directions of the smiling tuxedoed butler to the ballroom. She steeled herself and went inside.

Alright, so the room was gorgeous. A snazzy bar hugged the left wall, not far from the door, and a small raised stage complete with a Stark Foundation podium was on the far wall. Numbered tables set for ten took up much of the room, but there was a small area for schmoozing by the bar. Jesse brightened when she spotted the quartet just about to play—and a dance floor! Maybe they’d play some jazz, or swing…

Jesse deflated. She didn’t know anyone here.

“Excuse me,” someone said behind her, and Jesse apologized and made her way over to the bar, a vague smile fixed on her face. All she got was a water; no way was she drinking alcohol when she had to talk to strangers. She stood a few steps away from the bar, watching the few couples swaying to the music with a critical eye.

“Jesse?”

Jesse jumped and turned. A fellow dancer! Someone loved her tonight. “Mike! What are you doing here?”

“My company is getting a nod,” Mike said, grinning back down at her. He was pale and very tall—well over six feet—and wonderfully dressed, considering she’d only ever seen him in t-shirt and jeans. “You?”

“My colleague’s in the hospital, so I’m a last-minute replacement. She’ll recover,” Jesse added when Mike’s face screwed up. “If you’re here, I’m not sorry to have to replace her anymore though! How are you?”

“Pretty good, you?”

“Same old. Tired, but what else is new. Anyway, this isn’t exactly perfect music, but wanna dance?”

“Of course,” Mike answered.

Jesse chugged her water and left her empty cup and clutch at her table before hurrying back to Mike as a new song was starting. It had a better beat than the first song, and they snagged a spot near the band.

As soon as they starting pulsing to the music, Jesse’s lingering anxiety completely melted away. There was something magical about dancing with a good lead. Nothing else seemed to matter, and it was so easy to close your eyes and let yourself be led. And Mike was a very good lead.

Once they started doing more complex moves, where Mike was alternatively at arm’s length and swinging her around him, Jesse opened her eyes to avoid collisions. The song was good, predictable—they both hit a break in the music and grinned at each other.

Then Jesse recognized a face in the little crowd that was gathering around to watch them, and she couldn’t help but stare.

Sergeant Barnes.

His expression was severe, intense; his hair was pulled back tightly. Combined with a high forehead and his sharp suit, he looked two steps shy of terrifying. After a moment, he met her gaze. Jesse forced a smile and looked away, heat rising to her cheeks. She kept her eyes on Mike, only daring to look as far up as the onlookers’ collars when she wasn’t facing her friend.

The music was fun, her dancing was good, so why did the guy who had been so impressed by her work look so displeased with her now? Why couldn’t he smile like everyone else, and save her from being so worked up as to lose enjoyment in her one consolation tonight? She felt someone staring, cutting a line across her arms, her collarbone—she didn’t dare look to see if it was still him. She had to talk to him later.

The song finally ended, and Jesse thanked Mike with a customary hug. Some of the onlookers clapped, and Jesse warmed a little as she smiled shyly around at them. Barnes had vanished, thank god.

Jesse slipped away to get her cup, disturbed. She couldn’t think of Barnes like that; he’d done so much for BCEI. And Marilyn liked him. She took a breath to clear her head and arrived at her table.

Oh.

Well.

Sergeant Barnes was sitting next to her things. An old woman was chatting to him from his other side. Barnes glanced at her as she approached, but almost immediate turned his whole body to face her. His gaze was less severe than before; maybe the effect of his companion?

“Hello,” Jesse said, doing her best to maintain a genuine smile.

“Hey,” Barnes said. His voice was soft, a little melancholy, and not exactly friendly. Still, a big improvement.

Jesse slid into her seat and wrapped her hands nervously around her glass, which a waiter came by to refill. The tables were awfully crowded; there was no room to avoid Barnes' gaze without seeming rude. She took a steadying breath and looked back up at him as confidently as she could.

Okay, she knew he was ripped, but his face was oddly delicate. Maybe his sad eyes, or his mouth—Jesse cut herself off.

“I’m here for BCEI instead Marilyn,” she told him.

Barnes stiffened. His eyes narrowed as he leaned back a little to regard her with a suddenly terrifying demeanor. “Oh? What happened to Marilyn?”

“She broke her ankle,” Jesse blurted, her own eyes widening as his narrowed even further. “She’s alright though! Just a fall. A cat or… something. I’m sorry.”

“Bucky, contain yourself before you make this poor girl faint,” the old woman on Barnes' other side cut in. She leaned forward a bit and smiled, not unkindly, at Jesse. “You dance beautifully.”

“Oh, um, thanks,” Jesse said, cheeks hot. She stared into her water, trying to relax.

“I’m sorry,” Barnes said, low and repentant. “I was looking forward to seeing her.”

Jesse forced a little laugh. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too! She was looking forward to coming.”

“But you weren’t?” he asked. She looked up at that. He had his eyebrows raised a little, and she flushed anew. Was it so obvious?

“I only found out I was coming this morning,” she hedged. “I’ve never been to anything like this. I don’t think I’ll know if I should’ve looked forward to it until it’s over.”

He let out a rueful sigh. “Smart.”

Jesse sipped her water rather than agree with him. Far be it from her to tout her own intelligence. Though she couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking of. He had to be thinking of something specific. She wondered.

The old woman on Barnes' other side reclaimed his attention with what turned out to be a long-winded story. Jesse couldn’t help but admire his quiet attentiveness. Perhaps listening to other people was easier than talking for him? She often found it so among strangers.

Five minutes in, the band quieted. The rest of their table filled in as Pepper Potts mounted the stage, a hulking man in a suit close at her heels. Jesse tried to figure out who in the crowd was a donor and who, like her, was a beneficiary. It was easier with the women—the rich ones had nicer, blingier jewelry. The men… all wore suits.

Potts began her speech, silencing all other conversations. “Hi and welcome to Stark Industries’ annual benefit…”

Jesse listened, half attentive, as Potts introduced various people representing various organizations. Each one went on stage to applause and shook Potts’ hand (continued applause), made a short speech about their Good Works (followed by applause), and left the stage. Jesse began to tune it all out, but then she heard Barnes' name and perked up.

“—Sergeant James Barnes, for his work with the Brooklyn Children’s Education Initiative.”

A smattering of applause echoed through the room as Barnes stood. The couple across the table from Jesse paled as they stared at him in fresh realization. Had they really not recognized him? Jesse glanced around; the shock and whispers were poorly masked by polite clapping. Apparently he wasn’t as instantly recognizable as she’d assumed.

A sudden burst of panic flared in her gut. Would Barnes' checkered history color BCEI’s opportunities in the future? Had she made a mistake soliciting his help?

She stared anxiously around the crowd, then back to Barnes. He stepped nimbly between the tables and up the steps to the podium, shook Pepper Potts’ hand, and adjusted the mic to his six-foot frame.

“Thanks,” Barnes said. His voice was soft, round, and vaguely ironic, but he met her eyes from across the room and gave her a serious little nod. Surprised, Jesse nodded back, and Barnes looked up to the prompter. “The Brooklyn Children’s Education Initiative provides the opportunity for underprivileged kids in my hometown to be fully engaged with their education. Their after-school programs at schools around Brooklyn welcome students of all backgrounds. I was lucky enough to participate in a program about the Great Depression, and it was inspiring to watch the students take control of their own learning. BCEI is a great cause. Thanks, Pepper, and everyone else who enables them to continue their good work.”

Once he stepped back, Jesse relaxed. It was so obviously scripted that she felt no qualms in only clapping as long as most others. It wasn’t any skin off his back if she didn’t give a standing ovation for her own organization.

Best of all, the speech completely sidestepped his questionable past.

When Barnes made it back to the table, Jesse smiled up at him briefly, finally at ease about her attendance. She was done! BCEI had done its part. As soon as the rest of the speeches were done, she could leave, dance with Mike, make small talk—

Well, hopefully not small talk.

As the next speech went underway, Jesse looked through the crowd for Mike, finally spotting him a few tables away next to a middle-aged blond woman. Mike was busy watching the speech, but the woman eventually glanced Jesse’s way. Jesse gave a little smile and looked back to the stage, embarrassed.

Pepper Potts finished her closing statements and left the stage (to applause) as the band picked back up. Jesse turned at last to Barnes and cleared her throat.

Once he turned to her, she said, “Thank you for your speech.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. He took a sip of his drink; Jesse realized he too was just drinking water, and wondered why. Habit, or necessity?

“I don’t know your name,” Barnes said suddenly.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m Jesse.”

He studied her face. “You apologize a lot,” he said. “Why?”

“I dunno, Jewish guilt?”

“Ha.” Barnes said, but he was not smiling.

Of course—he’d worked for Nazis. Jesse winced.

“Alternatively, bad parenting?” she offered.

Barnes gave a tiny smile—his first all night. Jesse almost cheered.

“Hi, Jesse.”

Jesse spun in her seat. “Mike! Hi!” She smiled up at her friend. Mike glanced at Barnes with muted curiosity.

“Wanna dance?” he asked.

She smiled and jumped to her feet. Let Barnes be awkward at someone else. “Take a guess.”

–

Jesse danced with Mike for a single glorious song. When a stranger asked her to dance, she accepted, but instantly regretted it. She smiled tensely the whole time, using as much force as she dared to keep her shoulder from popping out of its socket. Once the song was over, she fled back to Mike with a relieved sigh.

While they were dancing, someone kicked the back of Jesse’s ankle. She stumbled with a wince; Mike gripped her elbow, steadying her.

“I’m sorry! Are you okay?” she asked automatically, turning to face whoever had stepped on her.

It was Barnes, dancing with the old woman from their table. His face was pinched, but as she spoke his expression grew incredulous.

“I kicked you,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Of course, it happens all the time,” Jesse said. She rolled her ankle, containing a wince. Barnes just stared at her. She smiled, hoping to diffuse—reassure him. “So I’ll have a bruise! It’s the cost of doing business. Not a big deal. You’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, still looking at her as though she had two heads.

“Good,” Jesse said. She nodded with finality and turned back to Mike. As they finished out the song, she occasionally met Barnes' eyes. It was hard to look friendly under the force of his confusion, especially as she considered the necessity of asking after the well-being of someone who had not been hurt when that someone was a supersoldier.

Of course Barnes was fine. He was engineered to be fine.

Physically, anyway. Who knew what was going on in his head.

The song ended—Mike timed a dip perfectly—and Jesse hugged him and turned to get some water.

“Would you like to dance?”

Jesse blinked up at Barnes. He stood in her way, his gloved hand held out to her. She looked down at it, then back to him. Why was he asking? Out of politeness? He’d been more confounded by her than anything…

More importantly, did she actually want to dance with him? Would he hurt her? He didn’t seem to know how to express himself in public. Did that translate to dancing?

Well, the old woman had finished her dance with him in one piece, so she probably would too.

“Okay,” she said finally, and put her hand in his.

The corners of his mouth turned up, though she wouldn’t call it a smile exactly. He put his other arm—his flesh-and-bones arm—under hers and across her back, drawing her in so close that her nose brushed his jacket until she turned her head aside. She let out a shallow breath and tried to relax as the music started, simple and slow and gentle. His muscles shifted with his movements, and a sudden flush spread over her face as she realized how close they were. Jesse swallowed. Should she try to make conversation? Should she just bear the silence? What would they even talk about? They’d covered all the normal things back at the table…

“You dance real well,” Barnes said suddenly.

Jesse hummed her thanks and smiled despite herself. If someone who had lived through the actual swing era thought she was doing a good job even when she was so damn uncomfortable, she had to be good.

He moved them a little apart and studied her. “And you look… a little out of place.”

“What?!” Jesse laughed, too bewildered to be offended.

“Your dress is out of time. It’s, um…” Barnes frowned. His gloved hand clenched around hers, and her smile fell flat. Her heart twisted at his obvious confusion. God, no wonder he’d stared at her! He couldn’t place her. Captain America had missed everything for all the years he was missing, but the Winter Soldier… hadn’t.

Her face burned. How could she have been so self-centered? Every concern she’d had about Barnes had been all about her, not him. So what if he was awkward, or intimidating? Hadn’t he suffered enough? Hadn’t he earned the right to be free of her judgment?

“It’s from the fifties,” Jesse said at last, glancing at their clasped hands as his hold tightened again. He loosened his grip, chagrined.

“I thought so,” he said. “But—”

“My hair’s very much not fifties,” she added. “That might have thrown you off?”

Barnes tilted his head as he regarded her. She tried not to squirm, but being stared at by a man trying to piece her various incongruent parts together made her flesh crawl. It felt like an eternity before he was satisfied.

“Right,” he said. He let out a breath between his teeth and drew her back in, settling his arm securely around her. “Thank you.”

His mouth was by her ear, and the quiet warmth of his words sent a sudden shiver through her. Unable to speak, she just nodded.

How could such a strange, displaced man make her feel his presence with nothing more than a simple thank you? Dancing with him was so different from dancing with all the other leads she knew. With them, she had familiarity, comfort… There was comfort here too—he knew what he was doing, no question—but it was spiced with something dark. However awkward he was in conversation, they weren’t limited by that now. Behind that uncomfortable veneer, Barnes was dangerous. Somehow, that thrilled her.

Jesse sighed and closed her eyes, trying not to melt into Barnes’ solid hold. Her efforts must have been in vain, as he tightened his arm around her ever so slightly. She expected him to put her back to a safe distance, but… he didn’t.

Well, she’d take it. Whatever danger he posed to his enemies, right now he wasn’t hurting anyone.

The rest of the song passed in a pleasant blur. When it was over, Jesse hesitated before stepping back. Barnes had gone still, but he let her pull away without resistance.

“Thank you,” Jesse said. She smiled tentatively up at him.

Barnes didn’t answer; his eyes were dark and his shoulders tense. He stared down at her, unblinking. Jesse bit her lip, unable to look away. After a tense moment, he let out a quick breath, nodded sharply, and stalked away.

Jesse stood immobilized on the dance floor until Mike came by with his own water.

“You okay, Jesse?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said. She shook off the strange aftereffects of her dance with Barnes. “I think I’m going to head out. It was great seeing you! Will you be at the dance on Thursday?”

“I should be,” Mike said. He gave her a quick hug. “Bye.”

“See ya.”

Jesse made her way back to her table, still half in a daze as she gathered her clutch and wove her way back to the door. She was almost there when someone put a firm hand on her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

It was Barnes. His face was back to its normal solemnity, but Jesse flushed all the same at the sudden memory of being held against him.

“Where is Marilyn staying?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I can find out,” she offered reflexively, then frowned. “Although I don’t know how to get in touch with you.”

“Give me your phone,” he said. “Unlocked.”

Jesse blinked and did as he asked. There was no arguing with that tone of voice. Barnes started a new text, and Jesse raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t you worried I’d give your number to someone else?”

He gave her a dry look, but paused. “Are you going to?”

“No…”

“So I’m not worried.” He sent the text and passed her phone back to her. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Jesse tucked her phone away, bewildered. “You and Marilyn must have really hit it off.”

“She’s great. No nonsense, no judgment.”

Jesse bit the inside of her lip. “I suppose so.”

Barnes’ eyes narrowed at once. “What do you mean?”

“Oh—well, everyone’s judgmental. It’s just that Marilyn is usually right, so it’s not so obvious. Or annoying. At least for sensible folk. You know.”

Barnes smiled, his face transformed into something sweet and warm. Jesse couldn’t help but smile back.

[let-it-raines]

I'm going to follow the "it's the time for giving" motto of that annon and give you my love and admiration, because you and your writing always brighten my day. Also, could I ask for a CS fic where someone walks by a street musician every day in her way to work and she always bring him coffe and something to eat because she thinks he's poor and could use some help, but actually he's like a super star and just plays in the street for fun? 😘

Hi, Anon! Thanks so much for your kind words! They brighten my day, and I really appreciate you and want to give you all of my love and admiration! I love this idea, and I really hope you like this prompt answer!

She’s not exactly sure how it started, but she stops by The Bean (yeah, she knows it’s a cheesy name for a coffee shop but it’s better and cheaper than Starbucks) and buys two cups of coffee five days a week. One is black, the bitter smell of the hot liquid invading her senses, while the other is full of sugar and milk, really more of a latte than anything. But she’s never been a fan of coffee alone. She likes when it’s mixed in with sweets, and she can get her sugar and caffeine fix all at once.

If she has to walk a few extra blocks to burn it off, it’s worth it.

So she buys two cups, walks out of The Bean, and makes her way to the office, her heels tucked away in her purse while her feet are clothed in white tennis shoes to walk the New York streets. She looks like every movie cliché of a New Yorker, but she doesn’t care. She’s not crazy enough to wear heels while walking (and walking and walking) through crowds to get to work.

The sounds of horns honking, people talking, tires screeching, and buildings being repaired with the loudest drills imaginable fill her ears for a few blocks until things start to get quieter and calmer, Manhattan someone feeling a little peaceful. And like every morning, she hears a guitar being expertly plucked and a melodic voice singing along to a song from at least half a century ago, and she smiles at the familiar, wonderful sound.

The source of the music comes into sight when she turns the corner and passes the thirty-third street subway station. She could have swiped her metro card and ridden here, sure, but she’s got to work off the latte (and maybe the pizza she ate last night). Plus, she likes watching the people, tourists mixed with locals, and all of the different cultures being combined. She’s not saying New York City is the greatest city in the world, but it’s got to come close with the way it’s like walking through different countries and cultures all in one day.

