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chrisevansjellybeans · 4 years ago

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Happier | Part One

A/N: Once again Tumblr decides to not have my work show up on the tags. But here is part one of a multi-fic!

Summary: Reader is Chris’s best freind who has been harboring feelings for him for a while. When they are finally reunited after he’s been gone for filming she’s shocked to find out that he’s coming back with a little more than just himself.

Word Count: 1479

Warnings: swearing, slightly angsty

You wiped your palms against the fabric of your dress as you watched the front door of the fancy restaurant that Chris had picked out. He was finally back from filming in Canada where he had been for the last six months and you had missed him like crazy.

You had met Chris when you first moved to Boston. You had decided to check out your new neighborhood and you had always believed that nothing gave you more insight on the neighborhood than its local dive bar. The Dirty Robber just screamed classic Boston dive bar and when you walked in your suspicions were confirmed. He had been sitting at the bar and you just a couple stools down. Before you knew it you were talking until bar close and a friendship blossomed from there.

You had obviously known who he was and you weren’t going to lie, were starstruck when he took off his hat that first night in the bar. But after many coffee and lunch get-togethers you realized that he was more than the movie star you had known him to be.

That was five years ago. And of course you had to fall victim to the cliche of “I’m the best friend of the super hot guy who has no idea I feel that way and doesn’t see me as any more than a friend or worse a little sister.” So you did what you did best. You suppressed the feelings and put on a brave face and didn’t say anything to him.

And now here you were, waiting in a fancy restaurant, wearing a hot red dress in hopes that in his time away your best friend realized that just maybe he had feelings for you too.

“Can I get you another water?” You broke out of your trance and turned to the waitress who was smiling down at you.

“Um yeah, that would be great. Thank you.” She nodded and you turned your attention back to the door.

You felt your heart flutter as Chris walked through the double doors. He ran his fingers through his hair as he paused at the door and looked around the restaurant, looking for you. You felt your body stand as you went to raise your hand to get his attention. But then you froze. It was like ice had gone through your veins and stopped all motion.

A beautiful woman walked up behind Chris and lovingly wrapped her arms around his torso. Her blonde hair perfectly curled and rested down her back. She had a smile, like Chris, that lit up the whole room. Her dress was a beautiful emerald green that fit perfectly to her curves.

You lowered yourself into your seat as you felt your heart start to shatter. You watched with glossy eyes as Chris finally spotted you and his smile grew. He grabbed the woman’s hand and led her towards you. You willed your tears to dry as they got closer and you put on your best smile.

“Hey stranger.” Chris sighed as he pulled you into a bone crushing hug. You closed your eyes and took in his scent. Something that you missed for the last half year. “I’ve missed you, sweetheart.”

Your heart pounded at the nickname. It was so mundane and so universally used but Chris had been calling you that for as long as you’ve known him and when it left his lips it just hit differently.

“I’ve missed you too, buddy.” You looked past him to the blonde woman who was waiting patiently. You cleared your throat and moved past Chris. “Hi, I’m Y/N.”

“Oh I know. Chris has told me so much about you, I feel like we are already friends.” She smiled genuinely.

Wish I could say the same.

“Sweetheart, this is Carissa.” Chris put an arm around her, smiling down at her. “My girlfriend.”

And there it was. The dagger that pierced your heart.

“Wow.” You forced out. Chris raised his eyebrow at your lackluster excitement. His eyes asking you that silent question you didn’t want to answer. You cleared your throat and put on a bigger smile. “Wow! Go to Canada for a job and come back with a girlfriend? Way to go, Evans.”

Carissa laughed and looked up at Chris with the same adoration you had for him.

“Isn’t it crazy? We met on set and it was love at first sight.” Carissa’s voice was like music. Was there nothing wrong with this girl?

“Love at first sight? Wow.” You smiled at her. The words were forced and your expression wasn’t genuine but she would never know. You had years of masking your emotions in your pocket.

But Chris knew you. He knew when you genuinely smiled your eyes sparkled. And when you were excited your voice raised slightly by an octave. He had heard it many times. He knew that you weren’t being as genuine as you thought you were portraying. He watched you closely as you and Carissa continued chatting and you tried not to be affected by his stare.

As you all ate and talked you felt your heart sink further as you soon realized that Carissa was in fact one of the nicest people on the planet. A true and caring person who clearly adored Chris as much as you did. She was everything that you wished you could be. Because clearly that was what Chris wanted.

As the three of you stood outside the restaurant waiting for the valet to bring up the cars you wrapped your shawl tightly around yourself. Mentally slapping yourself for not thinking to bring a jacket. Usually Chris would wrap his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest and would rest his chin on your head. He was like your own personal blanket. But now he was doing it with her. Your body trembled as you looked anywhere but where the happy couple was standing.

“You should come to the house soon. We can have a girls night.” Carissa had moved away from Chris and was now standing by you. Her fingers lightly holding your arm. “You just mean so much to Chris and I really want us to be friends.”

You glanced over at Chris who was animatedly talking to another valet. He looked over at the both of you quickly and shot you a wink which made you turn away immediately.

“Um yeah, that would be fun. How long are you in town for?”

“Until further notice. Chris hasn’t officially asked but he’s basically moving all of my stuff from Canada here.” She giggled. “So whenever you are free I would love to do something. Chris can go over by his mom’s.”

“What are you ladies plotting over here?” You tensed as Chris’s hands playfully rubbed your shoulders before pulling Carissa to his side.

“Just a girls night.” She reached up and pecked him on the cheek. “No boys allowed.”

Chris raised his hands in defense, a smile taking over his whole face. “Hey, I’ll be out of your hair whenever that happens.”

You opened your mouth to say something but the cars pulled up. You made your way to your car but stopped when you felt a familiar hand grip your upper arm.

“Babe, wait for me in the car. I’ll just be a second.”

Your eyes were closed as you steadied your breathing. Slowly you turned around to face your best friend.

“What’s up?” You folded your arms.

“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.” Chris rested his hands on his hips. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Chris.”

“No you’re not. What is it? Do you not like her?”

You bit the inside of your cheek as you watched your best friend fidget nervously. He wanted you to like her so much. This was so real for him. And here you were acting jealous when you really had no reason to. It’s not his fault that you were too scared to tell him how you really felt. And now it was too late.

“She’s amazing, Chris. She’s everything and more than what I expected you to end up with.” You gently patted his chest and you felt his heartbeat start to slow. “Seriously. You seem...happier.”

If only it had been because of you.

Chris ran his fingers through his hair before pulling you in for a quick hug. “I love you, Y/N. Your approval means everything.”

You nodded and pulled away from him, trying to put as much distance between the two of you as you could.

“I’ll see you later, Chris. Welcome home.” You didn’t wait for him to respond before you got into your car and drove off. The tears you had been holding back all night finally falling.

#chris evans imagine #chris evans x reader #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans

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burnedbyshoto · 5 years ago

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(i won’t say) i’m in love - pt 2

Bakugou deals with the consequences of his actions, but will he ever be forgiven?

pt 1

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pairing: platonic!bakugou katsuki x reader

warning: hurt/comfort, cursing, bakugou katsuki is bad at feelings

word count: 3,032

a/n: I wasn’t really planning on writing a part 2, but I was like semi upset when I got an ask for it and practically brainstormed an entire fic in an ask, then lost it all because tumblr mobile crashed, cried, forgot about it, then saw an entire conversation happening in the comments of the first one and it convinced me to write the part 2. anyways, I hope you enjoy. can you believe I used hurt/comfort??? neither can I!!!!

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Bakugou stared at the ceiling of his room.

The past five days, he had mostly shut himself off from all of society. He showed up to patrols, ignored everyone who wasn’t essential to his line of work, destroyed his phone in his embarrassment, and had begun an emotional declination he was not proud of.

He had destroyed his relationship with you, and most likely, Kirishima too. His confession went unsaid that night, but his words of hatred and twisted jealousy remained alive. Hell, even fucking Deku had tried to talk to him about it. Still, it had resulted in both of them having their heads buried into the concrete because they were more interested in yelling at each other than actually focusing on the villain they were fighting.

It was not a proud moment.

There was a lot of guilt welling up in him though; every time he thought so much of how you looked that night, acid hot tears tore at the back of his eyes - threatening to fall in a stupid uncomposed way.

He was better than this, he didn’t need to cry.

Still, when he heard a knock at his front door, he was beyond shocked to see none other than Kirishima standing there. His hair was down, not in his usual hairstyle but natural. He was looking up at Bakugou with a strange look on his face. One that Bakugou only knew to be a gaze Kirishima held when he squared off with the most ‘unmanliest’ of villains who held no redemption.

A stone sank in his stomach, and his tongue ran dry when the two different red eyes came to lock in the middle.

“We need to talk, Bakugou.”

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Five Nights Earlier

You stormed into your apartment, angry, upset tears streaming down your cheeks while your fingers shook like leaves, and your cheeks were puffed with your restrained tears.

You hated Bakugou. You hated him.

Who did he think he was?

Talking to you like you were some undeserving child? An idiot who had been used by him of all people? His taunting words rang and danced in your head, twisting and evolving into nastier names, more sinister meanings.

He wasn’t your friend, just using you for his own wellbeing. He was a user and a taker, never a giver. He was a tramp and… and… you felt weak in the knees as your nasty thoughts fell short and thin. A sob emitted from your lips, and your head slowly shook, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t that. You knew that.

Bakugou wasn’t much of a giver, there was never any denying that, but he wasn’t a taker nor a user. This wasn’t him. It could never be him.

You sank to the floor, feeling your drumming heart exploding in your chest as your wet cheeks pressed against the floor. Was he really not a user, though?

He had used you before, the final exam was a prime example of that, but that was who he was on the battlefield. A strong yet stubborn leader, his voice loud and willing those around him. You had followed him on your own merit, knowing that he was someone to be trusted, so why was it now you were having issues with it. Was this all an illusion? Which part of him was correct?

“Y/n?” a voice called out, and your blood froze over at the thought of it being Bakugou, but at the second calling of your name, you warmed up. It was Kirishima.

Pushing off the floor, you sniffled loudly, the tears still continuing to pour down your face while you struggled over to the front door. You opened the front door to find Kirishima standing there, his hands awkwardly placed on his hips, and his head tilted to the side, concern, and sympathy clouding his face. Still, it was nice to see your boyfriend’s gentle and loving face as you let him in, immediately allowing yourself to sink into his open arms and sob in them.

It was no secret that you had desperately wanted to be friends with Bakugou. It was something you had horribly failed at high school, and now you had managed… you had done it… but was it for naught? Kirishima held you gently, though, his surprisingly gentle and soft hands coming to stroke your tear-soaked face over and over. Sweet words passing his lips as he held you, unwilling to let your thoughts consume you while you stayed at the entrance of your home.

It took much longer than you’d like to admit, a few hours at that, for you to finally be able to face your boyfriend with only tears brimming your eyes and your lips swollen and puffy from your frequent biting.

“You okay, y/n?” Kirishima asked softly, his hands moving to brush the strands of hair out of your face before pressing a sweet smile to your cheeks. “What are you feeling?”

“I don’t… I don’t understand why he said that!” you choke out, your voice embarrassingly weak and cracked with your overwhelming emotions and obvious distress. “We were friends! I know we were friends! You can’t be fake friends with Bakugou Katsuki of all people! It’s… it’s not possible! But that’s… how could he say that to my face? He said some of the worst shit he could have said to me, and that doesn’t sound anything like the man I know him to be! The best friend you know him to be! I get we weren’t always… we weren’t always close, and that’s fine because not all friendships are there in the beginning, but I don’t know why it’s not here! We had something, right? I wasn’t… I wasn’t making it up?”

Kirishima stared at you with the most heartbroken yet heartfelt expression on his face, his hands readjusting their hold on your face to bring a tantalizingly sweet kiss to your mouth. It was an action that burned into your skin - a somewhat polar feeling to the dread that sat on your skin and bones.

“You weren’t, no way in hell was that a made-up friendship.”

“Then, why?”

“I don’t know… I don’t know.”

Kirishima stared down at your shining bright eyes, his lips twisting into a sad but sure smile while he pressed kisses against your tears, his warm body pressing softly into yours.

“I knew he was lying,” you mumbled, your eyes closing ever so gently when he kisses you wholly.

“Yeah?”

“He couldn’t look me in the eye when he started… that’s how you know he’s lying.”

Kirishima sighed softly against your lips, “I think I was still too drunk to have noticed that.”

“You definitely tasted disgusting earlier, Ei,” you teased, the pain in your heart tremendous but ignorable when he pulled away, the faux offended look on his face almost too funny.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, grabbing your cheeks in a threatening manner.

“Y-Yeah!” your voice cracked.

In a surging kiss that was practically all tongue, just for a moment that night, your worries and distress were forgotten while Kirishima tried to show just how not disgusting his mouth tasted.

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Bakugou stared at his friend, his hands in fists against the legs of his jeans, and Kirishima was leaning on his forearms against his thighs. They had made it to Bakugou’s living room, taking their usual seats in this room that was usually bright in atmosphere when they came together.

Despite Kirishima saying that they needed to talk, he had remained quiet for this entire time, unwilling to speak while his face clouded with murkiness and calamity. Bakugou hated this so much. He hated that he couldn’t speak up because he was in the wrong, and he hated that the reason he was so disconnected from everything was because of him.

But the worst part was that the entire world seemed to know that this was going on right now; there had to be no other explanation. It was quiet right now, his usually nosy neighbors were silent as a mouse, the outside world frozen over, and the only thing Bakugou could hear was his rising heartbeat in his throat.

What was he going to say?

When was he going to say it?

“You should tell y/n how you feel.”

Bakugou froze, well he definitely was not expecting that to come out of Kirishima’s lips.

“Excuse me?”

Kirishima finally looked up from his folded fingers and met Bakugou’s gaze. It nearly froze Bakugou to the core when his bright red eyes seemed so lost and far away. Kirishima always looked at things in a kind manner, villain or ally, he never lost that kind glint to his eyes… but right now, his eyes were deadly serious, sharp, hard.

“I know you’re in love with y/n,” Kirishima admitted, his jaw tensing slightly, his head shaking slightly. “I know, Bakugou.”

“Eh? I don’t fucking-” Bakugou couldn’t help but lie, not wanting to cause his friend unneeded stress, unneeded insecurity because he was an idiot.

“You do, I know you do,” Kirishima sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor for a millisecond before returning to Bakugou’s widened eyes. “I’ve known since the beach trip… and I didn’t have a problem with it because I trust both you and y/n.”

“Kirishima…”

“Even with what you said that night… I still trust you, and after talking with y/n, I realized that while I thought for some time that it was you just liking them, I didn’t realize it was you being in love.” Kirishima smiled sadly, his hand running through his red locks that were showing black at the roots. He was in the process of deciding if he was going to allow the black to come back. “But even though I don’t… I don’t want you to tell y/n that you love them, I think you need to. For your sake and theirs.”

Bakugou’s eyebrows shot together, his feet shifting so that he could stand up, but when he tried, he realized that all the strength in his body had left him, rendering him unable to stand up.

“I’m not going to do it if you don’t want me to do that,” Bakugou hoarse out, his mouth feeling unusually dry, disgustingly hot. “I almost did on the night of your birthday party, and… I just fucking can’t anymore. I feel disgusting.”

Kirishima let a small, sad smile appear on his face, his mouth twitching with unspoken words, and his eyes finally letting on emotion. “I sort of figured that out too. Probably would’ve been a better option than lying to y/n, huh?”

Bakugou stared at his friend, emotions he was not at all used to bubbling in his chest, threatening to spill over and just shatter the world in two. What was he going to do with himself?

“I’m sorry, Kirishima.”

“I’m not the one who needs the apology.”

“You do,” Bakugou disagreed, his head shaking in his disagreement. “I hurt you, too, man.”

“Yeah, well,” Kirishima seemed to look for the next thing to say, his sharp teeth digging into his lower lip while he collapsed back onto the seat, exhaustion filling him. “That’s why I’m called the unbreakable red riot, I get hurt, but I won’t ever break or fall.”

Bakugou fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Now go see y/n, and don’t come back until things are confessed.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

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You were watching a cartoon on the screen in your living room. Well, at the very least, you were trying to, but you found yourself ignoring the brightly flashing screen and pitched voices to think back on the past two days.

Bakugou consumed your thoughts, the way that you and Kirishima knew he was lying that night, but you couldn’t help but wonder why.

Kirishima had been over tonight to eat dinner, and after helping you clean up and put everything away, he had left with a sweet kiss goodbye and a promise that things would be better.

There was a knock on the door, and the trance you were in was broken. Pushing off the couch, you walked to the front door of your apartment and opened the door. It was Bakugou.

“Can we talk?” Bakugou said after seconds of silence, the both of you frozen at the first sight of each other in days, the bitter resentment still heavy in the air while the world continued to spin. He looked worse than you expected him to, his eyes tired, and his hair flat in some areas - as if he hadn’t been able to do anything but lay on his side for days.

“Depends,” was your response, your body feeling completely numb and terribly cold.

“On?”

“Am I going to annoy you?”

Bakugou licked his lips, his eyes dropping from yours momentarily while a soft expel of air passed his lips, “Did I really say that?”

“That and more,” you smiled, but the smile was twisted and wrenching, there was nothing but hurt and anger behind it while you stared at the man who held a place in your heart.

“Can I… let me in?” Bakugou just about pleaded you - well, the closest thing to a plead that Bakugou Katsuki could make.

You clenched your jaw, thinking if it was genuinely beneficial to you if you allowed him to enter and talk, but you were never to deny your friends anything. Nodding your head once, you opened the door wider, letting him in.