Today’s apparently a Frank Sinatra day for her favorite street performer, a fitting choice for New York City, and she can already feel herself humming along as she gets closer and closer to him. Today he’s got on an old Yankees cap, the blue edges fraying on the side, as well as his usual jeans with worn out holes in the knees and his trusty black leather jacket that he must take expert care of for the condition it’s in. He smiles when he sees her, nodding his head in acknowledgment, but not stopping his playing. He’s really brilliant, could probably be somebody if he wasn’t a street musician in an area where it’s mostly poor recent graduates and curry restaurants, but life isn’t fair and sometimes the talented don’t get their big break.

When she checks her watch, she realizes she doesn’t have time to stay and listen or chat, as they sometimes do, so she carefully places his black coffee down next to his guitar case, flashes him a smile, and is then off to work.

And so goes nearly every morning of her life.

Tuesday he sings the songs of Elvis. She gives him his coffee.

Wednesday it’s the Beatles, his one voice somehow capturing some of the magic of all of theirs. She gives him his coffee.

Thursday it’s Bing Crosby. She gives him his coffee.

Friday he jams out to the Backstreet Boys. She gives him his coffee and a tip for making her laugh before eight in the morning on a Friday after a long week of work.

Her weekend passes as normal, time spent doing laundry, buying groceries, cleaning, and going out with her friends on Saturday night, and on Monday, she buys her two cups of coffee and makes her way to work. She gets to Murray Hill, expecting to see her musical coffee acquaintance, but he’s not there.

And he’s not there on Tuesday or Wednesday or for the next two weeks. After week one, she stops buying the coffee, having to tell her regular barista she doesn’t need it. She gets a pitying look, something she does not appreciate it, and she carries that awful feeling in her gut on her way to work and every time she takes a sip of her own coffee. It’s ridiculous how one little change in her day can affect her so much, but she’s a woman of routine. She likes doing the same thing at the same time, and her British street singer not being there is throwing her off in the mornings.

She wonders if maybe he got a job, something that takes up his mornings. She doesn’t really know what he did to begin with, if he even had a job. She’s always kind of assumed he didn’t have one or maybe he worked gigs at night along with his street performances. He’s a nice looking guy, stunning blue eyes and a neatly trimmed beard that covers a defined jaw, and his hair is always cleanly cut. So he definitely spends time on his appearance and has the funds to do so, but she doesn’t know many people who have well-paying jobs and spend their mornings performing on the streets.

He’s a mystery, one she thinks about far too much on her strolls to and from work, and as the days pass, she wonders where her Mystery Musical Man has gone off to.

But then one day, music blaring in her headphones, she’s walking her same path, one coffee cup in her hand, and she sees him strumming along on his guitar. She’s a little early this morning, so even though she doesn’t have his coffee, she stops and listens to him playing a majorly stripped down version of We Are the Champions.

There’s no one else around, everyone looking past the street performer, so when it’s over, she throws some cash into the guitar case and flashes him a smile before opening her mouth. “Where have you been?”

He quirks an eyebrow, the thick black brow practically reaching his hairline, before he flashes his perfectly white teeth and eyes her coffee mug. “Did you miss me?”

She shrugs, not really sure how to carry on this conversation with a man who is a stranger but also not. “I guess so. I didn’t – I stopped buying your coffee. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, love,” he insists, “I wasn’t around. Wouldn’t want you to waste your money, but I did miss you and your coffee.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. They don’t make black coffee in LA, and they don’t have pretty lasses bring it to you.”

That throws her for multiple reasons, but it’s mostly because he admitted to being in LA…and maybe a little bit that he called her pretty, but she’s going to harbor that secret inside and pretend her cheeks don’t heat. But seriously. What the hell was he doing in LA? Is she even allowed to ask? Is that taking a step too far?

“What a pity,” she says instead of everything she wants to say. “I wonder how you survived.”

“The hardest few weeks of my life honestly. I didn’t think I was going to make it.”She barks out a laugh before talking to him for a few more minutes, only leaving when she absolutely has to get to the office, and while her life feels a little more settled having him back, she’s also full of every question imaginable.

Mostly, what the hell does he do? Why was he in LA for weeks? Why does he perform in such a calm spot when there are better out there? And what is his name?

The next day she buys two cups of coffee, the barista giving her another pitying smile, and she walks her usual walk, dropping the steaming cup off every day. They talk a little more than they used to, but it’s never about anything serious, and she still doesn’t have any answers to any of her questions. If anything, the man is more of a mystery than he was at the beginning, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

He’s between songs when she walks up, his guitar resting on his back, and so she hands him his cup instead of placing it on the ground.

“Thank you, love.”

“Yeah, no problem.” She doesn’t know what else to say, the awkwardness somehow filling the entirety of Manhattan. But like the smooth talker she is, she blurts out her next words. “What’s your name?”

He’s in the middle of sipping on his coffee when she asks, so she impatiently watches him drink the liquid, his throat bobbing, and it takes a hell of a lot of restraint to hold herself back from just running away.

“Killian,” he finally answers, flashing her a smile. “And you?”

“Do you not have a last name?”

“I do. I just didn’t think you’d care.”

“I care. I’m Emma Swan if that helps.”

“Jones then. Killian Jones.”

Her lips twitch, laughter practically bubbling below the surface. “Did you phrase it that way so you could say your name like James Bond?”

“I guess you’ll never know.”

So now she knows Mystery Musical Man’s name, but she doesn’t think she’s ever going to call him anything else in her head. That’s what she’s called him for months now, and it’s hard to change things. But now he calls her Swan every morning, and it makes her smile. Of course, it’s only after a few weeks that she realizes he likely knew her name because it was on all of the coffee cups. But she kind of finds it endearing that he never used her name without her permission.

It starts with an exchange of coffee, and the floodgates open when there’s an exchange of names. Every day is nearly the same, but when she hands him his coffee, he calls her Swan and makes an extra effort to interact with her. Sometimes he even messes with lyrics, changing the names around to fit hers, and it brightens her day so that work doesn’t seem so dreary. As the days pass, they talk more and more. She wakes up earlier to buy their coffee so she can get to Murray Hill faster, and they talk until she absolutely has to go to work, his musical stylings lessening as they get caught up in talking to each other, learning a bit more about the other.

She tells him she’s in family law, and he tells her he’s a musician. She doesn’t quite understand that, really wanting to know what he does outside of performing on the street, but he never says more. If he doesn’t want to share, that’s perfectly fine. The only reason she’s sharing things about herself is because this is a man she talks to for fifteen minutes a day and who likely will move his spot somewhere else more populated to make more money.

But he never moves. He’s always there, and if he’s not going to be, he tells her the day before. All of the changes become part of her routine, and she becomes quite fond of her daily chats with Mystery Musical Man Killian Jones.

And then one day everything changes.

There’s a monsoon raging through New York, water hitting you no matter how bundled up you are in your rain boots and coats and umbrellas. The streets are as full of water as they are of people, and as much as she logically knows there’s no way Killian’s going to be performing today, she still stops in The Bean and goes to buy her coffee.

“Hey, Hannah, can I get the usual?”

“Uh, the guy in the gray beanie over there,” she points to the corner of the shop where there’s a man bundled up in plaid and jeans with the aforementioned beanie on, “he already bought your orders. Is that the boyfriend you’ve been buying coffee for all this time?”

“No boyfriend,” she answers automatically, still staring at the man to see if it’s Killian. She can’t tell from this angle. “But I’m gonna go see who this guy is.”

She nods to Hannah before walking away and walking toward the man in the corner. He’s pretty well hidden, which she finds suspicious until she gets a good look at his profile and can tell that it’s Killian. Her tense shoulders relax, and she sighs in relief before unceremoniously plopping down in the seat across from him.

“So you stalking me now?” she jokes as blue eyes look up to meet her. “Because I’ve got to say, I’m not sure the coffee I bring you every morning is worth all of the hassle.”

His hand reaches up to scratch behind his ear while his eyes crinkle as he gives her a lopsided grin. “I’m not stalking you. I, well, I can’t perform in all of this rain, and I still needed my coffee fix.”

“How’d you even figure out it was this store? You know this is a chain, right?”

He shrugs. “Google, some powers of deduction, and a whole lot of luck.”“Well color me impressed Mystery Musical Man.”

Killian barks out a laugh, loud enough that people turn to look at him. “I’m sorry. What did you just call me?”

Heat rises in her cheeks while the rain pours down outside. She’s dramatic, but she kind of wishes she could run away with the rain right now. “Um, nothing.”

“No, no,” Killian teases, leaning over the table and waggling his eyebrows while flashing her another smile, amusement stretched across all of his features, “you called me Mystery Musical Man. Swan, I didn’t know you had a nickname for me.”

“Yeah, well, I went a few months not knowing who you were. What was I supposed to do?”

“Ask me my name.”

“I did…eventually.” He smiles before sliding her coffee over to her, and she accepts it before taking a sip, the liquid cool enough that she knows he’s been here awhile. “So, um, can I ask you a question? And you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Sure, love, but I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t tell you unless you’re about to ask me some deep, personal secret like if I’ve ever dyed my hair.”

She snorts into her drink, shaking her head back and forth. “No, no. I’d never ask such a deeply personal question, but I do, um, what the hell is it that you do for a living?”

His brows furrow, and he clicks his teeth. “Didn’t we talk about this already? I’m a musician.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but do you do anything else besides performing before eight in the morning? I know this is rude, but I’m just…curious.”

“Tis not rude. What someone does for a living is basic conversation. But seriously, no. I’m a musician, and I do play more than the mornings. That’s honestly just for fun.”

“So where do you play? I’d love to come see you.” He raises his eyebrows, salaciously smirking at her in a way that makes her cheeks heat again. Is she just going to word vomit everything today? “To see you play. I’d love to see you play.”

“I know what you meant, love. I, um, I haven’t had many gigs lately, but I am playing next Friday night if you’d like to come.”

“Really? Where?”

Killian’s jaw ticks and his eyes look up at the ceiling like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Has she pushed too far? Is she making him uncomfortable? But then again, he told her he’d like for her to come.

“Tell you what, love, I’m going to get you some tickets for you and a friend, and the address will be on them. Does that work for you?”

“It makes you seem like the definition of Mystery Musical Man.”

“Yeah, well, that’s apparently who I am.”

They talk a little more before he walks with her to work, bypassing his regular playing spot and taking her right to the office. She doesn’t know what to say when they’re leaving, but Killian figures that out for her, leaning in and brushing a kiss against her cheek that lights her entire body on fire.

“So how exactly did you score these tickets?” Ruby questions as they walk into Madison Square Garden, people milling around in every direction and making it difficult to find their seats.

“You know the street performer who I bring coffee to?”

“Your Mystery Musical Man?”

“That’s the one.”

“Shit,” Ruby whistles as they find their way into a roped off section, only a few other people in their seats there. “He got you these? How?”

She shrugs, leaning closer to Ruby as the opening act for the White Sails sets up. “I’ve got no clue. He said that he’s performing, and I about flipped out when he gave me the tickets this morning and saw where they were. But I don’t know who the White Sails are, and honestly, I think he’s probably a guitarist for their opening act or something.”

“Do you think he was asking you on a date when he gave you these? Are you sure he’s even performing?”

“He told me to bring a friend so no, and he definitely said he was performing.”

“Huh. Curious. But hey, we get a free night out, so let’s go with it.”

The opening act is pretty good, someone she’s also never heard of, but that’s pretty much par for the course tonight. And Killian is most definitely not up there, so her confusion continues to grow while she tries to figure out what’s going on. Maybe she should have been more direct in her questioning. She’s never that wishy washy at work or with anyone else, but she never wanted to accidentally insult Killian in questioning his job when he may not have one. But he can get her nice seats to a concert in Madison Square Garden, so now she’s really confused.

And she also really wishes he was here so she could talk to him. She barely got to this morning, and they weren’t able to talk about the cliffhanger on The Good Place last night.

The opening act eventually finishes, and instruments on the stage are interchanged before several men, each of them in head to toe black, walk out on stage to the sound of cheers and wolf whistles.

And that’s when she sees him, front and center holding a different guitar with his hair bare of a baseball cap and a presence that’s totally different than the one he usually has while they’re talking on the street.

“Holy shit.”

“I know, right?” Ruby agrees, yelling over the crowd into her ear, “they’re hot.”

“No, Rubes, that’s him.”

“That’s who?”

“The singer, the guy up front.” She points up to him as he fiddles with the tuning of his guitars, “that’s Mystery Musical Man.”

“Holy shit.”

“Hello, everybody,” he begins, the familiar voice booming through the microphone, “I’m so glad you all can be here tonight. I know it’s been awhile since we performed, but it took a bit to get some inspiration for our new songs, though I finally found some lately. So I thank you for being patient with us. I’m Killian Jones, and we are The White Sails.”

Yeah, she needs to sit down or be pinched (or punched really) because all of the coffee has obviously destroyed her brain cells.

She and Ruby make their way backstage after what is a frankly incredible show, and while her brain managed to chill itself out about halfway through the concert, she’s still freaking out because she just doesn’t understand. Why would someone who performs in Madison Square Garden also perform on the sidewalk in Murray Hill? He said it was just for fun but still. And why does no one but her really notice him? Sometimes there’s a crowd, but it just…it doesn’t make any sense.

And she’s still waiting to wake up from whatever kind of dream this is.

But then Killian walks out of a backroom in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with a smile on his face entirely focused on her. He steps toward her, his hand scratching behind his ear, before he’s standing directly in front of her.

She doesn’t know what to say, so she blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m sorry I didn’t buy you a coffee.”

He shrugs while he laughs, his lips ticking up on one side. “That’s okay, love. I think maybe you can have a pass this time.” He leans forward and wraps his arms around her, embracing her. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she pulls back, nodding her head and smiling, “that was incredible. You’re incredible. I’m just entirely confused.”

Ruby coughs behind her, and she’s brought out of her confusion and disbelief and a little bit (a lot) of a crush that’s been developing for weeks now. “And this is Ruby Lucas.”

“Nice to meet you, Mystery Musical Man. I came with to make sure my girl wasn’t going to get murdered tonight.”

“Totally understandable,” Killian laughs, shaking Ruby’s hand. “That’s why there were two tickets. To prevent the murder, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupts, shaking her head back and forth, “I just have a lot of questions.”

“Well, Swan, maybe I have some answers. Do you – ” he looks behind him where someone is calling his name “ – can you and Ruby wait here while I do a bit of quick business?”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

Killian jogs off, running over to whoever was calling him, and she and Ruby sit down on a bench behind them. Ruby fiddles with her phone while Emma tries to think through everything, connecting the nice, normal guy she’s come to really like with the man she saw up on stage commanding thousands of people with his voice. He’s still Killian, that much she knows, and when he said he was a musician, he definitely wasn’t lying. She kind of just thought he performed in bars.

“So according to Wikipedia, your new boyfriend is thirty-four, is from London, and he’s been playing the guitar since he was twelve.”

“I knew all of that, and he’s not my boyfriend.”

“He’s going to be.”

“Ruby.”

“Listen, Ems,” Ruby commands, hitting her in the shoulder, “out of the kindness of your heart you have been buying this man coffee and talking to him every day for months because you thought he was a struggling artist and really appreciated him as a musician and as a person. You like him. He likes you. What he does for a living doesn’t matter. It’s cool as hell, don’t lie to yourself, but it doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I say you take life as it comes to you, and you should go for what you want.”

So she does.

As soon as Killian comes back into view, she walks toward him with a purpose in her step, and before he can say anything, she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him. He takes a moment to kiss her back, but when he does, it’s soft and slow, his lips caressing hers while his hands thread into his hair and hers do the same. His whiskers are rough against her chin, and right before she pulls back, he growls, something that nearly makes her keep going as if she doesn’t need air.

But she does, would die without it, and pulls back, putting some space between their lips while their foreheads rest together.

“So the whole being in a band thing really did it for you, huh?”

“No,” she promises, quickly brushing her lips against his again, “I don’t care about that. It’s awesome, but I don’t care.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. All I really want is to buy you a coffee.”

Killian laughs against her lips, the vibrations moving through her. “You know what, Swan? I think I can buy this time.”

She and Killian go get coffee two days later. Killian buys despite her protests, but that’s okay. She buys the next time they go. And it goes on like that for weeks and then months and eventually years. As time goes on, they stop going out to buy coffee. Instead they get their caffeine fixes in their home, and she has several White Sails albums dedicated to her that she listens to on her way to work. It’s not quite the same as getting a live performance right outside the office, but she thinks she may like it better this way.

Actually, she knows that she does. She can get a live performance at home.

[lovableminyoongi]

Rainy days in Seoul

Pairing: reader & Kim Namjoon(RM)

Genre: Angst, maybe fluff at the beginning?

Growing up I always thought love was easy to find. My parents met in college and fell in love at first sight. Even though my older brother wasn’t planned, as it was only 2 months into the relationship, my parents realized they wanted to keep both the child and the relationship. That turned into another child, me, and 10 years of marriage. My older brother didn’t have the same luck at the first year of college but he’s still hoping. After meeting my boyfriend, randomly at cafe in Seoul, I slowly started to develop the same outlook on love:

"Hi can I get a ice americano and a muffin please?” I said when it was my turn at the counter.

“And what name should I write?”

The server asked.

“Y/N” I said softly and smiled.

The server nodded and took the money I held out for him. I sat down a little further into the little cafe. I reached down to take out my earphones and put in one, just so I could still hear when my order was ready.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

I looked up and into the eyes of a gorgeous young man. His soft brown hair framed his face perfectly and his brown eyes were shinning with the sunlight from outside, coming inside. His smile was enchanting and made my knees weak, luckily I was sitting down so no one noticed the physical reaction.

“No no, you can take the chair” I said expecting him to move it to another table. I looked down to my phone to answer a message from my friends group chat expecting the guy to be long gone in a conversation with someone else at another table.

“Y/N is a beautiful name”

I looked up shocked and noticed he had sat down across me, at ‘my’ table. My mouth opened slightly from the shock of his words.

“I’m sorry if I come across rude, but do i know you? How do you know my name?” I said confused. Had I met him before? Was he a friend of a friend?

“Shit sorry, I totally came across creepy... I heard your name when you mentioned it to the server.. I was behind you in the queue” he said nervously, as all confidence in his voice dissapered.

As I realized we wasn’t a stalker, at least still kind of hoped, I smiled and stopped holding my breath.

“I’m Namjoon” he said and also let his breath go. “I just thought I could approach you confidently and be smooth but I got too nervous” he said and laughed softly.

“Nice to meet you, Namjoon” I said.

I was sure that if it had been any other guy I would have ticked him off as a creep and would’ve rejected him in hopes of him walking away without any anger, as I had heard stories about what could happen. But somehow I felt safe with him. Could’ve been me being naive and trusting whoever, always seeing the best in people. But I decided not to reject him. We spent hours talking at the cafe and I learned he had a passion for music and I shared mine with art. He mentioned a new exhibition his friend, Taehyung, had made. He invited me and gave me his number before he excused himself for having to leave. I met up with him at the exhibition, which I had checked up before going so I was sure of it not being a lie to get me into another more dark situation. But the place checked out and even looked very official. He was standing outside and looked very handsome indeed in a suit. He had asked me to dress up as it was a quite fancy place. I chose a beautiful black dress that hugged my body, and put on some red lipstick. He was standing with his phone looking. As he heard footsteps coming closer to him he looked up and at me. His eyes became bigger and he looked me up and down. I did a little spin and laughed.

“ Hello Namjoon” I said softly still smiling.

“Hello Y/N, you look beautiful” he said smiling at me.

“Should we go in?” I asked him after what felt like 30 seconds of staring into each other’s eyes.

“Ah yes, lets go” he said smiling and put out his arm for me to take.

The night went by quickly and I had caught him staring several times when looking at the paintings. He introduced me to his friend who had paintings and afterwards he led my around the room, never leaving my side, but never touching me. I noticed him clinking softly on his glass of champagne and I smiled at him.

“Namjoon can I ask you something?” I said turning around so I was in front of him. “Of course”. “Is this a date?” I said bluntly, obviously catching him off guard. He looked down and and smiled big. “I hope so” he said slowly looking up at me, looking for a reaction to his words. “Me too” I said smiling at him.

The date went like they do in the movies, I felt myself falling for him slowly, but too fast at the same time I thought. I had just met this guy a few days ago but it felt like we had known each other for years. After the exhibition ended he said his goodbye to his friend and led me to the metro station nearby. He hugged me goodbye and explained his car was around the corner, therefore not taking the metro. After the date came many more. After many more came the label “boyfriend” and “girlfriend”. After the labels came the “lets move in together”. Everything was going great. I loved my job and living in Seoul. Namjoon was working on music and decided to go to an audition for the idol companies. After he got accepted and made it into a group, I was so incredibly happy for him. The group put out amazing songs that made them stand out from the crowd and they gained the success for their hard work. But I felt myself losing grip of him. He began to stay over at the studio several nights a week and began forgetting to answer my texts asking when he came home. I feared the realization of him drifting away but I wanted to hold on. And I feared more the thought of him realizing we were no longer as close as we used to be and as much in love we used to be. It was a rainy day I woke up to. Namjoon wasn’t by my side in our bed, which was becoming a normal recurrence. I sighed and sat up. Isn’t it just typical to be raining when the clouds where in my mind as well? The weather being a match with my feelings. But somehow I felt sure. Sure of how I felt and what I wanted to do today. To let go of the love of my life, or rather the love of 5 years. We had had several arguments about his fading time at home, more severe than others. I had had enough and given up on the idea of bringing my parents’ love into my world.

Yesterday I broke up with him. I had gone to his studio and had asked him to step outside. I told him quietly but surprisingly. He didn’t even flinch and after a few seconds he told me he agreed. That our blooming love had died like flowers in the cold of winter and that summer was never to return to revive it. As I got home everything hit me. What was I to do now? I had lost my life, losing him. What I had imagined for years I wouldn’t find in him. And the feelings of emptiness filled my and the tears started streaming down my cheeks. My legs gave out like the day I met him, only caused by the opposite feeling. Today Taehyung came by and told me he had been sent to pack up Namjoons things. I couldn’t get myself to help him pack everything of Namjoons personal things down. Every picture of his that was taken down, was a stab in my heart. Even when I couldn’t feel the love between us I could still remember when I could. And that broke my heart even more. Today was also a rainy day, with even more aggressive rain, beginning when Taehyung left with the boxes of belongings that used be conjoined with mine. The sky cried with me. Trying to comfort myself with the thought of the future but confusing myself more when I had to remove Namjoon from them.

[korinsu-t-blog]

May 20 // Shibuya + Meiji Shrine

Got up super early again today, the jet lag is still strong but at least it’s not as bad later in the day. After lounging around all morning until 10 (I did cook some pasta on a tiny little burner, which was fun), we set out for two places: the Shibuya shopping district, and then a shrine to the Meiji Emperor, the man who almost singlehandedly ushered in the modernization of Japan within a single thirty-year reign. There was a lot of walking involved, but all in all it was pretty cool.

First, Shibuya. We got off the metro after a lengthy ride to find a statue of a famous dog, whose story you’ve probably read somewhere. It’s the one that would come to the station and wait for its owner every day, even after its owner passed away. I guess that dog sets the bar for getting a statue in your honor.

Shibuya was absolutely packed, but honestly I’m sorta getting used to defining new levels of crazy-jam-packed. You’ve got the subway packed, which is close but not uncomfortable. You’ve got the Shibuya packed, where it’s wide open and there’s a lot of people milling around but you can still make your own way. Then there’s the urban market hell that is Harajuku, where the alleys are tiny, the crowds are shoulder to shoulder, and it’s mass chaos.

After following Mr. Smith around Shibuya to a famous manga store (which didn’t open until noon), me and another guy named Austin split off on our own to do some looking around in a less conspicuous group. There’s still a lot of people staring at us, but they’re pretty good at hiding it. It’s very rare that you’ll actually turn around or catch someone’s eye and see them looking at you directly, but the other guys have noticed it a lot too. People always look right away though, it’s interesting. Anyways, Shibuya. We ended up on the fourth floor of a department store that was selling $8K suits and noped right out of there, then eventually found our way to a Uniqlo store that had some great shirts, all really inexpensive. Uniqlo is great, but it’s primarily JPN based and it’s hard to find their good stuff in america. After that, we wandered around a bit and decided to look for food. We happened to pass by a place roasting meat on a spinner like a gyro shop, and the rest was history- it was suuuuper good.

Portion sizes are very small here, but people make up for it by snacking a lot. If you move here though you’d get to a normal weight pretty fast, just cause it’s hard to find big portions and everything more or less just tops you off instead of making you super bloaty-full.

After Shibuya, we went on a twenty minute walk to a shrine to the Meiji Emperor. This was a Shinto shrine (Shintoism is the native religion of Japan, unlike the imported Buddhism) and after his death, the Meiji was deified, and got a cool temple to boot. This park is absolutely massive- 170 acres of forests and temple- despite being in Tokyo, the most stacked and demanding real estate market on the globe. Just goes to show you how important the work this guy did was to the people. It’s hard to describe what the forest is like, but it’s surreal how big it is. Everything is usually tight and homey, but then you get to the forest and the canopy is like five stories above you, everything is suddenly quiet, and it seems so massive in comparison to everywhere else. The Edo Museum was the only other time I’ve felt it, it’s really like stepping into an alternate slice of the world.

We saw an improv street performance as we were coming out of the forest, it was a lot of fun. A small four man group doing acrobatic tricks, it was a neat little ten minute show and a good break. After that, we walked to Harajuku, the ostensible home of youth culture and fashion of Japan. I don’t know how much I believed that, because it was more like market hell, if I’m being honest. Crazy packed, not too much stuff aimed at guys, and just not that great, especially to end the day. Maybe we went to the wrong part? I dunno.

Me and Austin ended up catching an early ride on the trains back to the apartments, but I think everyone is grouping up tonight to eat in and watch the game of thrones finale. Should be fun.

[The Shibuya mass crossing. The pedestrians have their own turn where all cars have to stop (it’s like a 9-way intersection) and people can cross and go whatever way they want. Also, that Starbucks used to be the largest in the world before one in China beat it. Starbucks is pretty big here, too.]

[Yes dad, I did find an outback. I’m pretty sure I’ll never see something like this again, because it was all the way off on a side street behind the 109 in Shibuya.]

[A cat cafe. I thought the poster was really cute. These are cafe’s with a bunch of cats roaming around in them, it’s a bit of a novelty here.]

[We passed by the 1964 Olympic Arena on our way from Shibuya to the Meiji shrine. Apparently it was once quite the marvel of engineering.]

[This is Austin. He’s a 4th-year Japanese / Psych dual major. I’m going to post at least one dumb picture of each person in the group by the end.]

[A shot of the inside of the shrine to the Meiji emperor. It’s hard to really get a feel for the size of this place, it’s so wide open and spacious compared to the rest of Tokyo that it feels like its own little corner of the world.]

-------

Reading analysis and stuff

So we had two readings, one on the Japanese explosion of soft power and the other on the modernization spurred on by the Meiji emperor.

The modernization one was pretty obvious- the emperor, reinstated by one of the clans after the Shogunate (dictatorship) was destroyed when its weakness against Western power became apparent, did massive work in writing charters and helping turn Japan into a Constitutional Monarchy. He honestly did a ton of work, and it’s fitting that they immortalized him with this forest and shrine right smack in the middle of Tokyo. He earned it.

Much more interesting though, was the reading on Japan’s rising influence in the modern world by means of soft power. You’ve probably heard of the term before. It’s not power in ships, armies, and weapons- it’s the power of setting trends that other people want to follow, making things other people want to consume, and- in part- determining the course of various aspects of global culture. For America, by far the most dominant source of soft power in the world, this comes from industries like film (Hollywood). Japan in particular has seen a huge rise in their soft power, primarily through projecting and cultivating their unique forms of media (manga, anime) and becoming the trendsetting culture of fashion in youth and young adults. Much like how the soft power of the west made the Japanese conform to their ideals of clothing, architecture, etc. under the Meiji emperor, so to has the cycle reversed and many countries are following the trends in clothing and media put forth by Japan. Their soft power, the ability to set trends and have others want to follow them, really is a marvel; and you can see many slices of how the country cultivates its power in the varieties of shopping districts and their brands that have a global, trendsetting presence. Japan has commoditized and weaponized its global appearance of “cute” factor, and it’s made their passive influence on global culture one of the few non-American sources that continues to grow, even to the point of setting trends for some parts of American and Western culture.

[boneless-pineapplepizza]

Study Buddy

Series: Part 9

[Part 1]  [Part 2]  [Part 3]  [Part 4]  [Part 5]  [Part 6]  [Part 7]  [Part 8]

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader (any gender)

Summary: (Y/N) is super popular, but has bad grades. Peter Parker is almost the opposite; a super nerdy kid who gets good grades. Out of desperation, (Y/N) asks Peter to be their tutor. But what if the one-on-one study sessions turn out to be something more?

Warnings: None...I don’t think

A/N: GOOD LORDY JESUS ITS LITERALLY BEEN FOREVER SINCE I’VE UPDATED I’M SO SORRY. School is ending soon, so I should be able to post more frequently again. Here’s the next part! Enjoy the story!

The weekend flew by quickly and Monday followed close behind. You walked down the crowded halls, only this time, people were talking about this year's homecoming  more than anything else. Kids from the SGA had started taking down some of the banners and posters used for promoting homecoming. 

Surprisingly, homecoming this year had turned out way better than last years. Although this was the second year in a row that no one asked you as their date, you were still able to get a kiss from the boy you like: Peter Parker. You remembered how good it felt to finally kiss him. But you also remembered how awkward it was after the kiss. You just sat on his lap, avoiding eye contact as much as possible and giggling softly to each other. And after that, you helped him get home. Luckily for the both of you, Aunt May wasn't home and was picking up another shift. Rounding the corner, you saw Liz in the distance. Her mom was standing right next to her, and she was talking to one of the girls from the cheerleading team. You started feeling sick in the stomach. Liz was Peter's date to homecoming, and he ditched her so he could chase after the bad guy- her father. Not only that, but you had kissed Peter. She didn't know that, of course, but some part of you still felt really guilty Was there any good way to approaching this situation? Maybe not. Nonetheless, you swallowed your anxiety and walked towards her, telling yourself over and over to keep it cool and natural. The closer you got, the more apparent it became that her eyes were red and glistening. Looking over at her mom, you realized that she was holding a box filled with some of her awards and belongings from over the years. "Liz!" You called out for her. She turned around to face you, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes avoiding contact with yours. "What's going on? Are you ok?" "Yeah, I..." She sniffed, taking a moment to take a deep breath, "I'm assuming you've already heard about my dad, right?" It was true. The story of how her dad had been keeping an underground illegal business selling highly dangerous weapons was all over the internet and on multiple news channels over the weekend. It was almost impossible to miss. "Yeah, I did. Oh Liz, I'm so sorry," You said softly, pulling her in for a tight hug. "Liz! (Y/N)!" You heard another voice call out. Releasing Liz from your hug, you turned to see the worried face of Peter Parker. "Hey Peter," Liz barely whispered. "Liz, look, I'm so sorry," Peter said. Liz smiled faintly, "You say that a lot. What are you sorry for this time? The dance? That was a pretty crappy thing to do." Heat rose to your cheeks the moment she mentioned the dance. "Well, yeah, but I-" Peter continued, "I mean, your dad- I can't imagine what you're going through. If there's anything I can do to help..." "We're moving to Oregon," Liz stated, "Mom says it's nice there, so that's cool. Dad doesn't want us here during the trial." It all made sense to you now. She had to pack all of her stuff for her move and her mom was here to pick her up for her very last day at Midtown Tech. You didn't want her to leave: she's your best friend. "Liz, I-I'm so sorry." Peter said once more. Liz just shook her head gently. "Look, Peter, whatever's going on with you, I hope you figure it out." You continued to watch the scene unfold right in front of you, guilt flowing through every vein in your body. Liz saw this and cleared her throat. "Peter, can I talk to (Y/N) alone for a little bit?" Peter’s eyes shifted towards you for a split second before looking back at Liz and nodding. “Yeah, I’ll be over here,” He said as he walked over to Ned, who was standing near one of the walls. You looked over to Liz’s teary eyes. She placed her hand on your shoulder and leaned in closer to you as the both of you turned your backs towards Ned and Peter. “Liz, I-I wish there was something I could-” You started to say. “It’s ok, (Y/N). We can’t really stop the inevitable, can we?” She sniffed, wiping away the tears as they flowed down her face. Turning back, she caught a quick glimpse of Peter and Ned, then turned back to look deep into your eyes. “Just take care of Peter, ok? I know he’s been acting weird lately, and he seems to put his trust in you.” You raised one of your eyebrows in confusion, wondering if she already knew about you and Peter. “What makes you say that?” Liz shook her head, laughing softly at your reaction. “(Y/N), I see the way he looks at you. Just make sure he’s safe.” You sent her a sad smile before wrapping your arms around her body and pulling her in once more for a tight, longing hug. As you laid your chin on her shoulder, the realization hit you that this would be the last time you’d ever talk to her for a while. Sure, there’d be opportunities in the future, but it wouldn’t feel the same; Liz won’t be as close as you are now. You shut your eyes tightly, trying to keep the tears from escaping your eyes. After what seemed like eternity, you decided it was time for her to go. You sighed, loosening your grip on her so you could pull away from the hug. Her mom, who was waiting by the door with a box of her stuff, gestured to the both of you to wrap it up. “I’m going to miss you, Liz,” You said, your voice cracking slightly. “I’m going to miss you more, (Y/N),” Liz replied as a tear escaped from her eye. She sniffed, wiping the tear away as she rushed to reunite herself with her mom. You stood there, watching her leave the building for the very last time. You wiped away the tears to stop yourself from crying in the crowded hall. Unknowingly to you, Peter and Ned stood right next to you. Peter had placed his hand on your shoulder, comforting you the best he could. "My best friend is leaving me," You quietly said. "It's going to be ok, (Y/N)," Ned comforted. "Do you really think so?" "Yeah, I'm sure," Peter piped in, "Besides, I know what it feels like to lose my best friend." Your eyes widened and jaw slightly dropped, feeling slightly offended at his joke. "Wow, Peter," You rolled your eyes jokingly at him, "Too soon, man." "Oh c'mon! I was joking, I'm joking," He said, uncontrollably smiling at you. "Whatever, let's just go to class," You smiled, reassuring him that you were just joking too. Peter and Ned walked you to class before walking off to their own. You were able to make it through your first few classes of your day. Thanks to Peter's tutoring, math became exceptionally easier, and Mrs. Green seemed to gain more of a liking towards you. Now, you were sitting in science class. Mr. Chavez had been writing on the board and lecturing the class about the periodic table of elements for what seemed to be forever. Just as you were about to doze off, you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. You looked towards the front of the class, making sure Mr. Chavez was not looking before looking down. Discreetly, you pulled your phone slowly out of your pocket and put it underneath the desk so you wouldn't raise suspicion. You looked at your lock screen; It was a text from Peter. Meet me after school near the gates Why? You texted back He replied a moment later. We have some studying to do, don't we? You smiled down at your phone screen as you read his text. Shouldn't you be in class? You texted back. Says the one who responded to my text. He retorted. You were too busy looking at your phone to realize that instruction had stopped, and everyone's eyes turned to look at you. "(Y/L/N)," Mr. Chavez, your science teacher called, "Is there something that is more important than this class right now?" As much as you wanted to talk back to him, you only replied, "No sir" and tucked your phone away. You chewed on your bottom lip, keeping your head down and pretending to scribble down notes in your notebook as Mr. Chavez continued on with his lecture. All throughout your classes, your mind was hooked unto one thing: Peter. Ever since the night of homecoming, he'd be constantly roaming your mind more frequently than before. The more you thought about it, the more the question bothered you: what exactly were you and Peter now? It's not like you are his girlfriend, because he never asked. And it's not like you are his friend either, because you guys have kissed. Peter was a shy boy, so you weren't surprised that he hadn't talked about it yet. Maybe today would be a good time. Finally, the last bell rang. You grabbed your backpack and placed your books in your locker, and headed out the doors of the school. You looked around every which way, trying to figure out where Peter may be. Then, in the distance you spot him. His hands were in his pockets as usual. He continuously paced back and forth as he waited for you near the field. You started making your way towards him. "Hey, Peter!" You called out to him. His head jerked up and he smiled in your direction. "Hey, (Y/N)," He replied. "You ready to study some more?" You asked him, starting to walk towards the metro platform. You felt a hand grab your wrist, causing your body to jerk back slightly. You turned back round to Peter who had a surprisingly strong grip on your arm. "We shouldn't go on the train just yet," He said. You furrowed your eyebrows at his sudden change in mood. "Peter? Is everything ok?" "Yeah, kinda," Peter said quietly. "You know you can tell me anything, right?" You asked with a soft tone. His eyes widened. "Oh yeah! Yeah, yeah, of course, it's just..." You stood there, worried that something bad happened to Peter today. "Actually, (Y/N)...there's been something I've been meaning to ask you," Peter mumbled, looking down at the ground and rubbing the backside of your hand anxiously. Your heart beat at what seemed to be a thousand times per minute, wondering what he could be so nervous about to tell you. "Hey, kid!" You heard a voice call out. You and Peter looked around, and saw a man in the distance. You eyed him up and down in curiosity as he approached you and Peter. He was a fairly skinny man, and wore light grey suit and a pair of shades. In the distance stood another man, except he wore a black suit and watched from afar near a black Audi. When the man reached the both of you, he removed his sunglasses and took a long good look at Peter. You squint your eyes slightly as you take a good long look at his face. There was something about him that seemed familiar. Then, it hit you: this guy is Tony Stark, famous playboy billionaire that owned Avengers tower downtown. Your eyes widened at your realization. "Mr. Stark!" Peter exclaimed, immediately dropping your hand. "What, uh, what are you doing here?" "Happy sent you a text a while ago, but apparently you didn't reply," Mr. Stark said. "I know he did, I just..." He looked at you for a second before turning back to Mr. Stark, "I promised (Y/N) that we'd study." He looked to you, eyeing you up and down. "Top secret stuff," was all he said to you. He placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, turning his back towards you, and leaning down to whisper in Peter's ear. Most of what they were saying was inaudible, but you could tell it was super important. Mr. Stark turned back to look at you, keeping his hand on Peter's shoulder. "Peter has to come with me for a bit. I'm sure you guys can find another time to study. Sorry that you can't come with your boyfriend." You opened your mouth to respond, but Peter was quicker. "I mean, well, I'm not really (Y/N)'s boyfriend," He stuttered. You felt your heart dropping immediately after those words escaped his mouth. "Really?" Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow. "So you two aren't dating?" "Well- I, uh," Peter said quietly. His eyes shifted back towards you, looking for an answer. You shrugged your shoulders in response; even you didn't have an answer to his question. "Well, uh, you were holding hands just a few moments ago, weren't you?" Mr. Stark teased as he sent a smirk towards the both of you. "That's what I thought. Nice meeting you. What was your name again?" He said, holding his hand out for you to shake it. "(Y/N)," You said meekly, taking his hand into yours and giving him a firm shake.