“I just hope I won’t annoy you with my cowardice,” you couldn’t help but murmur while he passed you, the space he filled in your apartment was awkward, and he tensed when the door clicked behind him.

Bakugou sighed, his hands shoving into his pockets while he remained before you, refusing to look at you.

“I’m in love with you.”

Now, you were expecting a few things to come out of Bakugou’s mouth the second you allowed him to come in. An apology maybe, a declaration that you should just ignore everything that he said maybe or even a begrudging admittance that it was Kirishima who was forcing him to come in tonight. But that?

“Excuse me?!”

“I know you don’t like not speaking whenever I’m talking, but I’m asking you that this once… for this one time, you’ll let me speak without interruption.” You watched in overwhelming emotion as Bakugou turned his head, staring at you with those vermillion eyes and a spine of steel, and with a small nod, you agreed.

“I didn’t want to tell you, well, I did want to tell you. That night at Kirishima’s party, that’s what I was going to confess to you. But when Kirishima came out, I… I realized how shitty of me it was to even have entertained that thought, and I lost it. I wasn’t going to try to fix anything because I thought it wasn’t right of me after what I said, but Kirishima came over right now and told me that I should.” Your fingers fisted into your shirt, your eyes wide as the full moon while Bakugou’s head shook, a heavy sigh on his lips that reminded you to breathe. “I was a shit friend to you, and I’m not looking for you to forgive me or anything, I know I fucked up… but I’m here because… you are easily one of the best friends I have, and I don’t want that to disappear because I didn’t do anything.”

“I… I don’t want our friendship to end either,” you whisper, the truth unable to stay hidden even if you wanted to keep it from him. The fact was that you couldn’t see a life without him. Even if you could never return those feelings anymore, even if you couldn’t love him the way he loved you, you didn’t ever want to see him go. “I am upset, unworldly upset that you said that, even if it was a lie.”

“I’m sorry...”

“I love you too, Bakugou, but just… not that way… not anymore.”

“I know,” Bakugou’s lips press into a flat line, his hands shoving into his messy hair while he shook his head. “I know you won’t love me like that, and it’s fine… but I’m… I’m sorry…”

“I know you are.”

“Will… are you ever forgive me?”

You stared into his eyes, the ones that refused to look at you five nights ago, shining with his apologetic emotions and sincere thoughts. Wordlessly, you approached him, your arms wrapped around his neck to bring him into a hug, and your face buried into his neck while he remained stiff in your arms.

“Always.”

His arms rose, the tremor in his body shaking even you before they settled to wrap around your waist. You didn’t dare to speak as he silently cried in your arms, years of repressed emotions, and five hellish days of guilt cracking him entirely until the two of you sank to the ground, your soothing words a saving grace to him while he apologized over and over again.

“I’m so sorry.”

It would take some time, but eventually, Bakugou’s sobs became muffled hiccups. The place the two of you held on the floor, ultimately shifting over to sit on the much more comfortable couch. His eyes were puffy and red from his tears, and yours were swelling up as well, awkward tension still hung heavily within the two of you as your hand gently brushed away his tears with a gentle, familiar smile.

“Do you want some spicy curry? I have some leftovers.”

Bakugou let in a stuttering breath of air, his lungs still weak from his crying, but the offer of food eased the remaining knots in his stomach.

“As long as you weren’t the one who made it.”

“My curry skills are amazing, and you should shut up!”

And Bakugou watched as you left the couch, your voice pitched and a bit breathless as you went about making him his food, but he knew that even if he wanted to be more than friends, this was okay. You smiling, rambling, happy, and in love. That’s all that mattered.

Forever and always.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha x reader #bnha #mha x reader

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kabira · 4 years ago

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08 | distance

pairing — spider-man!vernon x ofc

featuring — joshua, yeji (itzy), felix (skz), yangyang (nct)

word count — 2.5k

genres — spider-man au, marvel au, fluff, action, angst, humor

warnings — minor violence

note — ok so this was kinda later than scheduled (three WEEKS) but the next update will hopefully be on time so i can keep up! by which i mean sunday 6 am (ist). also, for the love of god, tumblr make this show up in the tags. pretty, pretty please.

go to fic masterlist | main masterlist

“Okay, so here’s what I found out about your Rhino guy,” Yeji said, jumping over the side of the rooftop and landing on another, hitting the ground with a roll before coming up on her feet. They were currently involved in a high-speed chase, which meant she had to yell at the top of her voice for Vernon to hear her—not that it mattered a lot. Up here, no one could hear you scream. “He’s Russian. Name’s Alexei Sytsevich.”

“Russian, huh?” Vernon yelled back. He swung over a tall rooftop garden, taking care not to accidentally knock over something he wasn’t supposed to. “Anything that could tie him to Osborn?”

“Not really!” Yeji yelled. “His identity is public, so anyone could get to him, and he must have happened to have been around when he attacked you. But there’s nothing concrete we could go after.”

The two of them were chasing Batroc the Leaper across the top of the buildings, having caught up with him just moments after he robbed a store. A basic assignment, really, but it was still a challenge to apprehend him before he got too far from the crime scene. One of their more casual operations, much like a training session, except this was the real deal.

“Anything of interest?” Vernon asked. They were close to catching their quarry, very close. Batroc wasn’t really that notorious in the underworld, but he was still a menace and technically a criminal. A more notable point of interest were the mechanical leaping legs attached to both his feet which allowed him to jump several feet high in the air, making for a good old-fashioned superhuman chase scene.

“He was experimented on with this gamma radiation technique to give him superhuman strength and durability, but it ended in an accident,” Yeji answered. Her voice, apart from the strain due to the yelling, sounded strangely relaxed for someone who was chasing a guy across the tops of buildings. Even after having time to get used to it, Vernon was still surprised by her resilience. “The suit he was wearing that day—remember how it was made of some kind of self-regenerating polymer? It’s literally stuck to his skin. Can’t get it off him.”

“Must be constipated; it explains the anger issues.”

Just then, Yeji caught up to the Leaper. She sprung off a ledge and onto the top of a water tanker, from where she dived towards the unsuspecting criminal, flattening him to the ground. Vernon swung up to her, landing on the ground next to her. Batroc tried to wiggle away, but Vernon webbed his hands and feet to the rooftop, successfully trapping him. “So,” he said, turning his attention back to Yeji. “Any idea where they’re keeping him?”

“If you’re wondering if he’s being kept anywhere close to Osborn, don’t worry.” She placed her hands on her hips. It looked strangely satisfying, her claws aligned with the gray markings around the waist of her white suit. “Rhino’s placed in the Helicarrier for now, but in a special ward designed specifically for the big guys, though th They have specialists looking into his, er, sticky situation, but he’s on an entirely different level than Norman. And I mean that quite literally.”

He nodded. “Did the files mention which specialists are looking into it?”

“Eez it perhaps—” Batroc started.

Vernon webbed his mouth. “Zip it,” he said.

“No. The only files I could access didn’t have much on him,” Yeji said, sounding genuinely sorry. “There was other stuff, like his eye color and his blood type, but I don’t think you’d be very interested in all of that.”

“You think right.”

“There might be more details in the confidential reports coming in from the Helicarrier holder itself, but getting them would be a lot of trouble,” she said. “Although if you really want them—”

“No, it doesn’t matter,” Vernon said, shaking his head. “Thanks for digging up the rest, though. I owe you one.”

“Consider it early payback for when your Aunt May teaches me how to beat your ass at video games.” He couldn’t see her face, but he sensed that underneath the mask, she was smiling.

“Hey, that’s an Aunt May thing, not a me thing,” he said, then paused, hesitating. There was something else he had wanted to ask her, but he didn’t know if he really wanted to follow through with it. “Hey, Tiger…” he trailed off. “Actually, never mind.”

“No, go ahead,” she said. “Unless you’d rather not.”

He shook his head slightly. “It’s not like that,” he said. “This might sound kind of intrusive, but do you know the deal with Fe—Iceman?” he asked. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s great and everything, but with all the brooding and the secrecy, I’m just a little—” He scrunched up his nose. “That does sound intrusive.”

“It does,” she agreed, but it sounded amused. “Look, I’d tell you. I really would. But it’s something I feel he should tell you yourself, you know? If and when he’s comfortable talking to you about it.”

“Did he tell you?”

“No, I just kind of figured it out.” She sounded a little sheepish. “And maybe I got it out of one of the IT guys.”

He looked at her, amused. “They have IT guys at S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Well, I guess they’re not IT guys in the strictest sense,” she mused. “There’s a hierarchy of ranks even within the record regulators, so it’s a little hard to explain. Not that it really matters, anyway.”

“It would be kind of cool if S.H.I.E.L.D. needed IT guys,” Vernon said, looking down at Batroc, except he wasn’t really looking at him, but through him. “Unrealistic, though.”

Yeji shook her head slightly, like she was unable to believe they were having this conversation. Or maybe he was just projecting his own amused disbelief onto her. But he noticed the tenseness of her shoulders and she let her arms fall to her sides, as if she was holding in a laugh. It was one of those conversations that took a turn that didn’t even have to be funny to make you laugh.

“Good talk,” she said, and this time he could actually hear the smile in her voice. “Now let’s get this guy back to the carrier.”

Luce knew something was up.

She had known this for a while now—about a year, in fact. She had only just started to suspect it when Vernon had changed, and Joshua had gotten secretive, and Harry had first started floating away. It had come one after the other, like the three of them were carrying out parts in a play and she was in the audience, watching but unable to take part. Change, and secrecy, and distance.

She liked distance. Luce had always been distant, someone who stood in the crowd and yet apart from it, unwelcome and unsettling for most around her. Eccentric, some called her, or strange, or downright creepy. It never really mattered to her, because for her, it had always been just the four of them—Vernon, Joshua, Harry and her—and even after everything that had happened, they still felt like four. Three people with a ghost in between, still shaking his head at their dumb jokes and still taking the best seat in the Parker living room when they had movie night.

Looking back, she realized that the cracks in their relationship had first appeared a year ago. Often, after Harry died, she thought about how they had collectively ignored those fractures in their friendship, that had come in the form of change and secrets and distance.

The first to change had been Vernon, of course—trading his glasses for unexplained bruises, his mysterious disappearances poorly covered up and rarely questioned. Then Joshua—the two of them with their heads together in the hallways, shooting each other knowing looks that shut everyone out. It felt like it was just the two of them sometimes, Luce and Harry often forgotten during their closed conversations. That was probably what had pushed them together, but now that Harry was gone, she was left alone. Still on the outside, trying to look in, but in vain.

She knew she couldn’t blame Vernon and Joshua for it, she had started to blend into the background a little more with every passing day. Catching one without the other was hard, so at some point she stopped trying, letting them find her whenever they felt like it. Sometimes she felt like a ghost, too, lurking in a ruined castle, only seen when a wanderer needed shelter.

Now, it was all happening again. The arrival of the new kids had seemed like a minor disturbance at first, like a tiny cloud on the wide horizon, but Vernon had warmed up to them surprisingly quickly after his initial coldness. It wasn’t that Luce didn’t like them—after all, she had been the one to initiate first contact—but she had still been taken aback by how quickly they had become a part of their little group of three (and a dead boy, but he didn’t take up seats anymore).

Except they didn’t feel like it. Not to her, and probably not to Joshua either, whom she had seen watch the new trio with lingering looks when he thought she wasn’t looking.

She was a little surprised by her own reserve, because the arrival of more people should have been a good sign. More people, even numbers, pairs, so she wouldn’t be a third wheel anymore. But it hadn’t worked out that way—she was still stuck outside, but this time Joshua was stuck with her.

It was hard not to be even a little mournful.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she called as Vernon walked past her in the school hallway after fifth period, looking distracted as he usually did these days. He turned, surprised, as if he hadn’t even noticed her there.

“Me?” he asked, looking confused, and she sighed internally. On the outside, she simply shook her head as if in amused exasperation, reaching into her bag and taking out a spiral notebook.

“Notes. From Physics.” She handed it to him, and he stared at the cover for a dazed little moment before looking back up at her. “You missed another class today.”

“Right,” he muttered, giving her a grateful smile. Fifteen seconds had passed already, about five seconds less than the longest conversation they had held in two weeks. He probably hadn’t even realized. “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, meaning it. No point in moping after something that hadn’t been for months. She leaned against the locker door and folded her arms across her chest. The zips along the cuffs of her jacket pulled against the leather. “Going somewhere?”

“Not really.” He shrugged. The smile was still on his face, that stupidly delightful half-smile that still felt like it was behind a glass wall. “Are you?”

Am I ever? She shook her head. “Where did you go?” she asked instead of answering his question.

He frowned. “Where did I go…when?”

“During physics,” she clarified. “You’ve been disappearing a lot lately.”

“Oh, you know…” he started, trying hard to keep his voice casual. “Places.”

It was hard not to smile. “Like?”

“The principal’s office,” he said, sounding a little disappointed.

“The new guy?” Luce raised her eyebrows. “Did you do something to piss him off? Get a low grade?”

“Of course not,” Vernon said indignantly. “My scores are perfect.”

“I know. The rest of us on the curve are suffering because of it.”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry in the least. Instead, there was a small smile on his face that looked suspiciously like a smirk.

Almost a minute now. Luce let the back of her head hit the locker door, finally letting herself believe that he wasn’t going anywhere, not this time around. The feeling that came with it was so warm and delicious that it spread inside her chest like hot water, reaching her toes and fingers and the tip of her nose. “You’re not sorry,” she said with a smile, though she didn’t really mind. “Are we still on for Friday?”

Now Vernon’s smirk dropped, replaced by a split-second look of horror. “Friday?” he echoed. “This is going to sound bad, but I don’t—”

“Movie night,” she supplied. “And don’t worry, I didn’t expect you to remember. The last time we talked about that was a while ago, anyway.”

Movie night, or game night, was their irregular childhood tradition that had become increasingly infrequent over the past few years, but particularly so in the last year. Even then, they’d never gone this long without getting together at least once. The last time they’d done something like that together, it had been almost two months ago, when they had still been four.

When Luce finally mentioned it, she felt strange thinking about the prospect of movie night with only three people. It felt odd. Unnatural. Three felt like the wrong number, like fates and the prongs of a pitchfork. Too little.

“Tell you what,” she said, pulling herself out of her thoughts with difficulty. She did that too much, lose herself in her memories or some random vein of thought and manage to completely detach herself from the world around her. It got harder and harder every time, and sometimes she wondered if one day she was just going to be trapped in her own mind.

“What?” Vernon asked. He had that distracted look on his face again, his posture jumpy like there was extra energy wrapped into his body.

“Why don’t you bring Yeji and the others along this time?” she suggested. Six wasn’t that great of a number either, but it was definitely better than three. And maybe this way she’d be able to get to know the others a little better, pull herself back to reality. “I’m sure they’d like to. And that way, it’ll be an even team.”

“Not if May decides to join in again.”

She smiled. “Then maybe I’ll bring Hairball.”

He groaned. “Oh, no, not Hairball,” he said, eyes refocusing on her face. There was such a vibrant intensity in his gaze that it made her want to stand up straighter. Then he smiled, and she actually had to stand up straight. “You sure, though?”

Of course he would ask her. Vernon Parker, despite all his bodily changes, was still the same guy from fourth grade who always let her have the rest of his lunch—if he managed to keep it from Flash. Luce was almost tempted to reconsider, but she saw the earnest look on his face, the slight arch of his eyebrows, and swallowed the words that welled up in her throat.

“Of course,” she said. “Three’s already a crowd, so we might as well have a whole party.”

“A party, huh?” He winced. “That reminds me. Food.”

“We’ll order from Larry’s.”

“I’ll have to decide if they deserve it yet,” he joked. At least, she thought he was joking. “See you on Friday.”

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chuckbass-love · 4 years ago

Note

Could you do a fic where Steve or Chris falls in love with an exotic dancer? ❤️

Hi, i hope i’ve done a good job with this. I’ve done it as Steve and i hope you love it

Dirty Dancer

GIF NOT MINE!!! Credit to whoever made this gif, if anyone knows who made it pls let me know so I can give credit. I genuinely just search gifs up on google and I never manage to find out where the original gif is from bc of so many people re posting gifs. I never wanna give credit to the wrong person! So if this gif is yours or if it’s someone you know then let me know and I’ll credit them. Thank you💗

Disclaimer: My work is not to be posted anywhere else other than MY Tumblr, Wattpad and Ao3 without my permission. However, reblogs are welcome.

Warning: Fluff, light smut, explicit language (sorta)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Dancer!Reader

Summary: It’s Steve’s first time at the strip club and your first week as a stripper...

You never thought it would come to this, stripping for money and yet here you are, your first week in your new job. It paid well and you need the money for school. You’ve always had a talent for dancing so why not put it to good use.

You were already racking up some regulars that were quickly becoming obsessed with you and the way your body moved up and down the pole, you were informed by the other girls that having regulars come to you within just one week of being here was rare. You must really be good.

It was the last night of your first week here and although at first you felt a sense of shame for doing this, it soon faded when you got the hang of things. Plus the money was insane.

As soon as you get to the dressing room to change into your clothes your boss approaches you. Telling you that you’re working the private dance rooms tonight, which means you’ll have to do the rounds on the floor to see if anyone wants one. You didn’t hate this but you didn’t love it either. Money is money.

“Someone’s looking sexy” a familiar voice calls out to you as you check yourself out in the mirror, you turn around to see your colleague Jessica in the doorway.

“Well i mean, this is average but you... Dam” she giggles as she walks over to you to help you put your heels on.

Once you’re ready you head out onto the club floor, it’s packed in here. Time to work your magic.

As you strut around, flashing a couple of winks to some of the randy men, you spot a group entering the club. 3 guys. All 3 of them are fine as hell but there’s a rule here. You have to let them get a drink and sit down first before you approach them, if they come to you first then it’s fine.