"(Y/N), (Y/N)," He repeated a couple of times, "We'll be taking off now" 

He turned around swiftly and started making his way towards the car. Peter turned his head around slightly and sent an apologetic glimpse. 

Just before you were about to start heading home, Mr. Stark had turned around. "Actually, why don't we all do dinner at my place? I want to get to know you a bit better," He called out to you. Peter tried to intervene. "Mr. Stark I don't think that's-" "Friday, 7 pm, be there or don't. Your choice really." Mr. Stark said, completely ignoring everything Peter tried to say. "I'll look forward to it," You said politely. You waved goodbye to the both of them as they entered inside Mr. Stark's car and drove away. 

You sighed to yourself as you stood there in solitude. You were having trouble wrapping your head around what had just happened. For one thing, Peter was about to ask you a question that you will probably never hear. For another, Tony fricken Stark had asked you to join him and Peter for dinner, and you agreed

What the hell did you get yourself into?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hmm, let’s see where this road takes us!

~Awkward Moments

Study Buddy tags:

@heyjess-marie / @ashleyhearto / @aussie-mantle / @mysteriouslyluckymoon  / @dianaxmarii / @unicorn-sparkles123 / @unicorngummybears  / @xxcxrolinexx / @proxinge / @redeyed-winchester /  @hurricane–amelia / @shoytai / @kaelyn-lobrutto24 / @angry-kylo / @converseskyline / @deadlyaffairs / @maddyfitzhenry / @greymalachai / @someonebeatmetotheurl / @justarandomfangril / @jules12345678910 / @wowpeterparker / @thebiggestnaturaldisaster

@br0ken-smiles-and-fallen-angels @4ydan @dogdemo <– (I feel so bad, the tags aren’t working! I’m not sure if I’m doing something wrong. Sorry!)

^^ It would mean a lot to me if you guys could help me out by messaging them and telling them about the next update! Thanks! <3

(Update: You do not have to tell them anymore, they have been notified. Thank you for the help!)

[formeandmyfics]

RECONCILIATION

JUGENEA FAN FICTION

Beverly Hills, CA 1956

Gene took the last drag of his cigarette as he pulled onto his street. Up ahead, as expected, Cadillacs and Chevy Bel Air’s , lined the street. And all the patrons of those cars headed into his next door neighbors house - Chateau Bogart.

As he pulled up to his house, he noticed Van Johnson’s car parked in his driveway behind Judy’s car. Van had just gotten out and was helping his wife Evie with bags. Gene rolled his window down, expecting to park there himself. It was *his* driveway.

“Hey!”

Van turned around and waved cheerfully, “Oh, hey!”

“Whataya, doin?!” Gene flung his arm out the window, “Get outta my spot!”

“You weren’t here. There’s no other place to park, man,” Van replied knowing his buddy was half-joking his annoyance.

“Well, where the hell am I supposed to park?”

Van linked his thumb in his cheek and popped it out making a loud bubble sound - a known gesture of Van’s that meant ‘Not my problem’. Gene sighed and parallel parked, blocking his driveway. He got out and head up the driveway.

“Hey! What if I gotta get out?” Van yelled for fun.

Gene mirrored Van’s popping gesture and smiled. He proceeded up the driveway heading for the front door. As he reached for the door knob,, he heard his name being called from the sidewalk. Turning around, he saw Frank with estranged wife Ave Gardner on his arm.

“You comin’ over?”

Gene nodded and put his finger up as if saying ‘one minute.’

Their older nanny Mary walking towards him with a cup of tea in her hand as he entered the foyer.

“Good evening, Mary.”

“Hello, Mr. Kelly. Uh, Mrs. Kelly isn’t here. She’s next door.”

“I figured that. I’m headed there myself. I just popped in to see the children for a sec.”

“The little one’s are asleep. Put them to bed an hour ago,” She warned in her British accent.

“Don’t worry, I won’t wake them. I know what a pain it is to get the children back to sleep.”

Mary smiled at his sincerity and headed to the den. When he got up the stairs, he made a right towards the kids wing. He passed 10-year-old Liza’s room. The door was open as she laid on her stomach kicking her legs back and forth listening to music.

Gene leaned against the door frame, “Hey you.”

“Hi, Papa Gene!”

“I haven’t seen you in almost a month. How are you, kiddo?”

“Good.”

“Did you have fun in New York?”

“Ah huh. Daddy took me to see the Joffrey Ballet and Auntie Kay took me to Fred Astaire’s studio to dance.” “Oh, wow. That sounds swell!”

“I came back yesterday and you weren’t here. Mama said you were staying at a hotel for work.”

Gene forced a gentle smile, “Yeah. I still am.”

“When do you get to come home?”

“I’m not sure. But I visit the kids. Now that you’re back, I’ll make sure to see you, too.

“And Mama. She misses you.”

“I’m sure she does,” he replied trying not to sound too sarcastic.

“She does. She told me.”

Gene looked at her genuinely surprised, “She did?”

“Yeah,” Liza giggled, “Why wouldn’t she?”

“Well, I miss her, too. Maybe I’ll be back sooner than expected. Have a good night, Princess.”

Gene felt a little spark of relief as he made his way to his son and daughter’s connecting nursery. He went into the baby’s room first. The one-year-old was peacefully sleeping,, sucking on his pacifier, his lashes as long as Judy’s resting on his cheek. Gene studied him a moment, with such affection, before heading over to the double sliding doors into his daughter’s bedroom.

The touch light on the bedside table was on, illuminating the pink room, and he saw the nearly four-year-old quickly shut her eyes. Walking over to the bed, Gene placed his hand on her head brushing her sandy curls aside.

“I know you’re awake, silly.”

She opened her eyes and smiled, scrunching her nose in the process - just like Judy did. She reached up wrapping her arms around her father’s neck.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, baby. Mmm,” He satisfyingly replied hugging her body closer, “Why aren’t you asleep? Nana Mary said she put you to bed an hour ago.”

“She tucked me in wrong.”

Gene chuckled at her wit inherited from both her parents, “Obviously, you got out.”

“Nuh uh. I’ve been in bed. Just not asleep.”

“Then why is your dollhouse open and scattered around? I know Nana Mary wouldn’t put you to bed with your room untidy.”

She shyly played with his collar dropping her eyes.

“Ah huh,” He said sitting down beside her, “How are you?”

“Good. Mama took me to work today,” She said excited.

“Oh, she did? To the recording studio?”

“Yeah. She let me watch her sing.”

“Were you a good girl there?”

“Yup.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“I was. Ask Mama.”

“I will.”

“She took me for ice cream, too.” “Just you and her?”

“Yeah.”

“I bet you loved that.”

He knew she got jealous of Judy’s time with the baby.

“You wanna build a fort with me?”

“Not now. I’m going to Aunt Betty’s.”

“Mama there?”

“Yes, she is,” he replied as he tucked her in right.

“Give her a kiss for me.”

He smiled and gave her a peck on the lips, “Now go to sleep. Not a peep.”

“K.”

“I love you.”

He shut her light off and headed out. He was going to head down the stairs when he stopped himself and headed towards the master bedroom. Gene started looking in all the strangest places as if searching for something small. When he didn’t see anything, he furrowed his brow and headed into the bathroom. He reached for the cabinet when something in the trash caught his eye.

It was her medication.

“No shit,” he mumbled in disbelief.

She threw her meds away, literally.

He and Judy decided to separate for a little while. It had already been three weeks since he temporarily moved into the Beverly Hills Hotel. The ‘break’ was agreed upon mutually after the both just couldn’t deal with the stress. They were fighting constantly and most of the time they didn’t even want to be around each other. That was a major red flag and something they never experienced or even fathomed happening in their relationship - but it did. When the children began to notice the tension, they knew they needed to change things for the time being…no matter how hard it might be. Most of the fighting were the result of his neglect because of work, and his drinking, as well as her tumultuous mood swings. From her mixed medications.

Even though their break was mutual, the day he left wasn’t pleasant. Another fight ensued, probably because of their scared inner emotions of reality of him actually leaving. She told him to sober up, he said the same to her. He really didn’t expect her to just quit cold turkey. Well, it sure looked that way anyways.

When he went next door, he said hello to Bogie and Bacall before scanning the crowded living room for his wife.

Frank walked up placing a hand on his friend’s back, “There you are.”

“I wanted to check on the kids.”

“What’s your poison tonight?”

“Uh, I’ll have a…” Gene trailed off in second thought, “You know, what? Nothing for me tonight, Frances.”

“You sick or somethin’?”

“Where’s Judy?”

“I don’t know. She’s around here somewhere. Last time I saw her she was in the back smoking with Jack.”

“Jack who?”

“That production manager at Metro.”

“Jack Weaver,” Gene questioned almost disgusted. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“Christ,” Gene said as he walked away from Frank headed towards the back of the house.

Jack Weaver had worked on many of their movies, and according to Judy, he asked her to have dinner with him numerous times, always flirting. He was an okay guy, but each time he made a move, she was serious about someone else, Gene included obviously. One time Weaver even asked Judy on a date in front of him, and that was in New York during her Palace run when every one knew they were a couple. And he didn’t let up either until Gene escorted Judy away. They were both appalled. Last he heard, Weaver was porking Ginger Rogers whom had just came out about her recent separation from Jacques Bergerac. He tended to do that. ‘Rebound Weaver’ he should be called. Though news of his and Judy’s break wasn’t publicly known, he wondered if Weaver heard about it.

There were a few people outside, but no Judy. Lucille Ball caught his eye and she smiled waving. He smiled and waved back then mouthed, ‘Where’s Judy?’ also lowering his hand down as if placing it at Judy’s 4’11 height since Lucy could not hear him from her distance.

With her cigarette between her fingers, she motioned back and forth towards the darker corner of the yard. Squinting his eyes, he looked and saw a few people by the telescope.

When he walked up, Judy was looking through the telescope while Weaver stood next to her chatting about different star names. June Allyson and Dick Powell stood by as well.

“And you see that bright star there at eleven o’clock, to the right of the moon? It looks like it’s twinkling.”

“Yes, I do,” Judy said interested.

“That’s actually not a star. It’s a planet. That’s Venus.”

“Oh, wow,” Judy breathed transfixed.

“Hey, Judes, if you look closer, you can see the varicose veins in my arm.”

June laughed and smacked her husband on the chest.

“And here, Judy…” Weaver placed his hand on her waist turning her a bit, “You can see a star cluster.”

All of a sudden the telescope went dark as Gene stepped in front of it and they looked up.

“Hey.”

“Oh, hello, Gene.”

Gene nodded towards Weaver with a fake, tight smile and looked over at Judy who looked surprised, “Can I borrow you a second?”

“Only if you give her back,” Weaver said jokingly as Gene took Judy’s hand. Gene faked a laugh purposely for Weaver but mumbled, “Dick,” under his breath to which Judy heard.

“You said you weren’t coming.”

“I wasn’t, but decided to take your advice and got away from work.”

Judy nodded pleased.

“I went to see the kids, too.”

She smiled, “Good.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your star gazing party but our daughter wanted me to give you something.”

“Oh?”

He leaned in and gave her a peck on the lips, lingering a little more for his own benefit. She didn’t wear a smile but didn’t look unpleased either.

“Oh, she gave you that, huh?” she said slyly.

“She did, “He replied matter-of-factly, “As I was tucking her in.”

“I so very much doubt that our daughter was up and about at this hour. If that’s the case, I need to have a chat with Mary.”

“Mary knew nothing of it. She was awake when I went in there. She asked me to build a fort.”

They both chuckled.

“I would with you, though.”

Gene’s remark was full of suggestion and tease, making Judy blush as he placed his hand on her lower back bringing her up against his side. She cleared her throat and backed away.

“Just got here and you’re already toasty, huh?”

“I’m sober as a judge.”

Judy raised her eyebrow not believing him and she went to head back out when Gene spoke up.

“Has Jack asked you out again?”

“No,” Judy said casually, “I’m sure he might, but I’m a big girl, Darling. I’m just looking at the sky.”

“While he’s looking at your ass.”

“At least someone is,” he heard her mumble before she went out the double doors.

A little later Judy was by the fireplace while Lauren and Debbie engaged in some girl talk. Judy wasn’t participating as she kept her eyes on her husband while sipping her red wine. He was across the room, kiddie corner from her, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets - alone. When Bogie called for all the guys to take his infamous shot, Gene declined. She was surprised. Being a wallflower and not drinking at a party, especially his best friend’s party, was very unusual.

She was still angry with him. They hadn’t shared more than a ‘hello’ in the past two weeks when he came over to see the kids; yet, tonight he was flirty. He could barely stand to be around her last time they were together, and instead of joining in on the festivities, he was keeping to himself. Her curiosity was peaked.

Judy walked over to him concerned, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re not yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

Gene laughed, “I’m just standing here.”

“Why aren’t you drinking?” She flat out asked, wondering if he was sick or getting sober.

“Why’d you throw out your medication?” He mirrored.

Judy looked around making sure no one heard, but he could see it, she really did stop taking them.

“How was the detox?” he asked knowing how brutal they could be to her.

“Not the worst, but not the best. Only lasted a few days.”