“Sam, i don’t even know why you brought me here” the tall blonde one chuckles as he looks around the room whilst leaning on the bar, his eyes flicker over to you, meeting your gaze. You look away instantly and strut off.

Steve had never been to a strip club before neither had Bucky and Sam was determined to teach the two of them a thing or two. They get their drinks and find a seat. Right by the stage. You spot them all joking around but your attention is mainly on the tall blonde, he’s your type. You don’t stand a chance though after all, you’re just a dancer and he’s a regular guy.

“Excuse me” a voice calls out, breaking you from your daydream to see if it was calling to you, he was. You approach the group of guys with a friendly smile.

“Do you do private dances?” you nod in response to his question and he nudges the blonde.

“Sorry, i don’t mean to be rude, i’m Sam, this is Bucky and Steve. Steve here would love a private dance” his name is even cuter. Steve.

You grin as you hold your hand out for him to take it, Sam pushes him up and out of his seat, handing him some money. His hand grips onto yours and you lead him to the back room, locking the door to signal it being engaged.

He takes his jacket off, taking a seat down onto the chair in a huff. You can’t help but notice that he seems off.

“Is everything okay?” you ask nervously “I’m fine, honestly i am” you shrug it off as you remove your cover up, your low cleavage purple dress catches his eye.

You strut over to him, the music playing quietly in the background. Your back faces him as your hips start to grind in a circle, your ass brushing over his crotch, you feel him start to get hard.

He rests his hands on your waist, stopping you mid dance.

“Okay what’s up?” you stand up, sighing. “Nothing it’s just, do you mind if i ask you something?” you sit down next to him, motioning for him to go ahead.

“Why do you do this and doesn’t your boyfriend hate it?” you look down at your hands before bringing them back up to his blue eyes.

“I don’t have a boyfriend and i dunno, i love to dance and i need the money for school” you shrug and he rests a hand over yours.

“Shall i continue now or not?” you really liked him, he was attractive and very obviously not the douche bag type. You respected that about him. He nods and you go back to your previous position before turning around to straddle his lap.

You take his hands and rest them onto your ass whilst you continue to grind your crotch on his, teasing him further.

Minutes later, the time is up. He grabs his jacket from the table and you place your cover up over your shoulders. You both exit and he returns to his table with his boys. They lean in closer to ask him if it was good and he grins at them.

The rest of the night consists of private dances to all the major dick heads in the club, some try to get a little too handsy, leading you to snap at them. You have to make sure they know their place.

It’s now 2am and your shift is over, you head back to the locker room, changing out of your stripping attire and back into your high waisted denim shorts and jumper.

You slip on your converse and collect your money on your way out. As you walk out onto the streets, the cold hair hits you like wave. It feels good, you flick your hair out of your face and start to walk to find a cab.

“Hello again” you jump out your skin, turning around to see him. Steve. He’s leant against the wall outside the club, his mates are nowhere to be seen.

“Hi, your mates left you?” he looks around as he walks closer. “Sure does seem that way, they left with some girls” you continue to walk and talk with him.

“So is this what you normally look like when you’re not stripping” you can hear his nerves in his voice.

“Pretty much, not exactly sexy bu-”

“Oh i beg to differ” you freeze in your spot

“If you’re looking for a hookup, i don’t do that okay? i just want to go home” you don’t mean for it to come out as snappy as it does but you can see he’s not at all fazed by your random outburst.

“I’m not after a hookup, just company i guess. I don’t really wanna be alone again tonight and besides i like you” he what?

You can’t believe your ears, he likes you. But why? You’re a stripper, you just snapped at him and you’re probably not even his type.

“Yeah right. You don’t even know me” you laugh, continuing to walk with him

“No seriously, like i know we only met tonight but i think you’re great” you both come to a halt as you stand near a cab.

“Look, come back to my place? no funny business or whatever you want. I just want to get to know you better” it’s too tempting to pass up. You reluctantly agree, getting into the cab with him.

You soon arrive at his place, it’s a nice but small apartment and it suits him, very chilled decor. A double bed in the room with Egyptian cotton sheets. You sit down on the edge of the bed, removing your shoes.

“So, how did-” you cut him off

“No no, if you want to get to know me more, at least let me ask stuff too” he holds his hands up in surrender, signalling for you to go ahead.

“So, Steve. What do you do?” he tenses up a little at the question

“I can’t really answer that” but why not? “Okay then, what’s your last name?” he smirks “Rogers”

“Steve Rogers, i recognise that name. Wait, aren’t you Captain America?” everyone went on a hype a year ago, The Avengers was all anyone spoke about.

“Indeed” he joins you on the edge of the bed

“So i gave Captain America a lap dance earlier. Wow. Guess i can tick that off the old bucket list” you both break into laughter at your joke.

“How old are you?”

“I’m 21″ he seems shocked.

“I’d have guessed 25 but not because you look old. You don’t look ol-”

You can’t hold it any longer, he looks so good. You press your lips to his in a sudden kiss.

Once you pull away he sits there in a state of shock.

“You really don’t know a thing about women do you Rogers?” your little giggle comes out and he shakes his head in admission to your question. He seems so innocent. It’s obvious that he’s a virgin.

His body language screams it.

“I’m exhausted” you stand up from the bed “maybe i should go home, i know-”

“Stay, there’s enough room for the two of us in my bed and it’s a little late to be travelling home alone” he wasn’t wrong. He stands up too, taking a white shirt from his drawer, throwing it over to you.

“Wear this” you smile, walking into the bathroom to change and get ready for bed. You walk out to find him, in nothing but his boxers. He’s ripped, his body looks like it was sculpted by gods. You quickly look away and shuffle past him nervously, making your way to the bed.

He finishes up in the bathroom then steps out of his room to lock up.

You both get into bed and adjust the pillows to how you like them.

You lay there, facing each other talking for a while until you feel yourself getting sleepier.

--------------

The sunlight flashes through the blinds, instantly waking you up. You rub your eyes as you look at Steve next to you. He looks so peaceful. You quietly get out of bed and head into the living room to find your bag, you check your phone to see it’s 7:00am. You should probably go, you collect your things and shove your shorts on with his shirt too. It’s too comfortable to take off and you figure he won’t miss it.

You unlock the door and make your way out, hailing a cab to get you back home.

Steve reaches his hand to the other side of the bed, only to discover that you’re not there. He sits up, looking around the room.

He searches around the small apartment, you’re nowhere to be seen.

Great, you walked out.

--------------------

You arrive at work again, it’s your third week here now. You were really getting good with your moves and the money is flooding in.

It’s only a short one tonight, a dance on the stage and a couple of private dances. As you take your money from your stage slot and walk into the locker room, Jessica is waiting for you. You shove the money into your bag.

“There’s some dude out there asking for you” you turn to face her “wait what?”

“Yeah, tall blonde, very hot” It’s him again.

He’s made a couple of visits to the club since you walked out on him that morning, before he woke up.

Each time he comes in, he asks for you. You’ve gotten to know him a bit and you’re starting to like him but the thought of him settling for you when he could have a woman who was more together was horrible. You didn’t feel good enough for his attention.

“You again” you call out and his face lights up.

“Me again. Look can we talk?” you roll your eyes and lead him to the private dance room.

“You can’t keep coming here just to talk Steve. I gave you my number for that” he pulls you close to him, taking you by surprise.

“Let me take you out on a date” your eyes widen at his offer.

“Please” you wrap your arms around his neck loosely and his hands fall to your waist.

“Fine, you can take me out” he smiles down at you and you walk away from him.

“How about tomorrow?” you agree, winking at him before exiting.

----------------

It was time for your date with Steve, you decide on wearing a little black dress with some matching black heels. You strut up to him as he’s leaning on his motorcycle, greeting him with a hug, he presses a kiss to your cheek as he hands you the spare helmet. You get onto the bike, making sure to grip onto him real tight during the ride to the location.

The bike comes to a halt and he parks up at the side of the road. You look around, taking your helmet off to discover that you’re outside of a restaurant. Italian to be exact. He rests his hand on the small of your back and you both walk in. He’s wearing black pants, a white shirt and a jacket, smart-casual dress sense. Not too formal.

Once the waiter seats the two of you, you speak up.

“How come you wanted to take me out?” you rest your head in your hands, giving full eye contact.

“You’re attractive and funny and like i’ve stated plenty of times i just want to know more” he sure knows the lines.

“I like you but why do i get the impression that you struggle to believe that? That someone could actually want you”

“Because i’m not the girl worthy of being treated like this”

“Why not? Because you work at that club? You said yourself, it’s for school”

“You deserve a lot better than a girl like me okay” he shakes his head as your drinks arrive. You take one sip and look around. This place is fancy. Too fancy for you. You stand up from the table.

“I gotta go, this was a mistake” you storm out, he follows closely behind.

“Y/N WAIT” he runs over to you, you stay still as he stands in your way.

“Steve, i think you have the wrong girl here. I’m not your ty-” he crashes his lips to yours.

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip and you moan slightly making way for his tongue to enter your mouth.

“Stop with the ‘i’m not good enough’ routine. I’m a grown ass man and i can decide who i want to date”

You feel the tears brimming. You’ve never really felt worthy of love and now a guy who is quite literally perfect is telling you he wants to date you.

“I see this going somewhere but it can only go somewhere if you let it. If you truly don’t want to then i’ll leave you alone, i’ll stop bugging you but if you want to give it a shot then i’ll be thrilled”

You look up at him, his blue eyes meeting yours, making you melt. He’s so attractive and sweet.

A silence falls upon the two of you whilst he awaits your decision.

----------------------------

That was a couple months back. You still work at the club to help with school fees and supplies but you don’t work as often.

“Steve stop” you squeal as your boyfriend tickles you, leaving you with no option but to squeal and writhe around.

“Okay okay” he holds his hands up in surrender.

“How about this instead. Do you like this more huh?” he leans down, taking your sweet spot into his mouth, sucking and biting at it.

You let out a breathy moan, letting his hands roam your body.

“Those men might get a small part of you, but i get all of you” he peppers kisses down to your sex until his face is inches away from your clit. His mouth attacks you, sucking and licking your folds.

“As sweet as ever”

“Please Steve, just fuck me already” you whine and he chuckles, it vibrates on your clit.

“Of course my lady” he rests his tip at your entrance, soaking it in your arousal before pushing in slowly.

“Fuck, just like that” he flips you over so you’re straddling him.

“Ride me” he instructs, you do as you’re told.

The slow movements on his length have him turning into a moaning shambles. You know he won’t last long with you doing him like this. But you don’t care.

“Make yourself cum baby” you pick up the speed, bouncing up and down rapidly, chasing your high and pushing for him to reach his.

You’ve been teasing each other all day. You’d bend over on purpose in front of him, extracting a grunt from his mouth in the process. He’d adjust his size in his jeans in front of you, making sure you saw it every time.

“Cum on my dick baby girl, come on” his words send you over into your high. Your pussy pulsates at the feeling whilst you milk him for everything.

You feel him spill into you, filling you up just the way you like.

“I’ll never grow tired of that” his chest heaves

“Me neither”

“I love you Y/N” you stare down at him, happy tears brim in your eyes at his words.

“What?” you know what he said but you just want to hear it again.

“I’ll admit, you had me wrapped around your finger the second we locked eyes for the first time. It’s clear you’d spent so many years doubting yourself and not believing anyone when they slipped you even the smallest of compliments but i meant every one i gave you and i mean it now when i say i love you”

“Steve, i love you too”

#steverogers #steve rogers #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers smut #chris evans #chris evans smut #chris evans fluff #captainamerica #captain america #captain america civil war #captain america first avenger #captain america winter soldier #steve rogers x reader #request #smut #fluff

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suntrastar · 4 years ago

Text

abstract: chapter 1

chapter 2!!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word count: 7k (i am insane i know this!! you can also find this fic on ao3 !!)

Author’s note: hello! attempting to upload a fic on here for the first time ever! do i understand this website’s format. perhaps not. but am i going to try? perhaps yes! anyways hope you all like it :) likes and reblogs are very much appreciated!!! umm idk how this works if you wanna follow me you can?? do follows exist on tumblr dot com i think they do. hope they do. love you all. this is a long chapter buckle up (BUCKle up lmao i am not funny)!! enjoy ;o

“Hey, can you come look at this?”

You teach three classes a week- Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. The latter two are enjoyable in their own right, but Mondays are definitely your favorite. Instead of teaching kids, who are funny and creative but so messy, and so loud, you get to teach adults. People your own age or usually older, putting you in a position of authority, valuing your opinion, wanting you to come look at things.

It’s a delightful power trip.

You turn away from the window to see who’s speaking.

It’s Steve.

Of course it’s Steve, your star student, staring at you with a worn, weary intensity, wiping a paintbrush on a paper towel. He’s already pushed his sheet of paper across the table, bumpy with water and watercolor paint, cream-colored edges starting to curl. He leans away from it, reclining in a seat that’s adult-sized but dwarfed by his frame, looking so forlorn, like the paper just abandoned him, moved to the opposite side of the table by itself.

You stifle a laugh.

“Sure,” you say, and make your way over to his table.

Steve fidgets in his seat as you look at his painting. You try to keep your jaw in check.

It drops anyway.

As always, it’s beautiful. He’s painted a sky, swirling with purples and pinks, and careful clouds, flickering in and out between layers of paint, elegant and pale yellow-orange. And the sun- it’s off-center, and you’re sure it was unintentional, but that adds to the effect, because it’s hot red, and dazzling, and slowly seeping into the still-wet sky. Tendrils of red like real sunbeams, pushing through the clouds like a real sunset.

You don’t know why Steve even takes this class. Half the time, you feel like he should be the one teaching.

“It’s gorgeous,” you say eventually, once your words come back to you. “I love how you painted the sun- the red, oh my god. You’re seriously a natural.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, and you push the paper back towards him. He looks down at it, still tense, brow furrowed, and you almost laugh again, until he looks back up at you. “I wanted to know what you thought about it.”

Power trip.

“I love it,” you say, giving him a reassuring smile, which he hesitantly returns. You might be laying it on a little thick, but Steve still looks distressed, and you genuinely like the guy enough to try to help him.

When he walked in with his friend for the first class, you were floored. People like Steve don’t attend classes like this- classes like this are attended by regular people. Not people that walk like dancers, all grace and light steps, not people that are extraordinarily jacked, with jutting shoulders and rippling muscles, not people that have a weirdly authoritarian air around them, like a politician, but less shrewd.

Still, you welcomed them and made awkward small-talk and tried not to stare at their arms and hoped you came across as a somewhat decent person. It’s your first time teaching adults, you explained, and Steve gave you a smile so sincere and reassured you that you would do great, boosting your confidence to the point where you actually did.

Steve is lovely. He’s passionate about art and has a good eye, a better eye than you, really, and he always tries so hard with whatever he does, and he’s funny in a dorky way, and completely unaware of it. He always wears a baseball hat and tucks his shirts into his pants and called you ma’am once, and looked so surprised when you burst out laughing and told him to call you by your first name. With him, two classes have flown by, and now, during the third, he’s warmed up to you enough to talk to you like a friend.

The friend he brings with him, though?

A total douchebag.

The night to Steve’s day, the rain to his sunshine. It’s obvious that Steve brings him along as some sort of moral support, to make himself look less out of place, which is fine, except the guy always treats you like you’ve perpetually offended him.

And maybe you have, maybe one time you did something that’s worthy of his eternal dislike, but you wouldn’t know what it is, because he’s never brought it up, because he barely fucking talks.

You don’t think he’s a naturally quiet guy. He definitely looks like he has a lot to say, but no matter what, he only ever talks in single-syllable bursts, quiet enough that half the time you miss what he’s saying.

He doesn’t ignore you, either- he listens to everything you say and lets his judgement flicker over his face- which is way worse. A glare is a slight misstep, a shake of his head means that you’ve just said something that he finds stupid, a scowl is a catastrophe.

You don’t even know his name. He’s never introduced himself, and always writes his name in a shaky, illegible scrawl on the sign-in sheet, and by now you don’t care enough to look it up.

Still, you’re nice to him, polite. It’s okay if he doesn’t like you. You don’t need to be liked- being noticed is enough.

You shift away from Steve to his friend, sitting next to him at the table. He’s staring at you in a way that you can only describe as violent, and you flinch, and then plaster your smile back on.

“How’s it going?” You ask, expecting no response, stealing a glance at his paper. He’s painted the entire sheet a watered-down blue, and you want to congratulate him, for actually participating this time, but you don’t say anything. “The watercolors working out for you?”

Your heart goes out to the poor paintbrush in his hand. It’s barely been used, is steadily dripping water, and is being throttled in his gloved grip. He always wears one glove- it’s weird, but you’re not going to pry.

He catches you looking and a whole myriad of emotion plays over his face; irritation and shame, a creased brow and a scowl. You have the feeling that you’ve taken a massive overstep, even though you haven’t said anything else, even though you’re not looking at his hand anymore, just at him.

His hair hangs over his eyes, glossy and carelessly wavy, which you would find pretty, maybe, if he wasn’t looking at you the way he is. Like you’ve just done something terrible.

“Sure,” he says, and that’s it.

Even when you turn away, he’s glaring.

You hate it, so you pretend it’s not happening.

Steve gives you a sympathetic glance before you head back. You wave it off.

“Shonna,” you call, to the fiftysomething woman hunched over her painting a few tables down, “how’re the flowers looking?”

***

Thirty minutes before your fourth Monday class starts, you arrive at the studio to find Rina washing paintbrushes in the sink.

“Hey,” you call.

She turns to you and gives you a surprised grin. “Oh, hey! You’re here early- come help with these brushes.”