Gene looked at her concerned, placing his hand around her waist, “Why didn’t you call me?”

She removed his hand, “I didn’t think you’d want to come over.” Gene didn’t hesitate as he took her arm and brought her out of the room into the empty hallway. She snatched her arm away annoyed but he backed her to the wall, gently, placing his hand on the wall beside her head.

“Are you fucking serious? You really think I wouldn’t be there for you where your health was concerned?”

“I didn’t not call out of spite, Gene. I didn’t call because of fear that you’d decline. I know you care about my health, but considering the circumstances I was afraid of that possibility.”

“Hell, yes I care. Why do you think I told you to quit in the first place?”

“Well, it’s done, alright? I feel good.”

“Good.”

“And how long have you not had a drink?”

“Started tonight. When I saw your meds in the trash, I realized you were serious about quitting, and now I am, too.”

“Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but it’s going to take more than us being sober to get back to the way we were.”

“Us being sober IS the way back to being together. I spent time away at work because of your moods. And it caused me to drink more than the normal social activity. Now that you’re clean and I’m done drinking, I think we’ll be okay.”

“Just like that?”

He nodded and leaned into her, “Just like that. Liza said you miss me.”

“Of course I do. I miss you when you’re not being an asshole like you’ve been the past few months.”

“Just the same, sweetheart.”

Judy laughed surprised and amused pointing to her chest, “I’m an asshole?”

He chuckled himself. Gene saw his Judy again. That black gaze in her eyes were sparkles again. And even though his normal male libido never went away, after all their fighting, for a time his sexual feeling for her sure had. And she was just as uninterested once telling him to go fuck himself instead.

But now, he wanted nothing more than to make love with his wife, seeing that they were talking more civil, sober, than they had for months. If she felt the same, he for sure knew it would most likely be the main stitch to healing. One thing that they always agreed upon was their connection during sex. For them it was more than just physical; however, right now he was feeling very physical.

“What else did you miss with me away?”

Judy saw that familiar look in his eyes, and although her body responded to it, she kept level headed. She wanted to take things slow.

Judy leaned into Gene’s ear, “It’s going to take a lot more than calling me an asshole to get into my pants,” she teased.

“You’re not wearing pants,” he whispered teasing back.

Judy whole-heartedly giggled into his ear hugging him pleasing him immensely. That was her hubby.

“Let me be with you,” he whispered.

“No,” she replied casually.

“Why?”

“I want to reconcile first.”

“We kind of already are - and us being together that way will be our reconciliation, believe me. It’s been months since we even remotely wanted to have sex and now we both want to, and you’re playing hard-to-get.”

”How do you know I want to?”

“Because you wouldn’t be teasing me or look at me they way you are. You’d tell me to go fuck myself again.”

“Shh,” Judy warned him as his voice raised.

“Oh, screw everyone. I’m talking to you, no one else.”

Judy sighed getting aggravated, “And what will happen after I let you fuck me, Gene? Hm? It’ll be all peachy keen then?”

Gene stepped back from her disgusted, “I wanted to make love with my wife, not get her permission to fuck her. I hoped you wanted the same.”

Judy lowered her eyes but showed no remorse expression.

“Go to hell,” he mumbled as he walked past her.

Judy watched her husband walk to the mini bar nearby but instead of pouring himself a drink, he just stood there fighting it. Pushing himself off the bar with a frustrated groan and headed to the kitchen. Once there, he opened the fridge and grabbed a can of Coca Cola. He needed some kind of kick, even if that was sugar. Taking a drink at the sink, he looked out the window there and glanced up at his and Judy’s bedroom window on the side of their house.

“No rum with that?”

Gene rolled his eyes to himself when he heard Jack’s voice come from the outside patio, “No.”

Jack leaned against the counter, “How you doin’?”

“Fine.”

Jack nodded, biting his bottom lip, before speaking up enthusiastically, “Listen, if you need help finding a place around town, I got a real a state buddy. He’s expensive but top notch. He can find you bargains.”

Gene looked at Weaver confused as he handed him the business card, “Judy and I aren’t planning on moving.”

He handed the card back to him.

“Oh? I was under the impression you have moved out?”

Gene took another gulp of his soda trying to remain calm, “I don’t know what you heard, but it’s only for a few weeks. I haven’t moved out.”

The man nodded unimpressed, “But you’re still separated for the time being.”

“It’s only temporary. I don’t know why it’s any of your business. Where are you hearing this from anyways?”

Jack stood in front of Gene, his back to the door, and crossed his arms as if this conversation was the most normal thing in the world.

“Judy told me when we went out the other day. I mean, she said you were staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel for work, but c’mon the hotel is right around the corner. Why pay for a hotel when you can stay for free at your own home? It just isn’t a good cover up, bud. Being an actress, I would’ve thought she would do better than that,” he chuckled.

Gene clenched his jaw and breathed through his nostrils. Jack leaned into Gene’s ear just as Judy walked in. She froze as Gene’s eyes glued to her. It was only a second, but his look scared her.

“I’m going to fuck your wife tonight.”

Without a flinch, Gene punched the guy right square in the jaw.

“Oh!” Judy squealed in shock.

Jack rubbed his jaw chuckling, obviously drunk, “Damn, I didn’t think you had it in ya.”

Gene looked like he was going to hit him again and Jack wiggled his fingers, now snarky, “Come on, come on dancing boy.”

“Gene, don’t!”

Jack turned his head, not realizing Judy was there, and Gene bent down charging at him with a tackle. Jack’s back hit the fridge hard, contents on top falling off. Jack retaliated, punching Gene hard in the back.

“Gene! Jack! STOP IT!”

Jack pushed Gene off and threw a punch but Gene ducked and punched the guy again.

“STOP!”

Judy went to go in between the two but when she got into reach of Gene, he pushed her away for protection, “Get out of here!”

She stumbled back and Jack threw another punch but missed Gene’s face and landed on his shoulder so forcefully Gene fell against the counter knocking over a wine bottle shattering on the floor. The two men tackled each other again just as Van, Lauren and Lawford rushed in to see what all the commotion was about. The second the men saw the two fighting, they rushed and forcefully pulled each off one another.

Gene backed Van off of him upset, “Get off me, I’m fine!”

Lauren saw Jack’s bloody mouth, “Jesus.”

Jack backed Lawford away and straightened his composure before he walked out.

“I’m gonna make sure he gets a cab,” Peter said following.

Gene walked out the patio doors and walked across the backyard to his backyard gate. Judy stayed and helped Lauren clean the mess before heading home herself.

He was sitting shirtless at their breakfast nook, a frozen bag of peas on his bare shoulder when Judy came in. When he heard her familiar click of heels on the kitchen floor behind him, he closed his eyes.

“What the hell were you thinking? I know you weren’t drunk, so you can’t blame your childish behaviour on that.”

“If I was drunk, I probably wouldn’t have hit him.”

Judy walked up and gasped seeing the large swelling bruise on his back, “For fuck’s sake, Gene,” she lightly touched it, “Does it hurt?”

“You have someone ‘Sugar Ray Leonard’ you in the back and see if it hurts.”

“Probably not as bad as his face right about now.”

“He didn’t get my face,” Gene said proud.

She took the frozen bag of peas from him and wrapped it in a towel before placing it back on his shoulder, “If your shoulder is numb, you’re going to get frost bite that way.”

Gene looked at her in awe as she sat down calm as a cucumber.

“You embarrassed me over there.”

“I didn’t start it.”

“You threw the first punch.”

Gene leaned to look at his shoulder. It was still red but the swelling went down. He tossed the towel wrapped peas on the table, “You don’t know what he said.”

“It doesn’t matter what he said. You should have walked away.”

“Not when it involves you, no way. And you embarrassed me.”

“Me?” her voice raised, “How the hell did I embarrass you?!”

She placed a smoke between her lips and he continued, “You went on a date with that piece of shit.”

Judy looked flabbergasted, “I didn’t go on a date with him, “ her cigarette dangled between her lips as she talked, “I went out for lunch and he came into the restaurant and saw me.”

He reached over and lit the cigarette for her, “You sat and ate with him, yeah?”

“I sit and eat with a lot of people. You really trying to win this argument, huh?” She pointed her cigarette towards him, “Not gonna happen buster.”

He snatched that cigarette and took a long drag. They were quiet a moment when he spoke up sincerely, “I’m sorry what I said earlier.”

“What?”

“The ‘go to hell’ comment.”

Judy smiled, “Please. I’ve been said to worse.”

“I know,” she said softly seeing his genuine guilt, “Listen, if we apologized for all the nutty stuff we’ve said to each other the past few months, we’d be here all night.”

That made Gene smirk.

They were comfortably silent a moment when he stood up, “I’m gonna go up and get some fresh clothes to bring back with me to the hotel, that okay?”

Judy bit her bottom lip and nodded.

Upstairs, in the master bedroom, Gene was putting some freshly folded shirts in a small bag on the bed when Judy walked in. She headed into the wardrobe to grab a nightgown but she stopped herself with curiosity.

“Gene.”

“Yeah?”

She walked out of the closet and stood in front of him as he sat on the end of the bed arranging his bag.

“What did Jack say?”

“You really wanna know?”

“Yes.”

Gene looked up, his face level with her chest. He looked at her very familiar, full, milky breasts pushed above the bodice of her dress and he flt his arousal stir along with anger.

“He said…he said he was going to fuck my wife tonight.”

The comment didn’t faze her one bit.

“That’s impossible. My husband is going to fuck me tonight.”

Gene looked at her serious as a heart attack, “Only if she’s fucking me back just the same.”

Judy placed her hands on his shoulders straddling his lap. He was so transfixed he barely felt the sting on his left shoulder.

“That won’t be a problem, darling.”

Gene’s hand slid under her poofy skirt and up her thighs, passing over garters, until they reached her hips.

He grabbed her hips pulling her closer to his arousal, “Are you serious about this?”

“It’s been a long time. I need you.”

He smiled as her lips touched his in a feathery kiss, “You just wanna get laid.”

“Ah huh,” she smiled back, “And you can go back to the hotel after if you want, but tomorrow you’re taking me on a date and then we’re going to make love and close out that hotel bill.”

Gene felt his shaft get harder as she gently rocked her hips.

“Baby, I ain’t goin’ no where tonight. You aren’t getting rid of me.”

Judy ran her hands behind head, snapping his head back to look up at her as she gently bit his bottom lip, “I’d like my husband to fuck me now.”

Falling onto the bed, his bag rolled onto the floor, his shirts spilling out onto the carpet.

* IF YOU WOULD LIKE THE ALTERNATIVE ENDING….FEATURING SOME SMUT…SEND ME A MESSAGE :)

[bossmedley]

now that I have time instead of drawing I'm gonna puke out a bunch of Mario hcs for no good reason

Also I'm on mobile and do not have a laptop so no read more. sorry. I guess just scroll really fast if you don't care. anyways

- princess powers! Ok so princess/princes/any kind of royalty if this world are choosen because their bloodline has some type of magic that's beneficial to their society. Like, peach has healing powers, ya, but what its original purpose was to bring health to the land and the royalty was basically a walking fertilizer but when it brought the plants to life and made plant people the magic became more "we can still do that but it's more like healing magic now ;)"

-daisy has similar magic but not really. Her bloodline has the power to create plant life out of any soil, which is incredibly useful for the desert. It's the magic that allowed the sand kingdom to thrive despite having virtually no inherent trade options. Daisy, being a hoss, has tought herself to bring to life piranha plants and such, and can actually fend for herself in fights. not like anyone's gonna go through the hot as hell desert for one princess though

-i see Mario as a pretty impulsive person, and he doesn't really think before doing things. which is good for a guy whose really selfless and stuff, but he also has a really short temper. so basically if he gets any twinge upset it's an immediate fight. It's a good thing he's just really nice so people don't normally get upset with him or he'd just clock people in the face constantly.

-mario and luigi actually grew up in like the corners of the metro kingdom, and their mom was an electrician and their dad was a, surprise, fuckin plumber. the two bros moved out pretty early and just. fixed people's shit for money.

-bowser first ever showed up out of like. nowhere. he came from lava kingdom, which is now basically just Bowser kingdom, where he's a genetically mutated Koopa (like. an offbrand Koopa. he's not the only one all his kids and stuff are too) that survives hot weather. he likes taking lava baths.

-nobody knows why or what Bowser's past was like, but when he came on the scene he just started taking over small towns and stuff, generally being ab asshole

-his big show was his first attack on the mushroom kingdom. He hadn't really planned to capture peach, and he just wanted to control the mushroom kingdom since it was kind of like a trade hub, where boats would pass by and stop to restock, which made it a great place to control passage between the two sides of the world. Aswell, the mushroom kingdom had really fertile soil and plant harvests, which is easy money.

-bowser ended up kidnapping peach instead of his original plan which was to literally just toss her into the ocean or smthing lol

-of course this got the crowds wild and everyone lost their shit. The mushroom kingdom defence system is. toads. so there wasn't really anyone there to save the princess

-come Mario in his little corner of metro who was like "ah fuck whatever lets go save the princess"

- Luigi: "that sounds cool and all but what tje fuck are you talking about you're not actually gonna"

-and then we got to where we are. Mario is kind of a hero across the whole world despite only really saving peach since there's noone really like him. Royalty across the world want their own "Mario", just a really selfless guy whose like "yeah I'll save you lol" so much so that there was a craze where royalties would fire all their knights and defenses in hope that a selfless hero would devote themselves to the royalty when Bowser came

-bowser never came, and instead got so pissed off at Mario that he went and kidnapped the princess again. it was like a mix of "I like the princess" and "I want to beat the shit out of Mario" that spawned the Bowser we have today. He's just really competitive (Mario is too!)

-luigi is, and always was, much more of a tinkerer than Mario! Luigi builds lots of little robots and other things, and likes to just mess around with how things work (Luigi was the one who built their fridge! He's very proud). Mario is a good plumber and all, but Mario was there alot more to talk on the phone because Luigi gets nervous talking.

-luigi also has a supernatural affinity, as in he can see ghosts and spirits much better than the normal human and he can communicate better with them. E. Gadd knew almost immediately, but didn't tell Luigi till recently. Luigi considers this to be a curse.

- E. Gadd is a certified freak, and took so many classes in college about every single subject in science depending on what he felt like. He just does whatever. In his presentation to the science board about his supernatural findings from the first mansion, he talked about the entire family's favorite brand of crackers for 10 minutes.

-the only person who punches first, faster, is Wario who, did not actually know Mario as a kid. Wario has always been about his "get rich quick" schemes, so when Mario became the hit thing Wario, for a short time, was literally a Mario impersonator. when Wario realized what he was doing, he got so pissed that he was getting money as Mario, and not Wario, that he rebranded and decided to fuck with Mario for a while (I.e. steal Mario's fucking castle) Wario was a Mario impersonator for about 2 weeks and made 3 dollars.

- Waluigi was just a guy down on his luck when Wario found him. Waluigi has always been a petty criminal, like the one who steals a pack of gum from the gas station and stuff. Wario heard Mario was going on a small sports vacation with the princess and decided to crash it, so he brought Waluigi as his partner to fuck with them. He didn't know Waluigi prior. Waluigi played tennis in highschool, luckily, so they were good (kinda)

- Rosalina is related to princess peach, but is a child from a long long time in the past. Rosalina was born without any innate magical abilities, and had 3 siblings. she was the youngest.

- rosalina's magical capabilities are all a mix of learned and absorbed from space. She learned magic herself but the power came from the Lumas and the air of space around her being absorbed.

- Bowser is not blood realted to any of his kids, not even Bowser Jr. he mostly took them all in because the kids had nowhere else to go. The lava kingdom-now-kinda-of-Bowser kingdom-but-not-really was a pretty hard place to live, since only species that could survive the heat could survive and it didn't have much ties to any other continent, thus it was a pretty hard place to live. Resources were thin too. Bowser would find these kids just kinda living and he'd just pick em up and take em home. Jr was the first one he found and he found Jr at the youngest age (not even 1!), So Bowser is kind of the closest with Jr. That doesn't mean he hates his other kids. Bowser, despite destroying towns and stuff, is a great dad. Every Friday is BBQ night.

[trulyowenfree]

Why Norwood Fisher might think I'm the Devil!

  Well, after that random roadside run-in with Johnny Knoxville (see my last blog entry), you can bet I was ready and gunning! With game stickers in hand, and the tie-straps of my backpack (it's an old olive-green canvas military one) halfway undone, so I could get into it quick. Even though it's not what I expected when I went to LA, or certainly not what I went there for, serendipitously meeting one mega-celebrity had me vow silently to myself...that the next one wasn't gonna get away so easily. After such a huge 'defeat' I decided very firmly, that if I ran into any more celebrities on that tour, like Sean Penn, Josh Brolin, or even Crispin Glover...then I was gonna make darn sure that I at least got a book into their hand. And hopefully even tell them something about my TV and Movie ideas. Though of course...I also really didn't think any of that kinda stuff was gonna happen again. Not to goofy old me anyway. But, if you are a True Fighter like I am, then every defeat you get handed is only an excuse to fight harder, and so that's exactly what I did. I hit those sweet old LA streets the very next day! Right back out there, trying to make my own Luck! And I even put that lucky Devil Pin on my hat (the one I found on the train down from Seattle) to see me safely through the city. This time I caught the train out to Santa Monica, and planted stickers all around the college. Then I hit the library and handed out some more fliers until the cops started looking my way, and you can say whatever you want about the folks in Los Angeles, but most of them are at least half-friendly. I mean, nobody threw the fliers back at me or anything, but no one really seemed like they cared a whole bunch either, and I even found a few of them cast down onto the ground around the corner, like brightly colored leaves that had just fallen off the Give-a-Damn Tree. So of course I picked them up, because nobody likes a litter bug...and they also have a link to my website, right there on the front. Next I rented another scooter and cruised down the beach-path through Venice, and on to Marina Del Rey, where boy-oh-boy do they got boats! My skull and crossbones stickers didn't look out of place at all either. Not there among all the sailboats and mega-yachts. Like any minute now a group of Real Pirates might shamble down the sidewalk and invite me out to lunch or something. Or maybe even rum, but I only drink coffee now.

I stopped off at the library there too, and people seemed very responsive when I told them about my books and handed them a flier. People who live on boats tend to be a literate lot, since cruising often has a bunch of down time to it, and books don't eat up your batteries. So a well stocked library is a fine addition to any good vessel, and especially books about pirates and treasure, or even just a few short sea tales, or traveling to another country. After Marina Del Rey I headed back to Venice, and my dear readers...I have to tell you...that place is kind of a Heartbreak now. It used to be one of the most magical parts of the Los Angeles metro area, or am I wrong? More than many other places in the City of Angels...Venice will make you feel like any second you might become famous. Like any given moment you and Roller Skate Guitar Guy might end up on the big screen, or that some big producer might spot you loitering by old Muscle Beach and ask you to be in their film. And the Boardwalk... But now...in late 2018...the whole neighborhood smells like some kinda' thrown-away-dirty-hippie-super-polluted-gutter-punk-Hemp-Fest; with two-block long piles of garbage, and super depressing homeless encampments in almost every alley. Even all along the main sidewalk at the beach, like nobody cares at all anymore, or like The Desolation has just gotten so far out of hand now, that there just is no way to ever catch up again. Like there really never was a way to take care of everyone, and we are all on our own now. Welcome to Hell. And don't get me wrong either, I'm not against Marijuana legalization or even Weed itself, but when it's all you can smell all day, and there are kids and families around, but so many crowds of heavily unwashed people (who are obviously the ones smoking it, right out in the open)...well...it just doesn't have the attraction it used to for me. Which is totally fine actually. I've been meaning to quit anyway, and the outside thought that it might lead me (back) to a life on the streets someday...is a clear and easy deterrent. Nobody wants to be a smelly old street bum. No matter how high or drunk you get all day. But I was just being dramatic above. Ganja by itself will probably never force a person out into a life of blatherskite level homelessness, but it's still a good idea to be careful. I bought myself a new hat from one of the vendor booths along the main drag. A distressed-looking ball cap with the big brown bear from the California flag riding an even bigger bright green surfboard. Then I went to find myself something decent to eat, away from all the smells and commotion. Which wasn't as hard as I am making it sound really, because Venice, California is still one of the hippest, coolest, and most interestingly flavorful places on the planet, so I ducked into one of the many colorfully decorated breezeways off the main boardwalk and found a cute little one-of-a-kind coffee shop to get a sandwich from. Two fried eggs on good wheat toast, with broccoli sprouts and feta cheese...and yes oh yes I poured a whole bunch of hot-sauce on there too. Then, what was shaping up to be a super-fine day turned into an even brighter one, because when I stepped back out into the courtyard a long thin and lovely Mocha-skinned lady was sitting at one of the tables underneath a brightly colored canvas umbrella, and she smiled really wide and toothily at me when I looked her way, so I walked right over and sat down next to her. I guess I must have looked like Mr. Confidence about the whole thing too, because she even cleared all her papers and books over to one side of the table, just so I could put my plate, cup, and backpack down. But, if you've ever read anything else I write, then you know darn well I was actually coaching myself through each and every played-out moment, like: “Oh man, you're doing good, Free...don't screw it up. Just keep your cool and do not let her know how fine she really is. Holy crap! Look at those...cheekbones. Ah ha ha ha!!” (Look, I'm really only asking your opinion here, but do you guys think it means a person is clinically crazy...if they laugh out loud at their own jokes---but only inside their own head...a lot? OK...maybe even all the time. Well? Huh? Does it? Wha'd'ya think? And...what about if it echoes?)

Her name was Nadia and she said she lived over in Inglewood, but liked to come out to the beach to visit her mother in her condo. She reminded me of a dancer as we talked, with quick graceful movements of her long lovely hands, and an evil-sweet toothy smile that could melt the paint right off a gas pump from fifty yards away. Nadia smelled like some kind of bright purple flower too, so I leaned in close as we spoke, just to breathe in as much of her as I could. And she didn't seem to mind at all. “So what brings you out here to LA? You come down to try some of this Cali bud? Shit'll knock you right out if you ain't careful...” “No honey, I'm visiting from Colorado, and we have all the Weed you could ever ask for. It's like going to Baskin Robbins or something; 33 flavors in every store. I'm actually out here on a book tour, to promote my new Treasure Hunt Game. I write coffee-table adventure books, and if you solve the puzzles inside...you could be the first to find my Hidden Pirate treasure.” I took out a copy of the first book, and I even had a couple copies of Three Short See Tails with me too, so I laid them out on the table for her to look through, while I bragged about myself some more. But don't be trying to judge me for it either. You would have pulled all the stops out for this girl too. I mean it y'all...she was fine! And the sizzling hot idea of me scoring even one of her Cappuccino kisses made it seem like the whole rather uphill tour might just pay off after all. Yes! “So you're a real shipwreck treasure hunter? Wow! Man, my horoscope even said I was gonna meet somebody interesting today, but I didn't know it was gonna be someone like you. This must be our lucky day.” The way Nadia looked at me right then, with just a bit of flush to her cheeks, and dilated auburn eyes, let me know she really meant what she said, so I took her beautiful brown hand and moved myself even closer, suddenly feeling a whole lot warmer in the cool December air. “I actually have to get going right now, Babe. I'm out here today doing a bunch street-level promo work for my website, and I want to cover as much ground as possible before dark. Sunset comes kinda early this time of year, though not nearly quite as bad as up in the mountains, but I want to try and hit the gym before dinner too. Do you think maybe we could meet up later? If you're not busy...” “I actually am busy tonight.” As she picked up my phone and started typing her number into it. “I have my kids this evening, but we could go out tomorrow night if you are still around. I'd love to show you all the local sights.” She gave me another one of those smolderingly fantastic LA Woman looks, and let it linger even longer just to punctuate her last sentence, so my dumb old heart fell right into it. Pounding so loudly now at the thought of what 'sights' she might have been exactly referring to, that I was totally sure sweet Nadia might even hear it. So I gathered up all my things as calmly as I could and excused myself quickly, before I fumbled and failed, but then made sure to steal a kiss from her velvety fragrant cheek as I walked away. Just in case it was all a dream. Out on the sand again, I ran into a regular looking middle-aged guy running an expensive looking metal detector back and forth across the golden cinnamon sand. We met over by the graffiti walls, near Old Muscle Beach. I stopped him to talk, and he was very friendly, especially when I told him about what I was out there doing, and that I was a detectorist too.

“Yeah, I actually live up there in Ventura, but we come down here on the weekends and do really well sometimes. One weekend me and my partners found six-thousand dollars worth of jewelry. Not too bad for only the cost of a tank of gas! But I sure would like to get down there to Florida some day though. I bet I could really clean up.” I asked him (I think his name was Jonah) if it was OK for me to put a picture of him on my blog, and he said it was no problem at all, so here you go sir, and Good Luck: Next I stopped by the book-store in Venice, to try and consign my work, but the buyer wasn't in so I made my way over to the Santa Monica Pier, sticking my skull-and-crossbones Treasure Hunt stickers everywhere I went in between. On the backs of signs, on light-posts, dumpsters, newspaper stands, and especially onto any pieces of graffiti I really liked. Though of course one has to wonder at the possible efficacy of a sticker-marketing campaign...in a place so very sticker-polluted as Venice. Like everybody who has access to a printer and a pack of label-paper tried to leave their mark at one time or another, but at least I'm not the only one. Santa Monica was totally crowded that day too, since it was a Saturday. Just imagine a half-crushed case of sardines thrown down into a trash compactor, then getting squashed by some gigantic falling boulder. I mean it. We could barely move! And then a box of canned peas and carrots showed up on the very next train. So it was packed! I put up with it long enough to fight my way out to the end of the pier. And I was lucky enough to spot a long silver sea-lion playing around in the foam while waiting around for a fish. The ocean was green and cool-looking, with long strands of red-blue Kelp undulating around the barnacle crusted pilings, and the sounds of carnival rides and screaming children hung in the air like diurnal sonic fireflies. If there even is such a thing.

And it sure is funny how the dank and briny smell of the sea goes so perfectly well with the savory floating scent of hot dogs, popcorn and cotton candy. Sorta like mermaids and pirates holding hands. They're not even of the same World really at all, but still somehow just seem naturally made for one another. The sun was getting low in the sky by that time, so I walked into the shopping district on the bluff, to go get some weight-lifting in before dark. I'm not a beef-head or anything either, in case you were wondering, or a gym-nut, health-freak, or even all that into the whole thing really, but I started going to the gym last winter (in Colorado) to keep from falling asleep when the sun went down (at 4pm), and fell totally in love with what a half-hour-a-day on the weights does for my overall energy levels. Plus I have a few deep nagging joint-injuries, from being a construction worker most of my life, and whatever beneficial chemical it is that weight-lifting releases into my body...does absolute wonders for all that stuff too. So yes, I highly recommend it, and especially after you work at a physically demanding job all day. Because then you get the real benefit. Going to the gym, or running, biking, surfing, or even playing sports after you bust your hump outside all day...is like putting the icing...on a steak. Plus, higher-end public gyms generally have really nice showers and saunas in them too, so I walked out of there feeling like a Movie Star or something. Ready to take on the World...again!

The cool evening air felt amazing on my clean and freshly-worked body, while the wafting smells of food and cigars decorated the Santa Monica streets, and I was breathing it all in deeply. I stopped at a food vendor across the street in the park on the high bluff (forgot the name), then leaned on the cement balcony and watched the lights out on the pier as I devoured three more very heavenly tacos.  I walked toward the train feeling very satisfied, and was just about to call up Nadia to make the whole day complete, when I looked to my left and noticed a couple walking leisurely beside me, which seemed out of place in the Saturday evening bustle. The man turned towards me a bit so I could see his face better, and I couldn't believe it! It was Norwood Fisher; the bass player and founding member of Fishbone!! “Excuse me sir, is your name Norwood?” “Yeah, that's me.” He replied with a wry little smile. His date was a cute and tiny surfer chick, with shiny blue eyes and a bob-style haircut. She seemed especially amused that her date was getting recognized, so they stopped right there in the middle of the sidewalk, just to talk to me. I immediately pulled up my shirt-sleeve, to show him my Fishbone fore-arm-tattoo, and told him “My name is Truly Owen Free, and I've been a Fishbone Soldier (it's what they call their fans) for a really long time now. We've actually met before. A couple times, and in different towns around the country...but I'm sure you meet a lot of people....” “Well alright! That's very cool man! What you up to this evening?” “Oh I'm just out walking the city and promoting these books I've been trying to write.” As I reached for my trusty backpack. “Would you mind if I gave you one? I think you'll like it.” I handed him a sticker too, then pulled out a copy of How I Became a Real Pirate, and he took that graciously too, but I have to go ahead and tell on myself again, when I say that I was making another mistake right there. And it was because of that stupid Starstruck thing again. Norwood Fisher is one of the most down-to-Earth Rock Stars you could ever want to meet, but for some stupid reason I was getting nervous while I talked to him. I guess part of it is I feel weird for treating someone special, but I was also interrupting his date. It was all inside me though. I was the only one having a problem. If I had been paying better attention I would have realized he was ready to have a real conversation, and was genuinely interested in what I had to say, but of course I assumed otherwise, and I really can't tell you why. But I did manage to spit out, “Yeah, I'm on a multi-city promo tour for my two new books. I'm riding the trains around the country and trying to generate some sales. Grass roots style! Street level.” “Well that's the way we do it!”, as he turned the book over a couple times, to check out the cover. The copy I gave him was the older out-of-print version too (see my Amazon account); with the black cover and only the skull and crossbones on the front, and the somewhat-sinister sub-title that only comes with the full-length novel. And I don't know if it was the very piratical cover that spooked him, or if he was picking up on my nervous vibe, but when Norwood looked up again...he gave me a cock-eyed taken-aback guard-dog look, like he wasn't too sure about me now. Like he had noticed something new about me, which he hadn't seen before, so maybe now he better put his guard up. And of course that just made me even more nervous, so I said “Thank you Norwood. Hope you enjoy it, and there's links to my site inside. You guys have a good night.”, then walked away quickly, before I made it worse. I walked backwards through the crowd, away from the train (?!), so I could cross the street and not seem like I was following them. But then when I started walking up the opposite side, I looked over...and they were walking parallel to me across the busy street. Norwood just happened to look my way at the same time too, and we even met eyes...so now it looked even more awkward! Like I was stalking them, and trying not to look like it! Celebrities are so weird. Of course I called my friend Terrence back in Tarpon City, just as soon as I was on the train. He's the only other person I know who is as big of a Fishbone fan as I am, so I just had to let him in on the story. “Are you serious? And you met him in LA?! Oh man, you are out there living life, my brother Truly! I wish I could be out there with you. And you say you even gave him one of your books? That is amazing. I bet he's gonna like it.” “Yeah Terrence, I can barely believe it just happened, and I was there. I totally screwed it up though. He was being really cool, and I think he even wanted to keep talking, but then I made him nervous or something. And I totally gave him the wrong book too. I gave him a copy of the pirate one, but should have totally given him Three Short See Tails. It even has Fishbone glyphs in it, from my tattoo, but I got all nervous again. I'm such a Starstruck little kook!” “Ahhh, don't be so hard on yourself buddy. At least you're out there trying, and it sounds like luck is on your side, if you ask me. Maybe you'll run into him again, or even somebody else. So you should just keep right on doing what you're doing. But hey listen I gotta run. I'm at work right now, and somebody might have a heart attack if I don't pay attention to these monitors, so let me get back to you later. Good to hear from you, bro. Keep on truckin'!”

But you know I still beat myself up, all the back to my vacation rental, which was really just a bunk in a tiny bedroom...with four other people in it. Not even a hostel really. Just some guys house he was paying off by running an Air-BnB mill. Pretty good trick really, and you would probably meet all kinds of people. Hmmm... I got back to the room about eight, and was feeling so low I decided to call it an early one. I put my bag in a locker and was just about to hang my hat up when I noticed the shiny red Devil Pin winking at me in the lamplight. “Oh! That's probably what freaked him out! Norwood saw the black sinister book cover, and the devil pin...and thought I was The Devil himself or something. Especially with my weird old name, and especially here in LA. 'Cuz I'm sure The Devil has a house around here somewhere. Probably a few...” Fishbone has some pretty strong ties to the Gospel community, and are known to be mostly good and spiritual people too, so maybe Norwood thought I was some kinda evil weirdo trying to get at him. Or at least that's the best I could figure. And that really sucked. What another major fail! Just trying to do something good, but I ended up freaking out someone I wanted to get closer to. Dammit! I vowed right then and there...to go to the very next Fishbone show and explain myself. But if you are an adventurer too, then maybe you should check out my armchair treasure hunt. Bet you can't crack the code. Copyright 2020 Truly Owen Free. All rights reserved. Read the full article

[gguksgalaxy]

3. Tao (Cerca Trova)

Masterpost <– Part 2 | Part 4 –>

Short: After what happened to your boyfriend Suho, you have to leave the comfort of your home and live up to your promise. For him. (this can be read as a one shot)

Type: Angst, a little bit of fluff, shit loads of dialogue Words: 3988  Pairings: (Reader X Suho), platonic!Reader X Chen Warnings: ahhh nothing? a bit of angst. 

Read it HERE on AFF or on tumblr :3

Barcelona 19:50

Your flight to Barcelona was long, but you didn’t hate flying so it was fine. You picked a cheap hotel not to far away from the airport, to start. This city was big as well, and your Spanish wasn’t any better than your Kazakh, but maybe your French would help. The location however, on the polaroid seemed more easy to find. It was a cafe, so more people might know the place. It wasn’t a picture of a part of a building, it was actually the front. It was a little too blurry to read the name of the cafe, but the doors were white and the walls grey. There were little wooden chair outside, with an open parasol. It looked cozy, and you’d love to sit there for a while, enjoying the sun. 

For now though, you checked into your hotel and went up to your room. You spread the pictures out on the cover of the bed. Jongdae’s picture you put with the other pictures that belonged to him, and you wrote his name on the back along with his number, 21. Suho’s pictures also went together with his number, 01. What number would you meet this time? Would this be Jongin’s location? The boy who’d saved you and abandoned you at the same time. How would you ever find someone who teleported, he could be anywhere right? You let yourself fall back after you’d neatly stacked all the pictures back into the little box. After finding Jongdae you had a little more hope of finding the others, you just hoped they’d all be so nice. You remember the feeling of his lips against yours, the little spark you’d felt. He was Suho’s brother, you’d never date him, but he deserved it really. He would call you soon, you were sure of it. Just to check on you maybe. Tomorrow your search would start, beginning in the city centre. But now, now you were going to take a rest from your trip. So your changes, brushed your teeth and got under the covers.