You set your bag on the counter by the wall and join her at the sink. You’ve known Rina for ages- ever since you were roommates in college. The class before yours is taught before, some advanced painting thing that she is extremely overqualified to teach.

She’s kind of famous. And kind of self-absorbed, and a little bit pretentious, but maybe that’s just what happens when you’re as successful in your field as she is. No matter what it is, you can’t complain- she’s the one that helped get you this job in the first place.

“A couple of people in my class like to get here early, so I just try to arrive before them,” you say. She passes you a clean paintbrush. You reach around her and tear off a paper towel from the dispenser. “Did you dye your hair? It looks so pretty.”

“Yes!” She shakes her head, letting her hair sway. Last time you met her, she had dyed it pink. Now it’s mahogany red, straight and sleek and falling just past her shoulders. She looks a little unreal. “How’s your class going? Are the people okay?”

“Yeah, most of them are pretty nice.”

She passes you another paintbrush to dry. You consider bringing up Steve’s friend, but decide against it.

“That’s good- and you’re welcome, by the way. But okay, listen. Do you remember that one guy I told you about a while back, Dustin? So yesterday I was just sitting at home, and then he texted me…”

With the formalities out of the way, she launches into a story about someone you definitely don’t remember. Still, you humor her, listen to what she has to say, chime in at the right parts and say “really?” and “no way!” too many times. The minutes tick by.

When all of the brushes are washed and dried, you take them, since you’re going to be the one using them next, and start setting up for the class. Rina walks away and grabs her stuff from the counter. She lingers by the doorway, door already propped open, aimlessly scrolling through something on her phone, hesitant to leave for a reason you don’t know. Maybe she has more to say- if that’s even, like, possible.

You set the brushes in a container at the center table, and head over to the shelves on the far wall to pull out more supplies. Unfortunately, today’s class is revolving around watercolor again. It’s drudgery, such a boring medium- dull, unsaturated, painstaking when it comes to detail. You bring out a stack of paper, the least-depressing palettes, and then mason jars for holding water.

You’re setting the last jar on the table when Rina shrieks.

It startles you, making your hand slip.

The jar wobbles over the edge of the table and then falls, shattering into cloudy glass pieces at your feet.

“Shit,” you curse, and look over at her. “Rina, what the hell?”

Standing across from her in the doorway, having arrived early for class as usual, are Steve and his friends, two shades more flustered than usual. Rina is gawking at them.

Okay, they’re attractive, but not that attractive.

Not shriek-worthy attractive.

You sigh loudly and carefully step over the glass, making your way over to them. “Hi, Steve,” you say, and he jolts, like a scared cat. He’s blushing, stepping back into the hallway, hands awkwardly dangling at his sides. His friend is staring at Rina like he’s about to murder her, and you’re staring at him like you’re about to ask him to pass you the broom behind the door.

Because you are.

“Sorry about… that. There’s a broom behind the door, could you pass it to me?”

He opens his mouth to say something, and you are desperate to hear him, even if he’s only going to utter a simple yes, but Rina buts in.

“You did not just ask the Winter Soldier to pass you a broom.”

Who?

“Girl, what?”

All three of you turn to her, cornering back into the wall. She looks even more unreal, eyes blown wide, red creeping up her neck, giving her hair a run for its money, still gawking. You resist the urge to reach out and pull her chin back up, to close her mouth.

She alternates between looking at Steve and at…

“That’s the Winter Soldier,” she says slowly, like she’s trying to convince herself, or you, and then steps closer to Steve, who instinctively takes a step back. He’s fully in the hallway, now. “And you’re Captain America.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. He stays silent, and you feel bad for him, that’s all you can feel, really- you are confused beyond reason, halfway convinced that Rina is losing her shit, still awaiting the broom, still awaiting Steve’s friend’s words, racking your brain for any image of Captain America or the Winter Soldier that you might have- and coming up completely empty.

You don’t watch the news, like, ever.

Little details float back to you. Steve’s dressing sense, his manners, his muscles…

The baseball caps that both of them are always wearing...

His friend’s glove…

Oh, fuck.

“Are you?” You ask dumbly. The question is meant for both of them, but you only look at one of them while speaking. A glare meets you back- a slight misstep.

You can’t even see your feet, in this situation. You’re walking blind.

Steve crosses his arms and looks at you sternly. He doesn’t look angry, but as close as he can get. “Yes,” he says, completely guarded and unfriendly and not lovely at all. “I thought you knew that.”

You are so stupid- how did you not know that?

“I didn’t,” you say, and you don’t sound convincing at all. Not much fazes you, but you are absolutely, positively fazed right now, and starting to spiral out. “I had no idea- I thought you guys could have been, like, bodyguards, or something, not actual Avengers, oh my god. I’m so sorry, shit, thank you for your service?”

You’re going to end it all- this is so embarrassing.

Steve’s mouth twitches. Rina is scarlet-faced. The Winter Soldier, god, looks so tense, like he might shatter, too, into silent, grumpy pieces all over the floor.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, and marginally relaxes. He stays in the hallway, the Winter Soldier by the door- you should have paid more attention in your tenth grade history class, what is the guy’s name?

Rina peels herself off the wall, and you start to get nervous. There’s a painful silence, with lots of staring, where you’re still trying to coax a few rational thoughts out of your brain, and only coming up with one- Rina needs to leave.

You try to tell her that with your eyes, with a pointed look, but you’re not great at this whole communication-through-expressions thing, so she doesn’t get the hint, or does and just ignores it.

“So, let me get this straight,” she says, tearing the silence like a plastic seal, voice starting to rise, from wonder to excitement, from painless curiosity to danger, “there’s two Avengers taking your class? And you didn’t even recognize them?”

“Nope,” you say, looking away, at a stain on the wall, at the distant glass shards still unswept away on the floor.

“That’s…”

She trails off before she has the chance to call you stupid, because the Winter Soldier gives her a pointed look of his own. Low brows and dark eyelashes, blazing blue eyes- she has no choice but to listen. Your staring was irritating, but his is intimidating.

She scampers away, mumbling something you can’t catch and brushing against Steve as she leaves.

This whole thing is so unprofessional, but at least you can breathe again-

“Here,” the Winter Soldier says, and a broom handle comes into your view.

Just one word, but you’ll take it with open arms. You take the broom from him, give an unreturned, unfamiliarly sheepish smile and head back to the broken glass on the floor.

The broken glass is swept up and tossed in the trash. You avoid looking at the doorway, focusing on other useless tasks instead. Rearranging the supplies on the table, fiddling with the window blinds, chatting with the rest of the class attendees as they start to file in.

Then the class starts and you’re swept back into your demonstration, talking and teaching and showing off different techniques that can be done with different types of brushes. You only look in their direction once, right after showing off some technique you barely remember from art school with a fan brush- they sit at their table near the back, Steve paying attention as usual, his friend silently reacting, as usual.

So they decided to stay- that’s good. Great, even.

Until the next part of the class starts, when everyone gets to work on their own paintings, when you have to stop talking.

You mill around the room, searching for a conversation to join in on or a comment to make, but find none. Then you take a sheet of paper and hopelessly try to draw- search for a distraction and a spark up of an idea, something, anything, and come up completely empty. It’s just...

How famous are they? Like, A-list celebrity famous? Are they offended that you didn’t recognize them- should you start treating them differently? You don’t keep up with this stuff. You have an impossibly long list of other things to worry about- you don’t have the time to worry about this stuff. The Avengers aren’t something you think about ever, because why should you?

If you opened any newspaper or magazine you would find something about them- a charity gala they attended, some recent threat they neutralized, the latest gossip surrounding their personal lives. But those lives are so far detached from your own that you’ve never bothered to look.

You simply don’t care. You’re not a native New Yorker- it’s not like these people are your hometown heroes, that you grew up idolizing them. They save the world time and time again and society is forever indebted to them and all of that, but what are you supposed to do about it?

And most importantly, what is the Winter Soldier’s fucking name?

Enough of this chaos goes on in your mind to make your head hurt. Fuck it, you decide- you’ll face it. You straighten your shoulders as you stand, trying your best to look purposeful as you walk to their table, like you have reason to go over there. Yeah, they’re strong. Genetically enhanced and all of that, and they’re important: they’re Avengers.

But they’re taking your class.

You slide into the chair across from the Soldier without taking the time to gauge their reactions.

“Do other people here know?” You ask.

Steve startles, eyes widening, and then considers the question while swirling his brush in green paint. He’s working on a landscape today, you think. “Shonna might,” he says, not rudely. “But nobody else.”

So maybe not that famous. Or maybe the people here are just like you and don’t care.

But it still doesn’t make sense. “Then why did you think that I knew?”

“Because you talk a lot,” Steve says, like it’s the most obvious thing ever.

“Well, yeah, that’s part of the job-”

Steve cuts you off, and fuck, you hate getting interrupted. But he’s smiling, and you can’t bring yourself to get upset over it. “You talk a lot to us.”

Us?

More like to him.

You take it in stride, don’t let your confidence slip. You’ve purposely angled your head away, and you know the Winter Soldier is staring at you- you can feel it on your cheek, on your shoulder, on every nerve in your face. You don’t look back at him. This revelation hasn’t made him any less unpleasant.

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s just as obvious, “because you’re a nice guy, Steve.”

Steve raises his eyebrows so high that they disappear under the brim of his hat. You smile at him as nicely as you can, sugar-sweet, until he can’t take anymore and drops his gaze back to his painting. You turn back to the nameless man across from you.

Winter Soldier.

“Hi,” you say, only to him, and prop your elbows up on the table, resting your face in your hands. “I love the little pattern you have going on with your painting.”

It’s random splotches of black paint- calling it a pattern is an exaggeration. But you carry on.

“This is probably a bad time to ask, and it’s kind of a dumb question, but, like, what’s your name?”

He just barely raises an eyebrow, allowing for a fraction of surprise, before schooling his expression back into his usual mix of anger and boredom, a casual glare and slight frown. For a moment, you wonder what he looks like when he’s happy.

“You don’t know his name?” Steve is in disbelief, and then he winces, and you think he’s been kicked under the table. Abruptly, you laugh.

It rings out. A few people turn and stare, but you brush it all off with another smile.

He’s still staring. You don’t mind it.

The paintbrush in his hand is suddenly unsteady.

“My name is Bucky,” he says, slowly and loudly enough for you to make out the sound of his voice, for the first time ever.

He is definitely bothered by you asking, his mouth drawn tight, and you can’t even take the time to appreciate how cutesy his name is compared to his demeanor, because oh hell. It’s going to be difficult to keep up this whole dislike thing, if his voice sounds like this, low and rough and gritty like sandpaper, pleasantly grating over you and your skin…

You have to consciously remind yourself to keep on smiling.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

Things should feel different, but they don’t. Nobody really reacts- everything resumes as normal. Steve focuses on his panting, adding delicate brushstrokes to the branches of a tree. You linger for a moment, and then get up from the table and flutter off to someone else.

For every class, you wear this kitschy apron, paint-stained, with strings tied in a hasty bow against your back that Bucky always aches to even out. Someone tells you something, and you respond eagerly, fully phased out of the past incident.

He stares until he realizes he’s staring, and then drops his eyes back down to his paper.

Steve wanted to attend this class for a number of reasons- he was bored and wanted something to occupy his time, he wanted to revisit an old hobby, he wanted to learn from you- some hip, emerging artist he’s a fan of, whose work he’s been following for a while now, who is seriously talented, although you have yet to prove it. He wanted to go do something separated from the events of his regular life.

So much wanting. Bucky wants to know why you’re so indifferent.

He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that you didn’t know his name, or that you didn’t flinch or gasp or accuse him of something, or pointedly look at his left arm. Should he be thankful? Steve is clearly thankful, already loosening up, freed of any lasting tension.

Bucky just feels wary. You’re unsettling.

You come back over to their table one more time. The sleeves of your shirt are pushed up, and there’s a smear of something dark on your forearm, ink or paint. On one wrist you’re wearing a bracelet made of braided leather. On the other you wear a bulky digital watch.

Practical.

“Everything okay?” You ask, as if something not okay could potentially have happened, in your forty-five minute absence.

Steve fixes you with a friendly smile. Bucky can’t ever bring himself to do the same.

“Yep,” Steve says, and you nod your head, clearly relieved.

“Great!” You glance at him for a spare second, and turn away again.

Everyone he knows is so guarded, walls built high and doors barred shut. Except for you, if Bucky can say that he knows you, the perky art instructor, Steve’s favorite artist. You’re confident and flippant, and that should be a bad pairing, but somehow you can carry yourself within it just fine. Always purposeful in the space you occupy, not reacting to the knowledge of his and Steve’s major, momentous identities.

Bucky wonders, idly, as he blots water over what you so generously called a pattern, why you didn’t.

It’s not like he wants you to acknowledge it, wants you to call him a war criminal or a Rusisan spy. He just wants you to-

He doesn’t know.

The class goes on. An older couple sitting a few tables away have caught your attention, chattering on and on about their personal lives.They have a pet cat that their landlord doesn’t know about, and when they retire they want to move to the seaside in Italy, and in May their son is going to graduate high school.

“High school?” You gasp, loud for no reason. “I hated high school.”

Before the class ends, you take your position at the front of the studio, and talk some more. He knows it’s part of your job, but you are excessive.

There’s an art exhibition going on at some museum, and one of the featured artists is an acquaintance of yours, and on Saturday the admission fee is discounted, and if anybody is interested, you have a stack of flyers on the center table. And you hope that everyone has a good week.

You look at Bucky while finishing up your little monologue, giving a half-smile that’s for the whole class, but seemingly only directed at him. He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes again, you’re looking somewhere else.

***

“Morning, pal, you ready to go?”

Steve gives him a hopeful smile as he peels an orange.

Bucky’s hair is still wet from his shower, dripping water onto his shirt. It’s early, too early to go anywhere. He doesn’t even know why he’s awake- usually after his wake-of-dawn runs, he falls back asleep, or lies down and just stares at his ceiling, thinking, until he grows restless enough to get up and do something. But today, the restlessness came much sooner, so he got up much sooner, and it might already be a mistake.

He takes a seat at the kitchen island, next to Sam, trying to think of something that Steve might have had planned for today, and coming up completely empty. “Go where?”

Steve looks hurt, for a brief second. “The exhibition at the museum, remember?”

Oh.

That.

“I’m not going to that,” Bucky says, harshly enough for it to be dropped.

Steve does not drop it. “Hey, come on. Just look at it.”

From his back pocket, Steve pulls out a flyer, one of the flyers you had out on Monday, folded up in a neat square- when did Steve pick one of those up? He holds it out, and Bucky, wishing he was asleep again, takes it.

He unfolds it, and the words are written in tiny letters, and the few photos on the paper are in color but too grainy to make out, and it gives him a slight headache, but he pretends to look it over. Sam leans into him to see it, loudly crunching cereal in Bucky’s ear.

“Looks cool, Rogers,” Sam says, and Steve grins, and now Bucky is the bad guy in the situation, for not wanting to go, even though Sam isn’t going either.

Bucky passes the flyer back without reading a single word.

“I’m not going,” he says, again.

But Steve is relentless. He sets the orange peels aside and gives him a look, and Bucky can already feel his resolve starting to crumble, and it’s kind of pathetic, really. Does he not understand that Bucky is already doing as much as he can?

“Why not?”

He picks the easiest answer.

“I don’t want to.”

Steve’s brow furrows as he splits the orange into two, giving half to Bucky. Sam slurps the milk from his cereal bowl.

They’re all blissfully silent.

“Come on, Bucky,” Steve says suddenly, almost begging. “I really want to see it.”

“I don’t-” He falters, he’s losing the battle. “How many people are there gonna be?”

Steve lights up. Bucky tries to stay indignant, tries to keep his face twisted in dislike, but it’s difficult with Steve. He’s always so full of optimism, has so much of it that it spills out through the seams, rubs off onto whoever’s closest.

“Not that many,” Steve says, like a promise, shaking his head. “That’s why we should go now.”

“Will she be there?”

Sam perks up.

Steve frowns. “No? Or wait, maybe. It’s a public place- I don’t know. She could be.”

It’s miles off from the answer he wants, but again, for Steve, he’ll take it. Bucky ignores Sam leaning across the counter like an idiot and asking “who’s she?” and eats his orange slices in silence.

***

Huge, bulbous heads, and beady little eyes. The limbs are long and wavy and contorted in the weirdest positions, seas of arms and legs and joints, women twisted over each other in gnarled embraces, a man with his arms twirling over and over again around his own torso. And the colors- a complete eclectic mess of everything- blue, red, yellow, green, purple. Everything.

You walk through the museum floor one, two, three times. The paintings on display are unsettling and ugly, and you’re on the verge of tears.

They’re gorgeous. Pain thrown on a canvas, told through canvas. It’s overwhelming- you’re overwhelmed, and you can’t do anything else about it. The museum just opened and there’s barely any people around- you can wallow in your sadness as much as you want to, for now.

Or maybe you’ll wallow in your frustration, instead.

This… you want to create like this.

But you don’t have it.

It being an impossible, nearly unattainable type of pain, or misery or anger or any other emotion so strong and visceral that you could translate it into something like this, something that evokes something else from other people. From an audience.

You might have had something like that once, but that’s all too far behind you now. Forgettable. What you need right now is an idea, a spark of inspiration, a single coherent thought. A confirmation that you aren’t completely lost.

You wander back to a painting in a far corner, all alone in a small alcove. A red woman, with her head nestled in green grass and legs wrapping around the sun, quite literally head over heels for it. Her mouth is wide open, gaping, calling, wailing, maybe. She has a hooked nose and a mole on one of her arms, and her white dress has fallen down to pool on the grass, and her legs are lithe and unshaven, prickly like the grass, just like the yellow spikes of the sun, drawn almost comically.