The next day you took a metro to the city centre, navigating here was easier. And french did help somewhat, luckily. You found yourself a large pastry store and bought a croissant there, you’d missed those. The store owner was nice and you showed her the picture. “I’m looking for this, do you know where it is?” To your surprise, there was a young girl standing next to you, maybe 16. She translated for you, and you thanked her. The lady frowned, and went then pointed somewhere outside, mumbling something in Spanish. The girl tapped your arm. “She says it’s called Cafe Kafka, it’s a few blocks from here, to the left of the church.” Your eyes were wide in surprise, were you really this close? Would it really be this easy? “Thank you so much, thank you.” With your croissant in hand you ran over the street, following to the place they’d pointed you. A few blocks, how many? You slowed down, taking a bite, and roamed around for a little. Then you stopped. There, right in the centre of a little plaza, was the cafe. It was small, but it was definitely there. Cafe Kafka. For a moment you just stood and watched, and then you went inside. But wait, this was a cafe, does that mean he comes here every day? Or is it a one time thing. The floor above seemed to be holding apartments, maybe he lived there? Should you just knock or? You finished your croissant, and went inside to just get some coffee and think. It seemed fancier on the inside, and you ordered a cappuccino. There was a nice place in the corner, and you sat down there. You noticed then, that the seat was warm. Like someone had just sat here, but the table was already cleaned and cleared. What if it was him? Were you too hopeful? Maybe you were. When your drink came you thanked the owner and grabbed your laptop from your back. There was wifi here, thank god. You logged on and went to your email, sending one to your parents.

Dear mom and dad, I’m in Barcelona right now, sitting at a small cafe near the city centre. Almaty was beautiful, and I think I liked it better until now. Although the Spanish language is better. I hope you guys are doing okay, and that you don’t miss me too much. I’ll send you some pictures later when I get the time to transfer them from my camera. Love, Y/n.

You also went and called your friend over Skype, but she didn’t pick up. Maybe she was out or something. So you decided to just text her, giving her a similar message you’d given your parents. When you locked your phone, you saw the picture of you and Suho, his face buried in the crook of your neck, holding you from behind. It made you a little sad again, remembering how happy you were. You had to be happy now as well, to be strong. You remember the stories, about the others. How Suho told you Jongdae had tried to comfort him when they were in that van, and you remembered him mentioning Zitao. Zitao who had cried on his shoulder there. Jongin and Sehun, their youngest, and Yifan, their eldest who hadn’t survived. You remembered Yixing who had gotten captured first, who’d screamed for his freedom. Luhan, who was lost, and might never be found. If you could, you’d go out and find him, but that was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. At leat you’d know to tell a needle from hay… When you finished your cappuccino, you’d browsed your social media, you’d ordered another one, and the hope was sinking. Finding the location so soon gave you false hope, maybe he was near, and not just here. No, you told yourself, you couldn’t give up that easily. You had to keep going, maybe if you came back a few days at different times. Maybe he’d already been here, or only comes around later in the day, or just on thursdays and mondays. It was Tuesday now. So you just told yourself you’d spend half a day here for two weeks. The rest of the day you could roam around and see other places, might as well enjoy the time here right? It was nearing 2pm, so you paid the bill and went to look through some places.

1 week later Barcelona 10:09

It was Tuesday again, and you still hadn’t seen a single asian boy in the cafe. They were all asian right? Suho mentioned four of them having been from China, and the rest from Korea. So you just assumed you weren’t looking for a blue eyed blonde boy. You were drinking your cappuccino, you’d lost count of how many you’ve had here but they’re really nice. The flavour was full and the milk was really foamy, plus the tiny cookies were to die for. The owned by now recognised your face, and greeted you every time. It would’ve been easier if you spoke Spanish, to ask him maybe if he’d seen someone, but sadly his English was terrible. You’d chatted to your friend on skype yesterday, she was excited to see your face. The two of you talked about small things, the places you’ve been and things you visited, people you met. Apparently she was dating someone now, and you were happy for her. The little bell of the store rang, and someone stepped in. You lifted your head from the book you’d gotten from a local store. The guy who stepped in made you look twice. He was slim, tall, and gorgeous. His skin was flawless, sharply defined features, like a fox. The colour of his hair was light blonde, and he was wearing a black turtleneck with a blazer, and white and black checkered pants. He looked at you, frowned and stepped over. You held your breath as he moves, silently and graciously. “I’m sorry, this is my table.” He spoke in a bit bracketed English. You blinked a few times, but you couldn’t utter out a word. Was he one one of them, one of Suho’s brothers? “Hello, can you please move from my table?” he asked again, a bit louder this time. “Uh…I’m sorry,” you stumbled, getting up, not knowing what to do really. The way you met Jongdae had been much easier. He sat down and you picked up your coffee, placing it on a nearby table. You watched him open his paper, as the owner brought an espresso to his table. “Staring is impolite.” He mumbled. “Huh?” “Stop staring.” His voice was sharp and harsh and it took you aback. You looked down at your table, how could you ask him this, maybe he was a random stranger. He didn’t seem nice, and you really had no intention of upsetting him or causing a scene. Your duffle bag was by your feet, as you were moving to a hotel closer by the other side of the city today. Maybe you should show him the blanket, Jongdae had seemed to recognise that, or your necklace? For a second you looked to your side, and you met his eyes, he glared at you. You decided then, that it wasn’t him, it couldn’t be him. Someone that seemed so menacing. So you paid the bill and got up, taking your belongings and leaving the cafe. One more week, you told yourself mentally, one more week and you’d move on. You’d find a way to ring the apartments upstairs to see if he lived there. While strolling back to your new hotel, you passed crowds of tourists, and calm almost empty streets. This city was diverse, and changed the further you got to the outskirts. You just hoped you hadn’t wasted your time.

3 days later

You were sitting at the cafe again when your phone rang, it was Jongdae. “Hi there.” You said, picking up. “Hey.” You could hear the smile in his voice. “How’ve you been? Did you find anybody yet?” You sighed deeply, rubbing your temple. “No, I found the location, on my first day here. But I haven’t found him yet…” “Where are you at?” “I’m at a cafe, something small but fancy.” Jongdae was quiet for a little, probably thinking. You heard a soft bark on the other line. “Is Kris with you?” “Yeah, I’m home right now.” He said. “You said a cafe, fancy? Makes me think of only two people, one of them being Junmyeon and the other Zitao.” You nodded. “What does Zitao look like? So I can scout out for him, who knows it might help.” “Tao is, one of our younger ones. He’s tall, skinny probably, he has a bit of a feline like face. Sharp eyes and lips, will probably wear expensive looking clothes and possibly earrings as well.” It sounded an awful lot like the guy from Tuesday. “I saw someone, he was ab it foxy, like you described, with blonde hair. But he was really rude and snappy. Told me to move away from the table because it’s his. Was quiet most of the time though.” “Sounds like something he’d do.” Jongdae said. “If it’s him though, go easy on telling him about Junmyeon. He was really close to him, he might snap at you if he thinks you work for the people of the asylum.” “He has a short fuse?” “Zitao is a bit…eccentric. His power is time, so everything feels very odd to him, time passes him by in a way. But he’s also really whiny and rude, like you said.” You took a sip of your drink. “Jongdae, how have you been? Did you find a new place yet?” “Yes, I’m moving out in 2 weeks.” “That’s great.” “I’m not telling you where I’m going though.” He mused. “Because you won’t tell me where you are.” You chuckled, it was nice to laugh. “Because I don’t want you to secretly follow me.” “I wouldn’t.” He whined. “I just want to know if you’re okay.” A soft laugh escaped your lips, at his concern and tone of voice. “I’m okay Jongdae, don’t worry.” “I just wonder if they might come to find you or something. I worry.” “Jongdae, you barely know me.” “As the brother of your boyfriend, I feel it’s kind of my job to look after you now. If he can’t I will do it, so please if anything happens call me. Or if you need someone to talk to.” He spoke, and you heard little Kris bark again. “Kris misses you too.” “I will Jongdae, thank you. Tell Kris I said hi, I need to hang though. Otherwise I’m going to run out of minutes for this month. Foreign phone calls are expensive.” “Ah yeah, talk soon okay?” “Bye Jongdae.” “Bye y/n.” You hung up the phone and sighed again, rubbing your temples and finishing your coffee. If only this was as easy. You’d have to somehow talk to that guy from earlier this week. The bell went off again, and there was a sound of fancy shoes on the tile floor. A movement in the corner of your eyes as someone sat down in the corner table. In his spot. You dared lift your eyes to the person and found him, wearing the exact same clothes, his hair styles in the exact same way. Something about him could be a model, his features to flawless and unique. There wasn’t a single blemish on his skin, let it be for the slight dark circles under his eye. He took a sip of his coffee, and you adverted your gaze, before he caught you staring again. Courage, you’d need courage to do this. So you took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a second and willing yourself to just do it. You spoke; “Zitao?” His head immediately whipped to the side, eyes wide and startled. “How do you know my name?” “Uhmm, I….” “You work for them don’t you.” He was up in an instant, and everything around you seemed to slow. Or he seemed to speed, up, you weren’t a hundred percent sure. He was out of the door in a flash. 

Thing flickered back to normal when the door fell shut behind him, the owner dropping his cup, coffee spilling on the floor. You stood up quickly, leaving money on the table and sprinting after him. But out on the street he was nowhere to be seen. You scanned around, there weren’t a lot of people, and he shouldn’t be hard to spot. Checkered pants slipped around a corner on your right and you went in that direction. You ran, and ran, calling out his name. But he never stopped, he occasionally looked back to see if you were still following him. “Zitao stop!” you called, running out of breath. “Please!” he was way faster than you,and you were going to loose track of him. In a moment of dread, you yelled the only thing you thought of. “Junmyeon is dead!” Then he stopped, he stopped dead in his tracks but didn’t turn around. You closed in on him, stopping a few feet away and leaning on your knees. “Please tell me you’re lying, and said that to come and take me away.” He said flatly. “I wish I could.” You answered him. He turned around, facing you with no emotion whatsoever in his eyes. “What year is it?” “It’s 2017, July 25th.” “It’s been exactly 1381 days since I’ve last seen him.” Zitao stated. “Since I’ve last seen any of them. It’s weird you know, it seems like yesterday, like only a week passed. I don’t feel a day older. Time passes so quickly.” You nodded, stepping a little closer to him. “Zitao, do you want to sit down and talk?” “I don’t want anything to do with you.” He growled suddenly. “With any of you.” “Zitao please.” You reached out for his arm but he flinched away. “Zitao I just want to talk.” “NO!” he yelled, so loud it made you flinch now. “No, I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to sit here and see how they wither away with age while I stay the same.” His voice was erratic and his hands were trembling. “Junmyeon isn’t dead, he’s not. He’s happy somewhere, happy and smiling, and content. Don’t come here and tell me these lies!” You didn’t know what to do, you could only watch this boy as he fisted his hands in his hair. “Go away!” he yelled at you, tears shining in the corners of his eyes. “GO THE FUCK AWAY!” There was nothing else you could do, you were on the verge of breaking down, and you didn’t need to give him the satisfaction. So you turned around and left, left him standing in the middle of the empty street, crying for his brother. You left with a hurt feeling in your chest, walking slowly to your apartment and picking up some food on the way. Not that you really had an appetite,but 4 chicken nuggets would have to do for now. You had to eat something. This room was a little bigger than the previous one, and you stripped to get under the shower and wash away the feeling. Wondering whether more of them would react this way, you rinsed the shampoo from your hair and stepped out again. The room smelled a bit old, and it looked so, but the bed was nice. So you laid down wrapped in a huge white towel and took out your phone. Should you call Jongdae? Tell him what happened? You stared at your phone for a while and decided it might be better to call him tomorrow, because you’d be waking him up now. So you just went to sleep

The next morning you slept in, you felt lethargic and down. How would you be able to deal with this every time. The distress and fear and anger in Zitao’s screams. For a second you had been afraid the police would come to the sound, or at least nearby people. But nobody did, and you left him there on his own. You wondered if he didn’t really miss them, if he really didn’t want to see them. You contemplated getting food and staying in the room all day, but maybe also found it worth it to check by the cafe and see if Tao was there. So you showered again, free water was good, and it calmed you a little. It was another warm day, and you pushed you’re baseball cap on a little further to shade your eyes. It was a Saturday, so it was more busy, and your wait for food was a little longer. You left a tip, because you’d eaten at this place every day and it hadn’t disappointed you yet. After shopping for some things you’d needed by now, and going to a place to do laundry, you went to the cafe. It was a bit busier, and you actually took seat outside after checking if Zitao was there. But he wasn’t. The sun was pleasant on your skin, and there was a soft breeze right there. Zitao never came, and he didn’t come the next day, or the day after that. And the second week of waiting had passed and you never saw a sign of him again. You’d even asked the owner, and he said he hadn’t seen Zitao in a long time. That he’d been coming here religiously every day at the same time. But not anymore after what happened with you. You’d apologised and moved away. You decided to write him a letter, to let him know what was up. Not that you know where he lived, but you’d leave it at the cafe.

Zitao

I apologise for scaring you last week, or whenever it was when you read this. I’m writing this because of your brother, Junmyeon. I am, or well, was his girlfriend. We lived happily together for quite a while until he mentioned to me what had happened to you all, his powers, yours the asylum. I loved him so much, and then that day, they came for him. They came for him and they killed him. He died to save me and for that I am sorry. As his dying wish he asked me to find you all, to see if you were safe and help you to relocate. I am sorry for upsetting you, it was not in my intention. But I hope you’re okay. I won’t bother you anymore after this, but know it’s probably safer if you change name and relocate after this. I’m sad I couldn’t do this more securely, and not lead them your way, but I wasn’t made for that. I’m just another girl My phonenumber is on the back of this card, if you ever need anything, or want someone to talk to. Don’t hesitate to call me.

Y/n.

You’d given the envelope to the owner the next day, saying it was for him. He’d nodded, and put it on the counter. You’d never really know if he’d ever see it, but it was a little sliver of hope wasn’t it? A few hours later you found yourself in an internet cafe, together with the photo’s. You’d written Zitao’s name on the back of his, but his number was yet unknown to you. Maybe you could ask Jongdae when he called again, he’d sure know. You’d flipped them over, and drawn a random card. That card would tell you your next destination. You were happy to see it, it was a city you’d always wanted to go. So you’d logged onto a booking site, and found a not to expensive flight there. You didn’t really care for luxury in that way, right now it was important to save money where you could. Because there were faraway flights that would cost you a lot. More so than this one. When your phone rang you picked it up before you looked. “Y/n.” “Hey sweetie!” “Hey mom!” you smiled, logging off the internet quickly. “I just saw you booked a new ticket.” You sighed. “You don’t have to check my bank account, really.” “No, sweetie, we want to just give you a little extra, so we’ve covered the expenses for this one for you.” It silenced you for a little, and you felt tears prick at your eyes. “Thank you so much mom, that means a lot.” “Everything for our daughter. We know how important this is to you, but you know you can come home for a while any time you want. We miss you.” A tear slipped away. “Yeah mom, I know. I love you.” “We love you too, y/n. We’re always here for you.” “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” The two of you chatted about the things you’d seen, and your mom mentioned that Snuffs missed you, it was their cat. A grumpy cat at that. You promised to send over some more pictures when you arrived in the next city, where you hoped you’d have better wifi than here. When you hung up, you had to wipe away more tears. You really did miss your family, you were here all alone. God why did you have to be so negative about this al the time. You had to push through. You were seeing the world, this was a positive thing. Suho would’ve wanted to see you happy, and strong, as he’d known you. For him you had to keep pushing. For him, for love, for his brothers.

A/N: This series has been gone for such a long time, and this part kind of sucked I'm sorry. I didn't really have a vision in how to go about this. So I hope you guys liked it, please let me know.

@oh-beyond @xingtrash @xiubaek13 @yeollieollie @littlekatlizzy @an-army-exol @melyyexo @paark-haaraa @nunchiwrites 

[crayonlead2-blog]

Brexit: Controlled Flight into Terrain

One has to admire the EU’s parry to Theresa May’s request for an extension to Brexit to June 30, which was to offer an extension to May 22 if she could get her Withdrawal Agreement approved by Parliament by March 29. If not, the UK would be out by April 12 unless it asks for a long extension and described how it would arrive at a different Brexit (“a way forward”) or revoked Article 50, and also agreed to participate in the upcoming European Parliament elections.

The EU faced a number of considerations in coming up with this counter, and don’t kid yourself that any of them were about being nice to the UK. The EU didn’t like the prospect of having to hold an emergency summit when May’s Meaningful Vote 3 failed and being made the bad guys if they denied May’s plea for more runway to flail about. This concern has little to do with the UK; the European press has been giving Brexit virtually no attention, plus for most EU pols, being mean to the UK is more of a vote-getter then being generous

Forgive me for quoting from Robert Peston at length, but he appears to have the most extensive network of EU political/diplomatic sources of all UK/Irish reporters. From EU leaders ‘want rid’ of ‘Brexit poison’ at ITV last Friday:

The big drivers for why the EU’s 27 leaders came up with their new formula for determining when and whether we Brexit are:

EU leaders had – and have – zero confidence that the Prime Minister will win her meaningful vote next week, and they quite rationally decided it was unreasonable for them to determine in conditions of extreme pressure in seven days whether we we are falling out at 11pm on the Friday.

Many EU leaders are utterly fed up with how our Brexit mess is infecting their domestic political debates and derailing their attempts to forge an agenda to address the huge challenges faced by the EU. “They increasingly see Brexit as poisoning the EU and European nations” said a participant in the talks. “They want rid of it”.