How do you even- how do you even come up with things like this?

By living an interesting life, probably. Through not being boring.

You stay there for a while. Long enough that more people start to file in, pretentious art students wearing all black, eccentric people with awesome haircuts, tourists. They peer over your shoulders, awkwardly, waiting for you to move. When you don’t, they leave you to be, giving you a rude look or two that you pay no mind to. There’s space on either side of you, if they’re so desperate to see. Sidling up right against you is kind of weird, but you’ll excuse it, for this painting.

Eventually, you realize that you should probably get going.

You’ve been standing so long that your legs are starting to ache, and there’s countless other Saturday errands you have to run- doing your laundry, buying groceries, calling up your mom- boring Saturday things to do.

You leave the red woman, regrettably. The fabric of your sleeve comes back dry when you wipe your eyes, even though you feel fully washed away, feel like you’re floating as you drift over to the elevator.

The doors slide open and a few people file out, and then it’s empty, thankfully. You step inside, press the button for the ground floor, wait for the doors to fully close-

“Wait,” a voice calls.

You’re not rude- you press the button to hold open the door.

When it fully opens, Steve steps inside, followed by Bucky.

You’re still out of it. You don’t even realize who they are, not until the doors have slid shut and the floor jolts as the elevator starts its descent and they’ve been staring at you for a solid five seconds.

“Oh, hi,” you say, after too much silence. You need to get yourself together. “You guys came!”

Put a little pep in your step! And more joy in your voice- nobody wants to listen to someone so drained.

Steve shrugs. “I wanted to see it.”

Bucky just smolders, clearly saying with his silence, “I didn’t.”

“Did you like it?”

Steve considers your question. The elevator stops at another floor and the doors slide open, but there’s nobody waiting to step inside. You wait for Steve to gather his words together, sure that he’s trying to come up with a nice way to voice whatever he’s thinking, which is definitely not nice. There’s no way that he liked the art, not one chance.

“It was… intriguing,” he says, at last. Neither of them are wearing hats today, because the museum doesn’t allow it. Even in this artificial light, his hair shines, golden-blond. “Did you like it?”

“Yes,” you say, without wasting a second. “The one of the red woman- it’s probably the best thing I’ve seen all year.”

“It’s only January,” Bucky grumbles.

His voice shocks you, sends an ice-cold jolt up your spine that you definitely dislike.

Steve turns to him, peering over your shoulder, surprised and disappointed. The two of them have a silent conversation with their eyes and you stand in the midst of it, waiting for the goosebumps to settle back down, waiting for the chill to go away.

It’s difficult- he clearly doesn’t like you, either- and even if he has his own troubling little backstory, which you don’t care enough about to google, it’s not justified.

But…

It almost makes his aggression... amusing.

“It is January,” you say politely, dismissing him. “Great observation.”

The elevator reaches the ground floor and the doors side open. You exit in step with Steve, with Bucky right on your heels.

You all stand around in the museum lobby, a wide hallway down from the giftshop and a small cafe.

“Are you headed out?” Steve asks. He puts his hands in his pockets, feet planted wide.

Bucky crosses his arms. He’s wearing all black. If it were anyone else, you would make a joke- he could almost pass off as a pretentious art student, if the outlines of his body weren’t so visible through his clothes, all taut muscle and sharp angles. His hair curls over his shoulders, prettier than anything you’ve seen on any girl.

These guys are Avengers, you think, and proceed to push the thought away.

They look so… un-Avenger-y.

“Um.” You press a hand against your forehead, trying to formulate a response. Chores suddenly seem miles away, the last thing you should be doing. You have all of Sunday to complete them, anyway.

“I was going to get something to eat from the cafe first,” you say, nodding over in its direction. “You guys wanna join me?”

You don't know why you look at Bucky when you say it

“Sure!” Steve says, all cheery, still standing alongside you. He smiles and his teeth are pearly white.

Of course his teeth are pearly white. Dentists everywhere are probably cowering, clutching their little metal instruments for dear life.

Then he hesitates, and turns to Bucky. “If you have nothing else to do, I mean.”

Bucky pauses. You and Steve both stare him down.

“They have these raspberry-almond muffins that are to die for,” you say, like it’ll convince him.

He rolls his eyes. Bored and still gorgeous- if only.

“I’m free,” he says, and you don’t know why he looks at you when he says it.

You pay the bored teenager working the cash register with cash. He gives you your change, and when he turns away to prepare your order, you shove half of the bills and all of your coins into the tip jar.

Bucky sits at the farthest table with Steve. His knees can barely fit underneath it, and the tabletop is sticky, and he’s now willingly spending more time here, and with no disguise there is no way that he isn’t going to be recognized by someone, and he doesn’t know why he hasn’t fully booked it yet.

Because…

He doesn’t know.

Maybe because you’re not asking for anything from him, aren’t minding that he’s sullen or unapproachable or anything else- his presence seems to be enough for you, which is bothersome, and at the same time, mildly exciting.

“Are you having fun?” Steve asks, while you smile at the teenager handing you plates of muffins, little glasses of some milky-espresso-coffee drink.

“What do you think?” Bucky asks, while you start your journey back to the table, and Steve opens his mouth to respond, already bothered, and Bucky’s already guilty, but then Steve hops up to help you carry everything back.

You sit down laughing. Steve is laughing, too. The corners of your eyes crease and he can see all of your teeth, and you look at him for a split second, and then turn away before he can get a read on your expression.

He sits in silence, while you and Steve trade jokes and stories and easy banter, talking about art and local politics and all types of things he can’t bring himself to care about, things that Steve is relishing in. You’re witty, apparently, or at least quick enough to get a few quick laughs out of Steve, and Bucky would never say it, he’s barely thinking it, but he appreciates you for it.

And the muffin isn’t quite to die for, but it’s okay.

During a lull in the conversation, you break your attention away from Steve and turn back to Bucky. You look concerned, almost, still smiling but without showing all of your teeth, leaning towards him like you’re about to tell him a secret.

“I never apologized for before,” you say, and Bucky immediately sits up on edge.

Even Steve goes wary, eyes narrowing.

You suddenly give a long, weary sigh, and press a hand against the back of your neck, like whatever you’re about to say is going to be so tedious. “For my friend flipping out when she saw you guys- she’s literally crazy, she’s always doing too much- but on her behalf, I’m sorry.”

The silence following afterwards is deafening.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, after a long moment, while you’re still looking at Bucky- your eyes make his skin itch, and he doesn’t say anything else. “She’s not the worst that we’ve gotten.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, great,” you say, and you slump back in your seat, looking away, back to your half-eaten muffin. You pick off an almond from the top and eat it. “Glad we got that out of the way. I just thought it would be weird if I didn’t say anything.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, so polite, even though you’ve done nothing to deserve his thanks. “Have you known her for a long time?”

“Yes, oh my god,” you say, and readjust yourself in your chair again, accidentally bumping your knee against Bucky’s, but not apologizing for it. He glances underneath the table, at your entire bare knee, visible through a rip in your jeans. “Rina- her name is Rina- was my college roommate for a while.”

“You went to college?” Steve asks.

“I have an art degree,” you say dryly, “which was… an okay decision, I guess. Sometimes I think I should have just dropped out and done, like, stand-up or something.”

You clearly don’t want to discuss it, leaving the last part as some sort of rhetorical joke. Steve takes the hint and nods, already closing the chapter, and you take a sip from your little glass, finally silent. The foam on the top of the drink sticks to your mouth until you lick it off. Bucky replies to it anyway.

“Why stand-up?”

You turn to him so fast that he almost misses you faltering, and give him a dazzling smile. He thinks of your bare knee under the table, and tries not to sweat. “Because I’m funny, Bucky.”

He doesn’t like how his name sounds when you say it. “Tell me a joke.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, and clasp your hands together. Steve is watching, rapt at attention. “Let me think real quick- oh, I have one. Which beverage has a black belt in karate?”

Bucky waits.

You wait, expecting something from him.

It’s Steve that has to say, “I don’t know, which beverage?”

“Fruit punch,” you say, exaggerating the last part, and Bucky just keeps on waiting.

Steve cracks a small smile.

“Let me tell you another,” you say. “What type of phone does a piece of fruit carry?”

Steve takes a few wild guesses. He’s enjoying this, and you are too, both of you feeding off of each other. “A phone-fruit. A fruit-phone. A frone?”

You shake your head. “A blackberry.”

Bucky doesn’t tell you that he has no idea what you’re talking about.

“Tough crowd,” you say, when he doesn’t react. “Don’t worry, I have more. Where do you go on red and stop on green?”

“Where?’ Steve asks, waiting, leaning forward in anticipation.

“When you’re eating a watermelon!”

It is not funny, it’s painfully unfunny, and maybe that’s why you and Steve burst out laughing. Bucky steals a glance at your watch, since he doesn’t wear one of his own. It’s nearing noon- how has so much time passed? Why is he still even here when he doesn’t even like you?

“Why are all of them about fruit?”

You look at him like his question is the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard. “What food is the best listener?”

Bucky just sits. All the foam in his little espresso thing has dissolved, having been left untouched. He doesn’t like the taste of coffee- too bitter, and caffeine doesn’t work on him, anyway. Maybe he should drink it, because you paid for it, and because you didn’t make a comment about old-fashioned manners or chivalry when Steve offered to at first, just shrugged and got in line.

He knows that you won’t care.

The drink sits on its own, glass beading with condensation.

“Corn is the best listener,” you say, without waiting for Steve to throw his questions or guesses at you, without waiting for Bucky to spit out another sentence. “Because it’s all ears.”

“That wasn’t funny,” he says, and glares at the spot beside your head.

You nod sympathetically, and he thinks again of the rips in your jeans. “I know. But it was about a vegetable.”

Oh.

You stare at him straight-faced, crossing your arms over your chest. Steve does the same, and then he realizes- the two of you are a bunch of kids, punks, juveniles- mocking his stature, pretending to be serious, somehow not offending him.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says. “You’re…”

He can’t even help it. He looks back at you and his face works on its own. He gives a single, dry chuckle, but he’s smiling, and dragging his hand over his face, scrubbing it off just as fast, but you still see it, and smile back and gently nudge his knee again underneath the table, and then turn back away again, and he’s still staring at your hair while you take big bite out of your to-die-for raspberry-almond muffin, already back in conversation with Steve.

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upamongthestarss · 5 years ago

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When Love Walked In//Bill Denbrough

a/n: please be kind! this is my first time publishing on tumblr, and i’m not the best writer 💘 oh, and warnings! very mild nsfw, brief mention of self harm (blink and you’ll miss it)

Y/n takes a drag and squirms under Richie’s glance, just knowing that he’s going to pick on her, as per usual.

“Hmmm…. Y/n, truth or dare?”

Figures. “Um, truth.” Better to be safe than sorry when it comes to Richie.

“What was the farthest you and Bill have ever gone?”

Her cheeks turn pink as she passes the joint to Bill, her boyfriend since the age of thirteen. “Well-”

“Was this really necessary, Trashmouth?” Ben interrupts. “I’d much rather not know about my sister’s sexual life, thank you.”

“Close your ears if you want to, Benny,” Y/n giggles while he fumes over the nickname. “Probably just hickeys and groping.”

“Really? You’ve been dating for three years and that’s it?” Stanley raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, St-Stan, y-y-you talk to m-me when you’ve lost your vir-virginity.”

“Come on, Big Bill, we all know you’ve been ready to have sex with her since sophomore year.”

Richie knows he messed up right away, especially as everyone stares at him accusingly- everyone but Y/n, who awkwardly looks around the room and sings under her breath like she didn’t hear.

“N-nice, R-R-Richie,” Bill whispers.

“Bill, I am so sorry.”

Y/n still feigns oblivion and scans the room. “Bev, truth or dare?”

“Dare,” she shrugs, continuing the game. Y/n tries to forget about what happened until it’s time to leave the clubhouse. Her ride, conveniently enough, is Bill.

He didn’t want to leave his car on the outskirts of the barrens, so instead he pedals Silver to the clubhouse and back, with Y/n squeezing the living daylights out of him. It’s a quiet ride back, save the strange, existential comments Bill occasionally makes and her singing Can’t Fight This Feeling on repeat. It’s not until he’s almost back to Y/n’s house that she gathers enough courage to say what she wants to.

Because, in all honesty, she’s been ready to have sex too, just way too shy to say so.

“So… when do your parents come back from their cruise?”

She asks it casually, as if to wonder what day their English test is. In fact, it’s so casual that Bill doesn’t even take the hint (although it may not help that he’s utterly stoned at the moment).

“T-Tuesday.”

“And are you doing anything Saturday night?”

He skids Silver to a stop on the pavement. “No…”

“So what time do you want me to come over?”

*********

Singing happily, Y/n twists the last strand of hair around her curling iron and lets it tumble over her shoulder. She’s struggled with self esteem issues in the past, but she personally thinks she looks beautiful right now. While she puts on her pineapple lip gloss, her brother comes into the bathroom to grab some ibuprofen.

“You look awfully nice to sleep over at Bev’s,” he comments.

She freezes. “Yup….”

“Is there a reason that you’re so dressed up?” he gestures to her lavender party dress.

“We’re, uh, going to see Pippin at the fancy theater,” she fibs smoothly, but her twin sees right through her and smirks.

“Oh, funny, I thought opening night was next week?”

Y/n glares. “Okay, fine, I’m sleeping over at Bill’s, okay? But you can’t tell mom, please?”

“I don’t know, Y/n, this is a pretty big secret to hide.”

“Come on, Ben, I keep all of your secrets!”

He gives a cough that sounds a lot like the beer in my room.

“Hey, that was your own fault for breaking my favourite tape.”

“It was an accident!��

“It wasn’t an accident when you took it without asking,” Y/n puts her hands on her hips.

Ben sighs, not wanting to lose this argument. “How about this- if I get our car for the weekend, I won’t tell mom.”

“But Benny, I need that car to get to Bill’s!”

“You just made things ten times worse for yourself by calling me that. Besides, I’ll drive you there. It’s the car or no deal.”

She knows right then and there that she is out of luck. Her brother cannot bluff for his own life, so she has no choice but to agree.

But she can’t stay annoyed for long because she’s beyond excited for what’s coming. Her knee bounces in anticipation the whole drive, and she even sings along to the radio (which isn’t anything new, except for she’s louder than usual).

When Ben pulls up to Bill’s driveway, Y/n kisses his cheek and hops out instantly. He has to shout for her to come back and grab her duffel bag.

“Be safe!” he tells her. ”Love you!”

“Ben, I LOVE you!” she waves her hand off as he drives into the distance.

Bill’s waiting for her in the doorway, wearing jeans, a flannel, and a smile.

“Hey, Y-Y/n.”

She runs into his open arms and takes in the faint smell of his cologne. She already has butterflies.

“Y-you w-want to order a p-p-pizza, or-?”

“I’m honestly not that hungry,” she admits. “Are you?”

He shakes his head truthfully.

“D-d-do you w-want to go up-upstairs?”

“Sure.”

Bill leads the way to his bedroom, though she’s been there several times. He can’t get her out of his head. Her angelic curls, her dress the color of lilacs. She’s more lovely than a flower. He can hear her singing sweetly as they climb to his room.

“Love walked right in and drove the shadows away. Love walked right in and brought my sunniest day.”

He remembers when she sang that song at her recital last year. It was a true song for both of them.

When Y/n first moved to Derry, people made fun of her brother for his weight and herself for her nose and quirky personality. Her self esteem plunged and she refused to talk to anyone about it. Friendless and hopeless, she would cross-hatch her forearms and eventually stop singing altogether. But then her brother met the Losers, and encouraged Y/n to hang out with them some time. She instantly bonded with Bill, who had low self esteem because of his stutter and mainly because he blamed himself for the death of his brother. With the Losers, Y/n began to feel like she belonged again. She had friends that loved her for who she is- personality and nose included. Bill and her developed crushes on each other and in early August, following the Losers’ brief separation. One night during that time period, they spilled all of their issues on each other. The night ended with an innocent peck under the stars in his backyard. Love walked in and saved them both. After Pennywise was defeated, the two encouraged each other to see a therapist. Slowly but surely, they got healthy, and Y/n started singing again. In fact, she never stops singing now. It drives Ben quite mad sometimes.

She sings better than anyone he knows, and anytime she lets that sweet voice go, he melts.

“I m-made a tape. F-f-for… you know. But I’d m-m-much rather y-y-you sing for us.”

She giggles softly at the thought of her singing while he moans. “A tape sounds wonderful.”

He pops it in his stereo and listens to her gasp in excitement.

“I love Unchained Melody!!”

“Y-y-you don’t know h-how long it t-t-took for this s-song to c-come on the radio. I had to r-r-request it ev-eventually.”

“That’s so thoughtful, Bill.”

Y/n cups his face and gives him an open mouthed kiss. He’s instantly hard.

“I’m ready, Bill,” she whispers.

“Muh-muh-me t-t-too.”

His stutter is evidently worse; he’s nervous out of his mind, after all. But he takes control of the situation, scooping Y/n up and placing her on his bed like she’s the most fragile diamond.

She reaches and grabs Bill by his collar, pulling his lips to hers. Underneath their gasping and the music are their uncontrollable heartbeats. It’s almost as if they’re going to beat straight out of their chests!

Bill pulls away to unbutton his shirt, but Y/n is already on it. When it’s completely open, she pulls it off of his shoulders and squeezes his muscles. He’s so toned from all of the sports he does (mainly baseball), but Y/n always finds herself surprised at how muscular he really is.

He glides his hand gently along her chest, as if she’s his piano, before grabbing her spaghetti straps. He slips them down her arms and ever so slowly pulls the dress down her body. Her chest is braless, and by now he’s practically creamed his pants. His mind is hazy, though he’s completely sober.

Okay, Bill. Think, you idiot. You need to stimulate her now so she can finish later.

He places his warm hands on Y/n’s frigid stomach and feels her tense up.

“Is-is-is this o-o-o-okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just ticklish,” she laughs.

He takes his hand down to her panties and shoves it under them.

Y/n is already in heaven.

******

The pizza man gets quite a shock when Bill opens the door in nothing but his boxers, but he doesn’t give a flying shit. Besides, better him than Y/n, who’s wearing a just flannel with her ass hanging out.

They chuckle about his reaction, devouring the pizza and watching Beverly Hills 90210.

“I never thanked you, you know,” Y/n pipes up during a commercial break.

“For the p-pizza? It was o-only five b-b-bucks.”

“Not for the pizza. For the sex,” she responds bluntly. “That was… incredible. Thank you.”

Bill turns red. “Th-thank you. You w-w-were p-perfect. You a-a-are perfect.”

“I think you’re pretty perfect too,” she grins, giving him a kiss.

Bill smiles at her. He’s never loved someone like this before, spiritually or physically. Sure, he’s jacked off several times (like every other guy in the world), but the pleasure and adoration he received from Y/n just in the past hour was insurmountable. And he can’t wait for the rest of his life with her.

“R-round two?”

Y/n beams, and before she can stop herself, she says the quirkiest thing ever.

“Abso-freaking-lutely.”

#bill denbrough #bill denbrough x reader #bill denbrough smut #stephen king it #the losers club #soft smut #some fluff

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dapperappleton · 5 years ago

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I’ll Be Seeing You Part 2

A/N: I know this is a Moriarty x reader series and he wasn’t really in this one or part 1, he’ll be in the next part, I promise. I am so sorry for taking so long to write this, I just sorta forgot.

Part 1

Pairing: Implied!Moriarty x reader, platonic!Sherlock x reader, platonic!John x reader, platonic!Mary x reader, Mary x John

Word count: 1,487

Summary: Sherlock’s back

Warnings: Mild violence (John attacking Sherlock), like one swear word

“John’s got on with his life.” Mycroft looked ever so slightly smug that he got to tell Sherlock this. “Y/N’s about the only one who hasn’t entirely moved on.”

“Why wouldn’t they have moved on? They knew I wasn’t dead didn’t they?”

“Well, brother mine, they are still upset. I will not tell you why, you must find that out for yourself.”

“What does that mean Mycroft?” Sherlock spat, he always hated when Mycroft spoke in riddles. “Why are they upset?”

“Goodbye, blood.”

***

Sherlock walked into the busy restaurant. He looked around, and without even looking at the man, told the host that his wife’s contractions may have started. He kept walking before “accidentally” spilling someone’s wine glass in order to take their bow tie. He grabbed a menu and some glasses off another table and eyeliner from a lady’s purse.

“May I help you sir?” Sherlock’s French accent was bad, but apparently just good enough to fool John.

“Hi, I’m looking for a bottle of champagne.” John didn’t look up like Sherlock wanted. “A good one.”

John continued to not look up even when Sherlock kept trying to hint at things, calling a particular champagne “a face from the past”. Sherlock didn’t know what to do, so he just kept talking about it. It didn’t work and he decided to just go off anyways.

John sat at the table and looked at the ring for Mary. She came back, looking stunning as always. John was nervous, that much was clear, but he was confident that he was going to pop Mary the big question. He started talking about how important meeting Mary was to him and how much he loved her.

He was just words away from actually asking Mary to marry him when Sherlock rushed back with a bottle of wine. It was impeccably awful timing, exactly Sherlock’s expertise. Sherlock really didn’t know when to stop. He kept talking in that weird French accent and kept hinting about “the face of an old friend” and other things that any person wouldn’t think twice about, particularly if you were trying to ask such an important question as John was. Mary actually found it funny.

“No, look, seriously. Could you just...” John finally looked up at Sherlock.

“Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters.” Sherlock had messed up, but he couldn’t even see it.

You could see so much in John’s eyes. So much emotion.

“Well, short version, not dead.”

Sherlock had messed up, so badly. John was losing his cool, and Mary, bless her, was trying desperately to help him. John was breathing heavily, fist grinding into the table. He had to whisper in order to not shout. John tackled Sherlock to the ground, choking him in the middle of the restaurant.

They left to go to a deli to talk, and Mary asked Y/N to come, knowing they would keep both John and Sherlock (mostly) in check. The four of them sat at a table, John still angry as ever.

“I don’t care how you did it, Sherlock, I want to know why.”

“Why? Because Moriarty had to stopped.” Sherlock took in the look on John’s face. “Oh. Why as in... I see, yes, why. That’s a little more difficult to explain. Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft’s plan.”

“Oh, so it was mostly your brother’s plan?” John asked sarcastically.

Mary piped up, “oh, what, he would have needed a confidant... sorry.”

John looked up at Sherlock again. “But he was the only one? The only one that knew?”

Y/N tensed up before Sherlock listed off the people that knew. Molly, Y/N, and twenty five people from his Holmes’s network. John didn’t even register that Y/N was mentioned before again tackling Sherlock. New deli, same conversation.

“Wait, Y/N, you were in on this?” John finally turned to them, fire still burning in his eyes, but much less because it was Y/N. “That whole time, you knew? Well, then. I suppose I always guessed that you were hiding half your pain because you were hurt twice as much as us, but you were really only upset over Moriarty?”

“Yes, and I am sorry John. I would have told you, or given you some sort of hint, but they wou—“

“I’m sorry, hold on a second.” Sherlock looked very confused. “You were upset over Moriarty dying, but not me?”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry about that too, but you weren’t here when I told everyone. That is not my fault. I, well, how do I say this without you getting mad at me since you’re the only one who doesn’t know? I was dating Jim Moriarty, starting about four months before that pool thing happened.”

Sherlock looked very confused. He wasn’t used to not noticing things like that, particularly when it had to do with important people like Y/N and Moriarty. He had never even suspected Y/N was dating anyone, let alone a psychopathic murderer. He was brought back to reality by John’s screaming. John was still very angry and an angry John is not good. Of course Sherlock had to go and say some bloody stupid thing about John actually missing cases with Sherlock. They got kicked out for the third time that night when John smashes his head against Sherlock’s face. He did deserve it though.

“I still don’t understand.” Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, head tilted back. “I said I’m sorry, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

“Gosh, you don’t anything about human nature, do you?” Mary was looking up at him, she seemed very interested in him and his odd personality.

“Nature, no. Human? No.”

Mary laughed. “I’ll talk him ‘round.”

“You will?”

“Oh yeah.”

They looked up as John called to Molly, a cab waiting in front of him. Y/N hugged him before walking back to Mary and hugging her goodbye as well. They stepped beside Sherlock, both of them looking straight ahead.

“Why is he so mad?” Sherlock’s face scrunched up. “And what did you even see in Moriarty?”

“Well, John’s mad because if your best friend jumps off a building and you accept their death, if they show up two years later after not giving them a sign, of course they’re going to be mad.

“As for Jim, well, he was smart, fun, chivalrous, and surprisingly caring. He really did love me, by the way. I wasn’t a pawn like your brother thinks. He’s an utter ass sometimes, by the way.”

Sherlock scoffed before starting to walk. He muttered a “come along” to you without stopping to wait. Y/N took large steps to meet him.

“You like being back, don’t you?” Y/N looked up at Sherlock. “I mean, you don’t really understand that people change, but you do enjoy being back and around everything you knew?”

“Yes, I do enjoy it, but you can’t tell anyone else. And I don’t understand why everyone’s saying John’s changed. He can’t have changed, he can’t have moved on because I was gone. It’s just... no.”

Y/N hummed in recognition. They understood that Sherlock’s autism made change like that hard to comprehend and accept. But he would adjust eventually.

“I’m glad you’re back. Really. I knew you weren’t dead, but it was still hard without you.”

Both of them kept staring ahead. The two of them walked in silence until they reached 221B Baker Street. Sherlock opened the door and let Y/N in first, using what little manners he had.

Y/N had been to the flat a few times in the last two years, but it felt good to be back with Sherlock. They walked up the stairs and into Sherlock’s dusty, but still exactly the same, flat. The smell of old books and stale air greeted them. It honestly looked like a mood board from Tumblr, Y/N noted mentally. It felt like home.

However, being back there, seeing Sherlock again. It brought back memories of Jim. Good ones, bad ones, memories that didn’t even have any relevance or emotion attached to them. It still hurt Y/N, knowing that he was gone.

“I miss him, Sherlock. I really do.” Y/N looked down.

Sherlock tilted his head and scrunched his eyebrows together. Were they talking about Moriarty? He straightened his head and his eyebrows lifted again. He didn’t really understand emotions, but he did understand what it was like to miss someone.

“I know, Y/N, I know.” He pulled Y/N into him and rested his head on theirs, a display of affection that he saved only for Y/N.

They stayed like that for some time, Y/N sniffling every once and awhile. Sherlock placed a kiss on the top of their head and pulled them even closer to him. He didn’t understand why Y/N liked Moriarty, but he’d be sure to make sure that Y/N was alright regardless.

***

Moriarty stood across the street as Sherlock and Y/N walked into the flat.

“I’ll be seeing you.”

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tetrakys · 5 years ago

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Forbidden - Act 1 and 2

So you guys might have seen one of my previous posts where I said I was going to play this game this weekend, and I did. I have been waiting for it for a while because I love @saku-chann‘s art and I’d seen a few posts on the official tumblr page @forbiddenvn so I was super excited and, I have to say, it didn’t disappoint. The game is not perfect, there are a few problems here and there, but I think this is essentially a demo so the authors can easily make improvements, and there are also lots of very good things. But let’s talk about everything in order, starting with the main plot.

The plot

Forbidden is a romance mystery visual novel, the premise is simple: MC’s parents are rich, very rich, but too caught up in their own problems to deal with their rebelling daughter, so they send her to what is essentially a reformatory disguised as a fancy all-girls college. There we meet three charming teachers, the geek nephew of the director and a few classmates secondary characters. MC is also in contact with her childhood friend who didn’t show up yet but he should be another LI, I am curious about how the story is going to evolve to include him as he is a guy and he is back home (MC is Irish but I think the setting is England). The first two acts serve as an introduction to setting and characters, it’s very much dialogue heavy with little plot except for the last scene in act 2 which was a real shock and sets the tone of the whole game.

Cons

Now, you know I’m always very balanced with my reviews, giving pros and cons. This time I’m going to talk first about what I think doesn’t work because I have lots of trust in this project and I don’t want to focus too much on the negatives. I think the main problems are essentially three:

1. First of all, the game needs a beta, more than one actually, and they have to be english mother tongue. There are typos and grammar mistakes in almost every line and it’s a real shame because it takes away from fully diving into the story. I know that the two authors are french (I think) so it’s really amazing that they made a game in english and I congratulate them for that, they just need help, a few pairs of fresh eyes. I know very well that when you read and look at something a thousand times at some point you stop seeing any mistakes. And not only in the writing, there are some issues and small bugs here and there, like some scenes being cut abruptly at the beginning, some characters called with the wrong name, the wrong answers to some dialogues etc (if the authors want to contact me in private I can point to whatever I remember, it’s not the goal of this review to make a list.)

2. The second point, and this is probably very personal, is that I don’t like much the secondary characters because I find them very stereotyped. Basically the chubby girl only talks about food, drinks and lazying around

and also there is the usual clique of mean girls. I hate games that put women against each other, especially when there is no particular reason. In this case more than ever, these girls had basically said nothing yet and MC reacted in a pretty spiteful way.

(I don’t trust women? Seriously??)

Granted, I do like that we have a strong-minded MC that doesn’t let anyone mistreat her, but she acted as the mean girl first. The one character I liked was Claire

hehe funny... but well...

I hope the game will give these characters more depth as the story moves forward and we won’t have too many cat-fights.

3. The final point, and probably the main one, is that I don’t buy the premise. MC is sent to this jail/school to complete her thesis, she is 23 and has to go along with whatever her parents want because she financially depends on them. I have to say, this doesn’t work with a 23 years old MC. I understand that she grew up rich and is not used to provide for herself, but the MC has to also represent the player a bit, this is too far fetched to believe. Also, everything in the setting looks like a high school, from the fact that MC has to study different subjects that have nothing to do with her thesis, the students having to wear a uniform, the all-girls boarding school environment... also the duration of the studies doesn’t make sense, in UK university lasts 3 years, then students can do a one year master. By the time they are 23 they are done unless they have lost one or more years, which I don’t think it’s MC’s case. My impression is that the game was aiming for a rich boarding high school atmosphere but that, since the romance part of the game involves teachers, the authors decided to make it the less controversial they could and upped MC’s age as much as possible. I understand that having a minor MC romancing a teacher could have been problematic for them, but to make the story work it would be enough to say that this is MC’s last year of college, she is 20-21, it would also explain her having to get some credits in other subjects and it’s enough to believe her acting out like a rebellious teenager.

So, these are my cons, as you can see they are all very easy to solve if they wish so, I think it would be great if they did because they would make the game perfect as the pros really really good.

Pros

1. Let’s start with the easiest: the art. This is in fact the reason I was interested in the game in the first place. I love the art style and how expressive all the characters are, how everything is very detailed and the backgrounds are soooo beautiful too.

And the CGs! I’m only going to post a couple without context just to illustrate how beautiful they are

2. The setting. I said that I don’t believe in the premise in relation to MC’s age and if this has to pass as a university, but other than that the setting is really intriguing, I’m a sucker for boarding-school based stories, especially when there is more than meets the eyes

Also the school has a sort of house-system, I didn’t fully understand how it works but I think that it is based on the year of study, MC is a stag which is the last one.

3. I really liked that we could chose the subject of our thesis among history, literature and math. Usually in these games the MC always studies art because this is what the creators know and it’s smart to stick to your guns, but I really appreciated so much that math was a choice and I didn’t have to suffer through the usual stereotype of “math is hard, I hate math, it’s just numbers blah blah blah”, this is personal but it made me very happy.

(Honestly a good chunk of my excitement is now working on our thesis 🤭)

4. The romance. So... I came into this game completely blind, I knew nothing about the plot except for one thing: we are going to romance sexy teachers 👀 I had seen the guys’ sprites and, while all three are good-looking

there was only one guy who had immediately got my attention, the one in the middle. How lucky it is that it turns out he is Mr Alexander Holmes the math teacher?? And how lucky it is that it turns out he is the cold asshole of the group? (i.e. my type?)

Do I hear wedding bells already?

(talking to the class)

Be still my beating heart! 😻

(and you know babe I would take you more seriously if it weren’t for the fact that the math you wrote on the blackboard is complete nonsense, thankfully you’re pretty and brooding)

The other guys are nice and apparently sweet but they haven’t seduced me yet. Only the geek a bit because I have a weakness for geeks

(look at that background! saku you have so much talent!)

5. I find the writing style quite intriguing. MC describes everything first person present tense, but then at some point there are some philosophical monologues from MC from the future narrating in the past tense. While this could be unnerving, I think it adds to the mysterious and intriguing atmosphere of the game. (My only suggestion is to use a different font when these come up to make the reading easier.)

6. The mystery. This is probably the most important factor, this isn’t just a romantic visual novel, it’s a murder mystery! And they hint at something supernatural going on because a girl was killed a while ago and they say her spirit is still around. But this isn’t the only crime, apparently there is someone going around killing people and I’m all in for this, love me a good murder mystery.

So, this is it from me, let me know if you end up playing, you’ll find the link to download the game on the official tumblr @forbiddenvn (it’s itch.io so it’s free and you can pay only if you want, whatever you want). I really hope there’s going to be more soon, but I can see it may take some time, it’s clear that a humongous amount of work went into this demo for just two people, but I’m looking forward to see what comes next!

#forbiddenvn #forbidden #forbidden game

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isolavirtuosa · 4 years ago

Text

All the Details

[fanfiction] Dean/Castiel

Sam wants his brother to find peace.

Read below on tumblr or read on AO3.

All the Details

Isola Virtuosa

- 1-

I usually stopped by Dean’s in the morning after my run.

“Hey, Sammy,” he said, holding the door open for me before I had even reached the porch.

“Hey,” I said, sweeping my sweaty hair from my eyes and pulling the earbuds from my ears.

Dean didn’t say anything else, moving abruptly towards the kitchen.

I followed him, feeling my eyebrows draw together. He hadn’t made a comment about the pointlessness of my hobbies, the terribleness of my music, or the ridiculous longness of my hair. “What’s up?” I asked, pulling out a chair and taking a seat at the table.

“Nothing,” he said sharply, hands fumbling with the mugs he’d pulled down from the cupboard.

“Uh, okay,” I scoffed at him.

He glared at me before moving over to the coffee pot and picking it up more angrily than seemed necessary. He clanked the mugs on the counter loudly before he filled them.

This was certainly a Dean I hadn’t seen in a long time. Not since we’d… come here. I wondered what could possibly have gotten him this riled up.

“Here,” he grumbled at me, pushing one of the mugs across the table.

“Thanks,” I said. I picked up the mug and took a sip, and I waited.

Dean was still standing, shifting from one foot to the other, with his coffee just sitting between his hands, forgotten. “So…” he said gruffly.

“So,” I agreed.

“I need to talk to you about something,” he finally said, eyes not meeting mine.

I sipped my coffee, trying to give him my best ‘I’m listening’ face without saying anything. I didn’t want to spook him, now that it was starting to click into place. He wasn’t angry, he was nervous, and there was only one thing I could think of that could be making him nervous.

“Cass and me…” he started to say, then immediately stopped, turning his back on me to look out the kitchen window over the sink.