They did not dare set 22 May as the new default Brexit day, for fear that if the UK exited with no deal as late at that, elections for the European Parliament which begin the following day would be utterly overshadowed and skewed by the anticipated first-day no-deal chaos.

Significant numbers of EU leaders are admitting privately that the time has come to “cut the UK loose”, that the prolonged Brexit uncertainty is damaging both their nations and the EU, and that therefore a no-deal Brexit on 12 April may be the best of assorted bad options.

So the purpose of the concessions to the UK look to have been to make it as clear as possible that the UK was in charge of its Brexit destiny while cutting their losses.

As we said, the EU is still at risk of unwanted outcome of the UK coming back and asking for a long extension, with it too apparent that there isn’t a consensus on a different type of Brexit, just on “no crash out”. It isn’t clear what the EU would say if May were somehow cornered into seeking a second referendum, given that the risks are high that a second referendum fails to solidify a new consensus on Brexit due to the inability to reduce options to simple referendum choices, plus good odds of the top pick getting a plurality, not a majority. But various EU officials had told reporters earlier that a second referendum would justify a long extension; Tusk himself even said so.

But have no doubt the EU would not be happy to have the UK take them up on the extension offer. Again from Peston:

Be in no doubt that every EU 27 leader dreads UK participation in those [European Parliament] elections; they fear our involvement will corrupt the process, and taint the institution. The notion of Nigel Farage leading a new bloc of EurExiters does not warm their cockles…

To be clear, though, the EU’s leaders can’t and won’t say no if we insist on fighting them. But they would hate it and would say yes with the heaviest of hearts.

Public sentiment is moving more visibly against a crash-out… Via e-mail from Clive over the weekend:

Against my better judgement I went to London today to do that most nebulous activity, taking the mood of the country. No better opportunity, I thought, than on the “Put it Back to the People” march…

The stations and, especially, the underground (metro) were absolutely heaving. Worse, by far, than a typical rush hour. I’m quite used to shoving my way onto packed trains when there’s a 10-20 people deep queue on the platforms but I was lucky to get into the second train (I couldn’t get into the first) at Euston underground (a major transport interchange I unwisely went via, I should have stuck to my usual suburban feeder station). Even then, the train was full (each train has capacity for 700-800 and it was at that. It was a slow shuffle to clear the station and get out the exit.

The march itself was peaceful and jovial. Attendees were a mix, a lot of students, a few families and an awful lot of retirees. Keep in mind that I spent £35 on my ticket (I live 60 miles out from central London, that’s what an off-peak day return costs with an underground travelcard). A coffee, water and a pastry in a chain coffee shop (I needed something to keep me going, it was warmer than everyone had been expecting, too) took nearly another £10. Protesting is a middle class pursuit. No-one on benefits or minimum wage in the commuter belt, let alone beyond, would have the resources to do it. A couple would need £50, even if they lived closer to London than I did, a family of four could crack a ton…..

The speakers were pretty dull on the whole. But the audience of marchers were a forgiving lot and clapped or cheered appropriately. The mood, however, especially far from the podium in Parliament Square where I was was much more notable for the grass-roots quality. There were debates, ad-hoc, informal, shifting and sifting as people moved and loosely coalesced about what was to be done from here. A few wanted the softest of soft Brexits, recognising perhaps that the die might be cast and some sort of Leave was inevitable. There was also a smattering of Norways. But most simply wanted Brexit cancelled. If there was a vote, it would be a choice between Remain or Remain. Any mention of May’s Deal was derided.

I didn’t stick around to the bitter end…I sat opposite (on the train home) a couple who were fellow marchers. The bloke was a retired civil servant, the lady (they were married) had the slightest of slight European accents but had evidently lived in the UK for a long time (I didn’t ask personal questions to discover more; we just don’t do that sort of thing here). I made open and neutral enquires about there thoughts on Brexit and why they wanted to attend the march on Saturday. Familiar talking points emerged — how the UK is too integrated into EU supply chains for unpicking it all easily to ever be a possibility (the chap I think was something in logistics in the civil service prior to retirement). Attitudes to migration, specifically being anti-immigrant were deplorable. Economic injustice was rampant and rancid. The couple were middle to upper middle class (they mentioned cruise holidays on Cunard, trips to North America for long periods, how difficult it was for family to live nearby due to the cost of housing). They’d had the benefits of prosperity but were ashamed at the pulling up of the drawbridge by the current cohort of middle-class folk.

They got off at Woking (epicentre of, if not Middle England, certainly affluent London and South East prosperity)…They were the epitome of a metropolitan elite. My working class family in the North of England or Wales would have savaged their cosy and cossetted world — and world-view — with a couple of well-chosen words.

But there were many people there who either shared their outlook or had a different outlook which nevertheless led them to the same conclusions. The UK has to Remain. There is no alternative.

And from PlutoniumKun in response:

It’s always hard to call these things at the time, but from a quick online perusal of the UK Sunday papers I do wonder if this weekend has fundamentally changed the national mood. The interviews with Tory MP’s sound a little like those of an addict who has reached bottom and has finally accepted he has to change. There seems to be genuine surprise at the huge turn out with the march yesterday and the lack of any real response from the Brexiters. It’s a bad look for Corbyn that the mood of the crowd lumped him in with the Tory Brexiters. Plus, it looks certain now that May has lost the last of her allies – she really has to go – the only question is if she is pushed or jumps.

The Remain petition is now up to 5,340,000 signatures.

However, as encouraging as this may seem to Remain and softer Brexit fans, Richard North points out that MPs and the pundits are still refusing to deal with Brexit issues:

A huge segment of the population has also chosen to opt out of any serious debate on the post-Brexit future of the UK, preferring instead endlessly to churn over the conduct of the referendum campaign, and to agitate for another in the hope of reversing the decision – thereby saving them the effort of coming up with any positive ideas of their own.

The net effect of all this misplaced activity, therefore, has been to waste time – even more time. We went through the referendum campaign without a serious debate on what the UK should look like after Brexit, and the bulk of the nation has been avoiding it ever since….

And therein lies our problem – amongst the various actors, there is the dialogue of the deaf. Each have their own little mantras, which they trot out to suit, and none of them listen to anyone else….But when one has Peter Bone, who wants to be a “managed no dealer”, in the list of options offered by MPs as an alternative to Mrs May’s deal, there is not a single one that would pass muster. In nearly three years, between then, MPs have been unable to craft a workable exit plan. This is institutional stupidity at an extreme level.

…but the game will be play out between the Government and Parliament. And it’s not looking too good for things changing much between now and April 12. And the real deadline is not April 12, but some time earlier, since the EU Council would need time to consider any extension proposal by the UK.

First, May can’t be made to leave, absent a vote of no confidence, which would pretty much assure a crash out. Recall she survived an intra-party challenge, so the Tories can’t force her out for a full year from the last vote, in December.

Ironically, this is one of those rare cases where the Queen could play a decisive role. She’s the only person who could tell May she needs to go now and get May to accept that. But I don’t see that as likely.

Second, even in her badly diminished state, May is holding on. She has enough in the way of self-preservation skills not to put it to a vote if it would obviously fail, but she’s still trying to breathe life into her zombie. May is planning to hold a vote allowing Parliament to express views on a series of Brexit options. This is likely to show a lack of a majority for any particular choice.

Third, but even if May goes, what does that solve? A new Prime Minister won’t have May’s baggage with the EU, but EU leaders appear to have worked out that the UK is both divided and clueless about Brexit. A new PM can’t make a silk purse out of sow’s ear.

The reason May has managed to soldier on despite repeated political death events is that the Tory party is split between soft and hard Brexit factions. They would have gotten rid of her long ago if they had any alternative remotely acceptable to both wings. The Financial Times gave an update on the infighting. Note that pushing for a general election is a threat:

Theresa May fended off a challenge to her leadership on Sunday but struggled to win over some of her most ardent Conservative opponents to her Brexit plan….

Senior ministers rallied behind her in public appearances on Sunday, with MPs threatened with the prospect of general election if they supported rival plans for a soft Brexit this week when she makes a last effort to save her premiership and her plan for leaving the EU.

Possible successors — including the de facto deputy prime minister David Lidington and the environment secretary Michael Gove — said it was the wrong time to change leader.

Mr Lidington said that he didn’t have “time for plotting” and had been cured of “any lingering shred of ambition” for the top job….

MPs will decide on Monday whether to take control of the parliamentary agenda, allowing them to vote on alternative ways forward, such as a soft Brexit or a second referendum, as early as Wednesday. That could force the government to choose between a deal that splits the Conservative party or one that fails to win MPs’ approval.

Chancellor Philip Hammond raised the stakes by saying that another referendum was “a “perfectly coherent proposition” that “deserves to be considered”….

But Downing Street remains resolutely opposed to a second referendum or a softer Brexit. Brexit secretary Stephen Barclay said that there would be a “constitutional collision” if MPs backed staying in the European customs union or single market against the letter of the 2017 Conservative election manifesto.

In such a scenario “the risk of a general election increases”. said Mr Barclay. That view was endorsed by Downing Street officials, who hope Tory MPs will choose to back the prime minister’s deal if the alternative is an election.

Leading opponents of Mrs May’s deal, including former cabinet ministers Mr Johnson and Iain Duncan Smith, could lose their seats if a vote were called. But members of the Eurosceptic European Research Group sought to face down the prime minister, saying they, too, would prefer an election to implementing a soft Brexit.

Read this tweetstorm (hat tip guurst) for more color:

Sample of Tory MPs contacting me….

1. “No peaceful transition… whoever takes over 'immediately' becomes PM! – and will have a chance if delivering their type of Brexit .. big stakes.. will be brutal”.

— Faisal Islam (@faisalislam) March 24, 2019

Such as:

3. May loyalist Minister: “dark days for PM and party..authority got really knocked last week. But- change of leader does not solve the problem. fundamental divide between no deal/no extension group and those who now think only free vote indicative votes are the way forward”.

— Faisal Islam (@faisalislam) March 24, 2019

Forth, even if MPs do “take control,” of Parliamentary time, what does that solve? They don’t have time to forge a consensus even if they had sound idea, which aside from revoking Article 50, they don’t. On top of that, if the procedure changes fail to get rid of the ability of individual MPs to kill private bills by objecting to them, the Ultras can object to any legislation that would require the PM to act to prevent a Brexit on April 12, like revoke Article 50 or ask for an extension so as to hold a referendum. Recall that Parliament has no standing with the EU Council; only the PM can submit requests.

Brexit has looked like a controlled flight into terrain, where a pilot misinterprets flight information, usually altitude, and crashes the plane while in control. But another image that applies is operating a Boeing 737 Max, where the plane has gone into one of its programmed nosedives and the pilots are frantically trying to shut off the automated controls and right the plane. But in this case, some of the crew is part of a doomsday cult and are trying to confuse the pilots to assure a crash.

This entry was posted in Brexit, Doomsday scenarios, Europe, Politics, UK on March 25, 2019 by Yves Smith.

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Source: https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2019/03/brexit-controlled-flight-into-terrain.html

[borrowedbackpack]

Smooth Criminal

Today started out pretty idyllically, with marzipan and friends and other happy things.

We saw the Danish Royal Residence:

We walked closer to the palace and there was a big happening going on, with a lot of people pushing and shoving and the sweet/incredibly irritating strain of a piccolo. I guess the queen didn’t think that the furry hats were enough embarrassment for the poor guards, so she thought on her throne for awhile and though “hmmm...how could I make this job sillier? Ah, yes, they must all learn to play the flute! Wait, the flute is not dumb enough. Make it the piccolo! Ah yes, the teeny flute cousin that is impossible to play without gloves even though it’s cold and rainy af here 9 days out of 10. Go me. I love playing a minor part in the royal world and getting to make up rules.”

So anyways, it appears that every hour on the hour, a large portion of the guards get into formation and march around the courtyard, stopping at every corner to play their little piccolo tune. Then they continue on to the street, where they march and play again, and a bunch of police officers follow them and yell and civilians. I love royal stuff and all, but honestly I think this is a bit excessive.

Next we went and saw what Lonely Planet describes as “Denmark’s Most Anti Climactic Sight” - the Little Mermaid. It’s a rather long and wet walk down the water to get there, and then you see her, say “hm”, take a picture, and go buy a hot dog or a pancake from one of the many carts trying to capitalize on this thing’s inexplicable popularity.

She’s kinda pretty, I guess.

Then we walked all the way back to Heaven, picked up our bags, and hiked to the metro. This was when I truly realized that my backpack is really not bad at all - in fact, I have the smallest backpack I’ve seen in Heaven. I was starting to have a much more positive attitude towards the Big Fella (don’t worry, this changed pretty soon).

God bless young Nele and her ridiculous fucking backpack. I can see some places where the packing could have definitely been trimmed down to a more manageable size, starting with the huge cat pillow.

So then I got on the Metro, went the wrong way for one stop, got off, and went back the other way. This is when the terrible trouble started. I was having about as enjoyable ride as you can have on a crowded train with a giant backpack strapped to your back and a little backpack strapped to your front, THAT IS until the Metro police showed up. At first this was not stressful at all, as I was in possession of a perfectly valid ReisjeKort that I had barely used and paid a butt ton of cash kroner for. Proudly, I handed the Metro police my ReisjeKort. She scanned it on the little machine and it immediately started freaking the fuck out and making a big scene to make sure that all the other travellers knew that there was an IMPOSTER on this train. 

“kahksnkfbugbwuenoifmks hoinga honga ja ja nej ingen med kort ikea indfbdghjd pølser” said the Metro police.

“huh” I said.

“Can I see your passport?” said the Metro police.

“uhhhhhhhh yeah” said Anna, the Valid Traveller™

Then she starting writing some shit on in her little Metro Police book, and gave me a form to fill out.

“Why do I have to fill this out?” I asked.

“Because you’re getting a penalty for not HAVING A VALID TICKET”.

“But I do I a valid ticket”, I politely reminded her “you’re holding it right there”

“Yeah well you haven't checked out* with it in 1.5 days”

*uhm who knew you had to check out as well as check in? This isn’t an effing hotel....I am from the sticks...this is like my 3rd time on a train....I basically made a donation to your organization by accidentally buying an expensive Metro card that I definitely will not use up in only 2 days...and this is how I’m treated? Me, a humble Metro donor? It was shocking.

“Hm” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say, so I said “I’m not actually from here”.

“The sky is blue and Denmark is windy”** said the Metro police.

**the Metro police actually did not say this.

Anyways, then I filled out my form really messily and just filled in my city as “PA” so the pigs can’t find me, and politely thanked her as she handed me my ticket while all the onlookers enjoyed the show, because I wasn’t raised in the gd jungle.

All of this nonsense took up most of my train ride, so I got off at the next stop. When I got of the Metro, I was very grouchy because I don’t really care to get in trouble. I looked at my google maps directions, which I had cleverly screenshotted on my phone the night before. Sadly, step 1 was simply to walk 280m.

“Hm” I said. 

I tried to use common sense by walking in the direction where I saw a lot of buildings, which is where it seems like a hostel should be, in my opinion. Of course, this was the wrong way, but I kept waking just in case, because I’m that kind of gal. After about an hour I was up on some roof and was ready to accept that this truly was not the right way.

Note: This piece of shit hostel is wayy way way out in this super modern suburb, it basically looks like how you would imagine the world looking in 2300 after the world has ended and been completely rebuilt. Basically, all the buildings are made out of glass and look exactly the same, perfect.

Then I turned around and wandered around for about half and hour more, and I was still very confused because there was no way the hostel was the other way, since the other way was a field. So then I sat on a rock for awhile and got a little teary because I was out of options, my dudes. 

Next I sacrificed $10 to turn on my data and use Google Maps, Sweet, simple Google Maps was a little confused too, first it said it was 5km away, then 1, then 2....

“fuck” I said softly, because I really didn’t want to walk anymore.

Next I sent out a distress call to Jen and Pete, even though they couldn’t really do anything. Jen commiserated with me, and Pete accurately described the situation as a “bummer”.

Next, I walked all the way to a big field. I saw a highway, which actually had the right street name I was looking for.

“why the fuck is it way out here” I thought.

So then I walked about 25km down the dusty highway into a gale force wind that almost caused me and the big fella to crash into the ditch at several points.

Eventually I saw the beacon of the Danhostel flags, which was rather exciting, although after I’d walked for 2+ hours with all my shit, I’m not sure that even Beyonce gracefully swooping down from the sky on a unicorn to guide me the rest of the way would’ve excited me much.

I did not receive the hero’s welcome I had hoped for upon arriving at the hostel- unfortunately it seems like I ruined the ginger Dane at the front desk’s day by checking in. I wandered down a hallway that smelled funny to my room, which looked like camp and had some tasty Israeli cookies sitting on the table.

I stewed in my room for awhile, then went to kitchen, where I scored some free muesli and oatmeal. There was an old French couple in there, who stared at me the entire time I ate my oatmeal. I think they knew that I was now a Metro Criminal™. Also, before the kitchen thing, I talked to old Jen and told her about my Metro woes. She helpfully reminded me that I am leaving the country tomorrow and don’t owe Denmark shit.*

*may not be an exact quote.

There wasn’t really a  common space to hang out in the hostel, so I went in to the lobby, which was completely empty except for this tall gaunt looking guy with a really wonky eye. I almost screamed when I saw him, but fortunately I kept it together.

That’s about all, gotta get my rest now so I can be fresh to wake up at the ass crack of dawn tomorrow and hike down the highway of broken dreams or whatever.