I could feel myself grinning, but I hid it behind my coffee and kept my mouth shut.

Dean’s shoulders tensed like he was getting ready for a fight.

It made me a little sad that my brother still couldn’t find his peace, but I had the feeling maybe he was about to take a baby step.

“We’re together,” he ground out.

I wanted to make so very many comments. ‘So when you say together...’ ‘Finally.’ ‘Kinda already knew that, dude.’

The tension didn’t leave Dean’s shoulders.

“That’s really great,” I said instead.

He whirled around, annoyed. “Really great?” he repeated irritably.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my expression as non-offensive as possible. “You two are good for each other.”

Dean’s expression was still bordering on hateful, but there was something almost hopeful in his eyes. “You get what I’m saying, right?” he asked, his voice tight.

“Yeah,” I said, meeting his gaze evenly. “You and Cass are together. Romantically.”

His nose scrunched up at that.

“As a couple,” I tried.

His eyes searched mine.

“I’m really glad,” I told him, giving him a reassuring nod.

He nodded back, looking away again. He finally remembered the coffee in his hands and took a slow sip.

“This coffee is terrible,” I informed him, putting my mug down.

“Is it?” he asked, blinking slowly. Then something seemed to click in his mind. “Oh, shit, I only put half the beans in.”

I snorted at that. “Good job, dude.”

“Fuck you, make your own damn coffee,” he grumbled.

The tension finally left the room, only to re-enter in the form of a trench coated angel.

“Oh, um, hello, Sam,” he said, looking confused. “I was… well, I just arrived here at Dean’s home… as you must have as well… to… visit Dean…”

“I told him,” Dean muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Told him what?” Cass asked, his head tilting to the side.

“That we’re together,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

Cass’s head tilted to the side. “Well, I mean, of course we are all together in your kitchen-”

“I told him,” he repeated, giving Cass a significant look.

Cass blinked slowly. “You mean you told him that we kissed?”

Dean looked like he was going to have a heart attack. “We don’t need to go into all the details!”

“It’s not really all the details if it’s the only detail,” Cass said with a shrug. “I mean, nothing else about our… ‘togetherness’ has changed.”

“Sam doesn’t want to hear about all that.”

“Actually,” I said.

Dean spun around to stare me down, trying to murder me with his eyes.

Cass just looked happy. “Dean is very good at the kissing,” he said, pleased.

“That’s great, Cass,” I said.

“It really is,” he agreed.

“Well, I’ll just go shoot myself in the face now,” Dean muttered, putting his mug in the sink and moving to leave the kitchen.

“Dean,” I protested, hoping I hadn’t taken the teasing too far.

He ignored me, but stopped short when Cass put a hand to his chest.

“Self-harm is not funny,” Cass said sternly.

Dean rolled his eyes, but there was a strange flicker of contriteness to his expression.

“I treasure your face, as I do every other part of you,” he informed Dean, touching his cheek briefly. “I apologize if I overshared, but Sam is the first person I have been able to express my newfound joy to.”

“You are so weird,” Dean muttered. His cheeks were flushed red, and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“And you are beautiful,” Cass said, taking his hand away. “I have to get to work. I will see you later,” he said, giving Dean a long look before turning to me. “Sam, it was good to see you.”

“Later, Cass,” I said, waving to him even as he vanished with a whoosh.

Dean looked like he was going to spontaneously combust.

“I could use some more shitty coffee,” I said, holding up my empty cup towards him.

He scoffed at that, taking my cup hurriedly and turning his back on me while he poured.

I wanted to tease him. The words were just sitting there, wasting away without getting any use, and it would be so easy to just open my mouth and let them out.

But Dean wasn’t ready for that. So I took mercy on him and drank more of his terrible coffee.

One step at a time.

- 2 -

Mom and I were going up the porch steps to Dean’s when the door suddenly flew open.

Dean paused when he saw us, mumbled something about going out, then stomped on by us.

Cass held open the door, giving us both an apologetic look.

“What crawled up his ass?” I asked, looking over my shoulder to where Dean was stalking off towards his car.

“He’s angry that I satisfy him sexually,” Cass explained.

My head whipped back around to gawk at the annoyed-looking angel in front of me.

Cass was looking at Dean, who had stopped short and was now stalking back over to us.

I turned to Mom, relieved to find that she looked just as mortified and mystified as I did.

“Cass, can we have word?” Dean growled, pushing Cass back inside and closing the porch door. His voice was slightly muffled by the shut door, but we could still hear him clear enough when he said, “you do not talk to other people about our private business.”

“I was just answering Sam’s question,” Castiel said, giving an innocent shrug.

“Okay, but you don’t have to answer it so damn specifically,” Dean ground out.

“How should I answer it then?” Cass asked, genuinely confused.

“I don’t know, Cass, vaguely? Appropriately? In a way that doesn’t involve talking about our very private se-… stuff.”

“Do they really think we can’t hear them?” Mom whispered to me.

I just shook my head, unable to look away from the car crash playing out through the glass pane of the door.

“I’m sorry, Dean, did you want to make me a list of to whom I can speak to about what topics?”

“Yeah, okay, let’s start with, ‘don’t talk to family about our sex life!’”

“Um, then who do I talk to about it?”

“Me, Cass. You talk to me about it.”

“But you are family, so…”

“Cass.”

“And you also refuse to talk about it, so…”

“Maybe we should come back later,” Mom suggested.

I looked to her, giving her a quick nod, and we both started slowly backing away from the door.

Dean and Cass both clocked our movement and turned to look at us.

Mom and I pasted on smiles and waved awkwardly.

Cass seemed to accept that as normal enough, waving back, while Dean looked mortified and turned away.

“Do you think Dean will ever… find peace with himself?” Mom asked as we moved down the wooded path. Her brow was creased in worry, an expression I hadn’t seen from her in a while.

“Yeah, I do,” I said, relieved to see her expression lighten at my words. “He’ll figure it out.”

She nodded, briefly reaching out to squeeze my hand.

I tucked my arm around her shoulder as we hiked the rest of the way back to her place.

- 3 -

My dad, my brother, and my son were buried up to their elbows in car grease. I’d tried holding a wrench and pretending to be useful for a while, but I found I got more enjoyment out of sitting next to Bobby, drinking beer and just watching them.

“Your kid certainly got the gene,” Bobby said, amused.

“Nature over nurture, ’cause I sure didn’t teach him any of that,” I said, shaking my head.

It was surreal to watch three generations of Winchesters, working and joking around together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was not the most natural thing in the world. Dean and Dad still had a lot of things to work out, and it was always uncomfortable to watch them fall back into their old pattern of dutiful son and dominant father.

But this moment right here, this moment felt right. It felt good.

My brother threw his head back, laughing at something that my son had said, and even Dad was grinning, and it felt like some kind of circle had been completed.

“Hello Sam, Bobby.”

“Hey, Cass,” I said, shooting a glance at the angel who had just appeared beside me. “Heaven give you a day off?”

“Yes,” he said. “I wanted to spend that time near Dean.”

“Listen to Casanova over here,” Bobby mumbled, rolling his eyes. “Have a drink,” he said, holding a beer out to Cass.

“Have you been reciting passages from Histoire de ma vie?” Cass asked, taking the beer and looking confused.

“From the what now?” Bobby asked, shaking his head.

“Don’t mind him, Cass, he’s just miffed because Karen complained that he doesn’t look at her like you look at Dean,” I said, patting the chair next to me.

Cass took the seat, looking perplexed but pleased. “She thinks it’s a good thing? Because Dean tells me that the way I look at him is creepy and that I should stop, but then his adrenaline releases and his dilated blood vessels rush blood to his face, so then I’m not quite so sure that he means what he says.”

“If Dean is talking about his feelings, you can pretty much assume that he means the opposite of what he says,” I pointed out.

“Very true,” Cass agreed. “What are you reading, Sam?”

“Hm?” I said, picking up the forgotten book from my lap. “Hebrew Melodies.”

“Ah, Lord Byron,” he said, nodding his head. “His portrayal of my brothers and sisters in his works has always intrigued me.”

So Cass and I started discussing the Romantic poetry movement, which soon found Bobby excusing himself to ‘show the idjits how to repair a goddamn engine properly’.

At some point Dad came over to get a beer, only to find that the cooler was empty. “How are we supposed to get anything done?” he muttered, moving off towards the house.

“Yeah, why is the guy who’s immune to alcohol drinking all our beers?” Dean teased, finally coming over to greet Cass now that Dad wasn’t here.

“It’s part of the male bonding experience,” Cass said, his face lighting up from my brother’s attention.

Dean shook his head and crooked his finger at him.

Cass easily interpreted the gesture and handed over his beer to him.

Dean took it, taking a long swig before giving it back. “Thought you were off doing angel stuff.”

“I was able to delegate some of my tasks to my underlings.”

“My angel has underlings,” Dean said with a snort, holding his hand out again.

Cass obediently passed him his beer, their fingers lingering as the bottle switched hands.

“We’re probably just gonna be doing car stuff all day,” Dean said, taking a drink. “Might be boring for you.”

“Sam and I were actually having a very interesting conversation.”

“Yep, definitely do not want to know what you nerds were talking about.”

“Oh, I will be sure to give you all the details later,” Cass said, pleased with his attempt at being sardonic.

“Is that right?” Dean hummed, his voice dropping a little lower.

I’d been watching Bobby and my Dean talking animatedly over a carburetor, feeling that strong pull of family, but now I found my eyes flicking over to my brother and his angel.

Dean was flirting with Cass. In public. On purpose.

I never thought I’d live to see the day. Which, technically, I hadn’t, but it was still a sight to behold. The fingers brushing lingeringly over the neck of the bottle, the smoldering eyes, the little tilt to Dean’s mouth. I’d seen it all play out before in a thousand different bars. And yet somehow this was completely new and different.

Dean wasn’t trying to charm some random girl into bed. It seemed like all he wanted was to make Cass smile, and he appeared to be succeeding wildly.

And then his hand was suddenly pulling away, his shoulders tensing as Dad reappeared, reloading the cooler with beer.

Mom was with him, shaking her head and muttering about the excessive testosterone out here. She took a couple of beers over to Bobby and Dean, cracking one open herself and looking at the carburetor. Then she was pushing up her sleeves and getting in there with the rest of them.

“I better… get back over there…” Dean said uncertainly.

“Go,” Cass said, smiling at him easily. “I’ll be waiting.” Cass was always patient with Dean when he knew he couldn’t handle being pushed.

Dean went back over to the car, completely missing the look that Dad was giving him.

It wasn’t the look of disgust that he was anticipating.

Dad wasn’t stupid. Just because Dean hadn’t told him didn’t mean that he didn’t know. But it still sent a message, and Dad was receiving it loud and clear.

Dad and Dean had a long way to go.

Good thing we had all the time in the world.

“Family is complicated,” Cass mused.

“Sometimes,” I agreed.

“I like our family, though,” he decided.

“I like it, too.”

- 4 -

The sun had barely crept up over the horizon when I finished my run and stopped by Dean’s. I knocked on the door and was surprised when it was Cass who answered.

“Good morning, Sam,” he said. “Would you like to come in? Dean is still sleeping.”

I snorted at that. As much as Dean liked to mock me for running (“dude, your body is literally incorporeal, who are you trying to impress?”), he couldn’t seem to let go of his own human habit of sleeping (“it’s just nice to reset sometimes, Sammy”).

“I’m learning how to make eggs and bacon,” Cass informed me as I took my usual seat at the table.

“Oh?” I said, pulling out a paperback.

“Would you like to try some?”

“…sure…?” I said, not really sure at all. Angels who thought food just tasted like molecules did not in general good chefs make.

“Dean says my previous attempt was edible,” he said as a way of encouragement.

“Edible, great,” I said. “That’s definitely something I look for in the food I’m eating.”

“I will do my best,” Cass said solemnly, pulling some eggs from the fridge and moving over to the stove.

I flipped open my book and started reading.

The kitchen was actually starting to smell pretty good, which must have awoken the beast. Dean came trudging into the kitchen, eyes half-closed, and immediately attached himself to Cass, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind and leaning his chin heavily on his shoulder.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Cass said.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Dean mumbled, pressing his face into his neck. Then there were the soft, very unmistakable sounds of lips against skin.

“Good morning, Dean,” Cass said, turning towards him enough to be able to press a kiss to his forehead. “Sam is here.”

Dean’s body went rigid.

I didn’t look up from my book. “Morning.”

He hesitated.

I flipped the page and continued reading.

“Morning,” he said, letting out a slow breath and relaxing back into Cass.

“I put a pot of coffee on, so it should be ready any minute,” Cass said.

“Thank you,” Dean mumbled, still not sounding quite awake. Then he tilted his head up and murmured something that was for Cass’s ears only.

Of course, Cass always had to give the game away. “I love you, too.”

Dean hummed a pleased noise, kissed him on the cheek, then slowly disentangled himself and went to sit at the table across from me.

The coffee maker buzzed, and Cass shuffled over to it. “Sam, would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

He filled two mugs and placed them in front of us on the table.

“Thanks,” Dean said, letting their fingers brush over the mug before finally picking it up and taking a drink. His nose wrinkled, and he immediately put the mug down. “Cass, how do you mess up coffee?”

“I followed the instructions exactly,” Cass protested, brow furrowing.

“And the bacon is burning,” Dean pointed out.

“Is it?” he asked, turning the look back at the stove. “Oh, so it seems.”

Dean’s smile as he looked down at the table was something I hadn’t seen in a very long time. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he said, shaking his head but still grinning.

“I’m cute?” Cass asked. He sounded confused as he tried scraping the burnt bacon from the pan.

“As a button,” I supplied, which only added to Cass’s confusion.

“Is there some kind of intrinsic cuteness to circular plastic that fastens clothes?”

“Don’t get him started,” Dean grumbled at me, because apparently he was the only one who could use phrases that Cass didn’t understand.

I grinned at him. “But you and your boyfriend are just so adorable.”

“Shut up,” he growled into his coffee. His cheeks flushed, but there was no forthcoming denial or objection to my word choice.

Cass blinked slowly. It hadn’t gotten past him either, but he just smiled and took the victory quietly as he slid a plate in front of me and then Dean.

I eyed the burnt bacon and the questionably runny eggs, but I gave Cass a smile and a thank you before taking a very careful bite.

“How many times do I have to remind you that salt and sugar are two different things,” Dean grumbled into his eggs.

"Dean, I am perfectly aware of the significant structural difference between salt and sugar,” Cass said, rolling his eyes. “Only humans would think that they are even remotely similar.”

“Then why do you keep putting sugar in my damn eggs!”

“I think the sweet texture is nice,” he said with a shrug.

Dean leaned his head back, his eyes practically rolling up into his head. “You and me are doing another cooking lesson.”

“I look forward to it.”

“The sweetness is actually kind of nice,” I offered.

Cass beamed at me while Dean glared.

“Okay, well, thanks for breakfast, but my wife should be getting home soon and I’d like to be there when she arrives,” I said, pushing my empty plate aside.

“Sammy’s whipped,” Dean informed Cass, then made the accompanying wrist snapping gesture and sound effect.

“Sounds painful,” Cass said, turning to me in concern.

“I’m pretty sure Dean is the one who is whipped,” I said.

Dean looked like he wanted to protest, but every time he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

“Thought so,” I said, pushing away from the table.

“Dean, is someone hurting you?” Cass asked, even more concerned.

“Really, Sam?” Dean said, gesturing to Cass’s distraught expression.

“Don’t worry, Cass,” I said, patting his shoulder as I walked by. “Dean’s safe word is rhubarb.”

“Shut up, man,” Dean grumbled, but there was no bite to it.

“Why does he need a sa-” Cass started to say, and suddenly went quiet.

I glanced over my shoulder to see the two of them exchanging a very long, meaningful look.

“Send our love to Eileen,” Cass said, but he was still staring at Dean, and I had the feeling I may have started something.

“Of course,” I said, making my exit. “Later.” I didn’t need the details of whatever this all was.

I didn’t receive a reply, though Dean suddenly let out a bark of laughter.

“Shhh,” Cass was saying, but it sounded like he was trying not to laugh, too. “Goodbye, Sam.”

I closed the door behind me, feeling a smile tug at my lips as I started towards home.

#isola all the details #fanfiction #continuing my mood #writing fanfiction no one wants to read #canon compliant motherfucker #this is so nice and pleasant like what is castiel doing to me #deancas #but really deancass #i said what i said

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let-it-raines · 5 years ago

Text

Catch Me If You Can (31/40)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

a/n: I have no excuses for myself about the last chapter and the next few chapters other than this is what my evil brain came up with at the beginning and @resident-of-storybrooke has been yelling at me about this all since then 🙈 But this story is near and dear to my heart, and I’m very happy with it all! I think you guys will like the way it turns out ❤️

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 |15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 |

Tag list: @stunningswan @eala-captian @galaxyzxstark @xellewoods @mariakov81 @ultraluckycatnd @royalswan @shey-starsfury @superchocovian @sals86 @iam2307 @ashley-knightingale @karenfrommisthaven @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @ultimiflos @jamif @idristardis @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @notoriouscs @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @cs-forlife @andiirivera @jonirobinson64 @qualitycoffeethings

-/-

Bright light filters through the blinds covering the bedroom window, and just from the angle that it’s hitting her, Emma knows that she isn’t asleep at her apartment or at Killian’s. It takes her but a moment to remember that she is at Ruth’s, that she and Killian have been here for about twenty-four hours, and it is that thought that has her twisting in the bed in search for him only to find the other side of the mattress empty.

Damn.

She could have gone for them not getting up and leaving her room so early this morning after they had such a late nightlate -night last night.

Emma sighs, and snuggles a little further into her pillow as her mind convinces itself that just because Killian is out of bed doesn’t mean that she has to get out of bed. He’s a grown man. He can fend for himself downstairs with her family where she’s sure he and Ruth are having a fantastic time cooking breakfast for an army instead of six people.

Yesterday, even in her tired haze, was one of her favorite days in a long time. She wants to commit it all to memory – from the airport to Killian and Ruth cooking breakfast and getting along so well to Killian drawing her a picture of the lighthouse they visited with two little figures at the bottom that she knows are supposed to be the two of them.

He even signed it with a little number twenty-nine.

(She wants to take it home with her, but she thinks she’ll leave it taped to the wall here.)

That was…emotion chokes her up simply thinking about it. So much of her heart has been shown to Killian – the good, the bad, and the downright ugly – and yet telling him about why this room is so bare was like opening up an entirely different chamber of everything. Him drawing her that picture was so dumb and yet so damn sweet that she couldn’t actually form real words to thank him. Instead, she teased him, but she hopes that he knows that was simply her way of saying thank you for always being so considerate of her.

Killian knows her so damn well that she’s pretty confident that maybe he does actually know that without her having to say any of the words.

There’s a smile on her face as she rolls over on the bed toward the side that Killian slept on (it doesn’t matter how old she is – having a man sleep in the bed next to her at Ruth’s house felt weird as hell) and breathes in the warm scent of him before turning the alarm clock to the side so that she can see that it’s a little past nine thirty in the morning.

That was definitely not enough sleep considering how late they were up.

Everyone is likely awake and down in the kitchen either making breakfast or having already eaten it, and since Emma is sure that they’ve saved something for her, she gets out of bed and ruffles through her bag to find a pair of jeans and a light sweater and all of her shower stuff before walking into the bathroom and twisting the knob so that water starts to flow. This shower always takes so long to get warm water, something she hated as a teenager, and if Emma knew where her phone was at the moment, she’d turn on some music to have something to listen to. But the hot water comes quicker than she thought it would, and she steps into the shower and goes through washing her hair and her body, as well as shaving her legs even if she’s wearing jeans today.

They do have holes in them after all.

Emma runs through the list of things they were thinking about doing today – David seriously wants to go to a Sea Dogs game – just so that she can be prepared for the itemized list Mary Margaret has inevitably prepared and is waiting for her to go through.

Fifteen minutes later, when Emma is dressed and has her hair wrapped in a towel on her head, she walks out of her bedroom door and down the hallway until she’s walking down the stairs. Leo is laid out on the living room floor with Wilby watching cartoons, very obviously too engrossed to pay her any attention, so she ignores him and walks through the archway to the kitchen where everyone is sitting down at the table sitting in silence.

But awkward silence.

Like, the kind of silence that happens when she walks into a room and knows that everyone has been talking about her.

Has everyone been talking about her?

“Um, hey guys,” she starts slowly, ignoring the weird feeling in her gut and walking around the island to the coffee machine and grabbing a mug. She’s not sure how old this pot is, but it can’t be that old. “Have we had breakfast yet? Or do we want to go get something to eat?”

There’s silence as her answer, and Emma turns to look at everybody as they all stare down at their mugs like the world’s most interesting secrets reside there.

It’s…weird. Like, really weird, and worry is starting to whirl around in the pit of her stomach.

“Morning, love,” Killian starts as he scoots his chair back and stands from the chair, “why don’t we go sit outside for our coffee?”

“Um, okay. Does anyone want to join us?”

“Maybe in a few minutes,” Mary Margaret supplies, flashing her a reassuring smile that isn’t at all reassuring. “Ruth was going to talk to us about having Leo come spend his fall break with her.”

“Oh, okay, yeah.”

Emma grabs her cup of coffee just as Killian comes up behind her and places his hand on the small of her back to direct her out toward the set of French doors that lead out to Ruth’s back porch. As soon as they walk out, the sun is brightly shining down on them, enough that her eyes squint to try to adjust, and the air feels cool and crisp, almost like fall. She knows that it’s the middle of September, that fall is technically very soon, but it certainly hasn’t felt like fall weather back home.

Here, it does.

Looking out at the yard and how manicured it is after she and Killian helped Ruth yesterday, it almost makes her forget that something weird is most definitely going on with everybody, but only almost. She can practically feel the tenseness radiating from Killian’s fingertips, but nothing else about him gives any of it away.

“Did you sleep well, Swan?” Killian asks as she sits down in a rocking chair and pulls her knees up to her chest all the while Killian sits in the chair opposite her. Her towel is heavy on her head, so she takes it off and lets her loose hair fall down her back. “You were out like a rock this morning when I woke up.”

“I’m still – ” A yawn interrupts her, which seems very fitting, and it causes her eyes to water. She really needs the caffeine in this coffee to take effect immediately. “I’m still tired, but I think once I was out, I was out, you know?”

Killian’s lips are pressed together when he smiles, and that’s not the kind of smile she wants to see in the morning. She wants to see the wolfish grin, the one that looks almost dirty in nature, that makes Killian look like he’s absolutely, positively giddy to simply be sitting with her drinking coffee in the morning with no cares in the world.

She wants him to smile in the way that makes her want to kiss the smile off of his lips simply because she wants to taste some of that happiness.

“Good, good,” he sighs, and the slightest smile stretches across his lips. It’s almost the smile she wants. But only almost, and it has her free hand clutching for the chain around her neck as some kind of reassurance. It’s only been in her possession for two weeks, but clutching it has become enough of a habit that she realizes that it’s one. “When I woke up, my bloody arm felt like it was going to fall off because you’d been sleeping on it all night, which was refreshing that it only hurt because of you and not the tendons.”

Emma smiles into her coffee. “You have a very comfortable arm, and I was tired.”

“From all of the sex you said we couldn’t have?”

“Shut up,” Emma laughs, a bit of joy spreading over her skin. “You thought you were so funny making the bed squeak as you tried to get comfortable enough to go to sleep, and you were not funny.”

Killian circles his finger around her face. “Well, that is not what all of this laughter right now and the laughter from last night tells me. You were in stitches.”

“I was obviously delusional.”

“Obviously.”

Emma sighs and cocks her head to the side to look over at Killian over the top of her coffee mug. He hasn’t shaved this morning, his scruff fuller and darker than usual, and his hair is falling in his face so much that he keeps having to push it back. He needs another haircut, and knowing him, she’s sure that he has one scheduled for some time this week, probably after one of his physical therapy appointments.

Other than that, though, he looks exhausted. Absolutely exhausted. The bags underneath his eyes seem dark, his actual eyes red and a little puffy, and she swears there are lines there that weren’t there before.

“Killian,” she hesitantly starts, rocking forward to place her mug on the small glass table between them, “are you going to tell me what’s going on? It’s really freaking me out.”

His lips stretch into another smile, this one definitely kind of sad, as he reaches up to scratch behind his ear. That’s his nervous tick. She knows it is. And her lungs constrict so that it feels like she can’t even breathe.

“Aye, um…an article came out this morning. My scumbag of a father has apparently been in contact with your scumbag of an ex, and they did some kind of fucking tell-all interview about the truth about me and my life and how I’m nothing but a fake humanitarian who doesn’t care about the charities I support because how could I care about strangers when I don’t even care about my own father?”

Shit.

Emma heard the words. She did. But it’s kind of difficult to wrap her brain around them. That’s just…that’s a lot to take in, and her mind seems to be fighting between feeling distraught for Killian and angry at Walsh. Because she knows that it’s Walsh who wrote the article. It wouldn’t be Neal. He is probably too busy conning some other woman to fall in love with him.

“Killian, I’m so sorry.” It’s all she knows to say right now, before she even gets the full extent of the information. “I haven’t read the article, but you’ve got to know that everything in it isn’t true. Your father has used you your entire life, and he’s still trying to use you by using your name to make money. He’s the awful person. Not you.”

“I don’t know. I feel pretty shitty sometimes.”

“Stop that.”

“I know, Swan, but I – ”

She holds her hand up and stands from the rocking chair to walk over to Killian and squat down in front of him, threading their fingers together and placing her hands in his lap while her thumbs caress his knuckles. She’s fuming for him, but she has to be calm. She has to let him process this. It won’t help if she’s angry too.

At least, she doesn’t think.

How does someone deal with their boyfriend’s estranged dad saying shitty things about them?

“Brennan is a bad person, Killian. You’ve told me all of the stories about him. I’ve seen how he still affects you and Liam even though it’s been a decade since you’ve talked to him. He’s not crying out to you by giving Walsh some kind of dumbass interview. He’s using you for the money it’s going to get him. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that that we don’t get to pick our parents. Sometimes we’re simply stuck with shitty ones.”

Killian nods his head at the same time that he squeezes their hands. “I know, love. I know. And I’m…I’m devastated over something that is so personal to me being released into the world. My father is a prick. I’ve always known that. But I’m fucking furious at the entire article, and I…Walsh told the world that we’re dating, Emma. Everyone knows.”

“W-what?” she questions, her brain not quite catching up with the words there. “What are you talking about?”

Killian sighs and releases her hand so that he can pull out his phone from his pocket before swiping with his thumb a few times and handing it over to her, an article pulled up on some ridiculous blog site attributed to Walsh. Of course he would be coward enough to not publish through ESPN even though he’s paid to do that.

It’s probably because this article is most likely libel. It has to be. All of the shit about his father is false, and knowing Walsh, he’ll take it a step too far.

Killian Jones.

The name rings familiar with any fan of professional baseball, especially those who are fans of the New York Yankees. He’s their star pitcher, the young gun who was hailed as the man who would bring New York another World Series, and he did just that at the end of the 2018 season after being a part of the team for six years.

Everyone thought he would do it again this year until his unfortunate injury against the Rangers.

And while I could go on and on about Killian Jones, the infamous number twenty-nine, and his great statistics, that’s a story that has been told time and time again. What hasn’t been told is the story behind the man. Who better to talk about a player than that player’s father?

Three weeks ago, Brennan Jones contacted me after I had put out some feelers to get in touch with him, and we had a nice chat over a cup of coffee that allowed me to delve a little more into what exactly makes Jones tick. What I found was interesting.

Everyone knows Jones as a good guy, as the one who signs autographs for kids and volunteers at a soup kitchen at least twice a month. His public relations team is incredible because when you think of the Yankees now, the face you see is his. Yet, just a few years ago that was not the case. Three years ago, Jones was better known for being seen in a bar with a different woman by his side every night. He became famous for his conquests, for his faulty, short-lived relationships, and while that could be seen as simply a young man with more money than he knows what to do with living his best life, Killian Jones has a history of short-lived relationships.

His father is the main example of this.

Brennan shared with me that he spent all of his life in search of supporting his sons. After losing his wife to a strong-fought cancer battle when Killian was nine-years-old and his older son Liam was seventeen, Brennan started to work more and longer shifts to support his children, especially since Killian had the American dream of being a baseball player. Parents of athletes give up so much, make more sacrifices than the average family, and Brennan Jones is a prime example of a father doing just that. All he ever wanted was to support his children in their dreams.

However, after Killian started to play at Vanderbilt and had a real possibility of going pro, he cut his father off and has yet to talk to him since despite numerous attempts made by Brennan to try to have a relationship with his son. Brennan claims that there is no clear reason as to why his children no longer talk to him, and as sad as it makes him, he does believe that it is because Killian does not want to share any of his earnings with Brennan even though the senior Mr. Jones has never asked for a dime from his son.

All he wants is a relationship. Nothing more. How could anyone deny a father something as simple as that?

Alone, this doesn’t seem like much. Many children have bad relationships with their parents, but I believe that Jones has a consistent history of unethical or questionable behavior that is hidden behind shiny teeth and a clean uniform.

1) Cutting off his father.

2) An affair with a married woman.

3) His partying days.

4) The boat accident where he was cleared of all fault immediately despite there being alcohol involved.

5) His hidden rotator cuff injury – a detrimental lie to his teammates, his managers, and his fans.

6) Dating Emma Swan.

Oh yes, we all remember after the World Series when Killian asked out reporter Emma Swan, correct? That was quite the misogynistic move on his part. She’d said no, which is well documented, but as can be seen in the pictures below, they have been involved in a romantic relationship for quite some time. Perhaps they were involved in a relationship at the time of the World Series and it was all a publicity stunt to allow Ms. Swan to jumpstart her career. She’s had a banner year this year when it comes to her social media following and her time on camera. She was even able to commentate a full game. None of this was on her career trajectory before last year.

It’s funny how things like that work out.

It’s also funny how the good guy, in this case Killian Jones, can simply be the villain hidden under a baseball cap.

For inquiries to Brennan Jones, his contact information is available in the link below.

Holy shit.

Son of a bitch.

Emma’s hands shake while her eyes keep skimming back and forth over the words and the pictures. Her life is very much on display here, and she hates it. She hates that Walsh is obviously targeting Killian because of her, and she hates that the man still has the ability to knock the breath out of her lungs by making her feel useless and worthless and like nothing more than a young girl who doesn’t deserve anything that she has.

He’s a fucking bastard.

Her legs tremble beneath her, and she has to stand from the squatting position. She has to stand and walk away, down the back-porch steps, and into the yard so that maybe the fresh air around her will have an easier time reaching her lungs.

She really needs to be able to breathe right now.

She can’t breathe.

All of her fears are coming to life. Every single one of them. Yet again, Emma is being told that she doesn’t deserve her career or any of her accomplishments. Every minute of hard work is being attributed to someone else, and even if it’s not true, even if it’s all simply the words of a small-minded man who is trying to hurt her, she already knows that everything is about to blow up again.

Two steps forward. Ten steps back.

And she didn’t even take any of those ten steps. They were all forced upon her.

And shit. She’s an awful person and an awful girlfriend because here she is having a meltdown in the middle of Ruth’s backyard over how this is all going for her when nearly every low point in Killian’s life has been summarized in an itemized list and put out there for complete and total strangers to see.

She can’t even imagine what’s going through his head right now. This isn’t supposed to be another low point for Killian. He’s already out on injury, and he’s told her and himself time and time again that this won’t be like last time. He won’t fall into the dark hole.

But he might very well be pushed.

Yet, here he is putting Emma and her feelings above himself again because that’s what Killian does every damn time. He’s probably killing himself thinking this is all his fault when it’s not.

It’s hers.

Walsh did this because he still has some kind of vendetta against Emma. He did it to hurt her, and he did. He’s hurt her because he’s yet again hurt her career, but he’s mostly hurt her because he’s devasted Killian.

If she gets the chance to slap him, she’s not holding back.

Turning on her heel so that the soft grass brushes over her skin, Emma immediately walks back toward the porch, jogging a bit and placing Killian’s phone in her back pocket before walking back up to him. He’s leaning forward with his face pressed into his hands and his elbows on his knees, very obviously distraught.

“I’m sorry, Swan,” he mutters, shaking his head back and forth. “I’m so damn sorry. I’ve done nothing but fuck up your life.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” she soothes. Emma grabs his hands and tugs him up from the chair before wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he does the same. She can feel his nose pressing into the side of her neck, his entire face buried there, and she doesn’t know if she’s ever felt so small against his frame than she does right now. “You have not fucked up my life, and I’m the one who is sorry. This is because of me.”

Killian shakes his head and hugs her tighter. It should be another thing to take the breath away from her, but it doesn’t. If anything, it gives her the air she’s been searching for.

Then, though, Killian is pulling back, just a little, and suddenly she can see the blue of his eyes and the sadness that resides there. They’re not the sparkling blue that she wants. Not at all.

“It’s my job,” Killian starts with a crooked smile on his face, “at least I hope it’s my job, to protect your heart. I have failed here. You can’t deny that.”

Emma’s hand moves from the back of Killian’s neck to trail down his chest and rest right at his heart. “You have not failed. You didn’t do any of this to me. And if it’s your job to protect my heart…well, let me do the same to you. Killian, this can’t be a good feeling for you. It’s got to be bringing up all kinds of emotions about your dad and Milah and the past you’re trying to put behind you. Just because I’m freaking the hell out doesn’t mean that you drop all of your feelings to be supportive of me. That’s…that’s not how we work, remember?”

“Aye, I know. I’m just – I’ve been up for awhile, love. I’ve had…I’ve had time to process. I sat in silence with Dave for an hour and then had to call Liam and Elsa and…I hate my dad so much. I h-hate…”

And for the first time in all of the years that Emma has known Killian, even with all of the emotions that come with sports, she sees a tear fall from Killian’s eye. It’s not much, just a single tear rolling down his cheek to mark the skin there, and yet it breaks her to the point that she can do nothing more than continue to hold him and whisper that it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.

She doesn’t actually know that, but it seems like the right thing to say.

Life is so damn unfair sometimes that someone with such a good heart can have it shattered like this.

They stay standing on that back porch surrounded by the low whistle of the wind and the songs of birds for minutes that she doesn’t count. There’s no need to as her hand moves up and down Killian’s back while he simply tries to start breathing again. At some point, his lips start moving against her neck, his mouth and his teeth working in desperation, before his lips find her jaw then her cheek then her own mouth. He tastes like bitter coffee, which is most likely appropriate for the situation, and even though the kiss is sorrowing, she doesn’t stop him.

Emma gets it. Sometimes all that anyone needs is to feel the comfort of something familiar and sure and entirely theirs.

Maybe she’s a little desperate for his touch too.

But then Killian is mumbling something about wanting to go take a nap and needing a bit of time alone, and after she asks him if he’s sure, they both go inside where everyone is still sitting in the kitchen. She imagines they’ve been watching them the entire time. Mary Margaret asks if everything is okay, Killian nods at her before walking through the living room and heading upstairs, the steps creaking under his weight.

“You know what,” Ruth starts as she stands from the table and brushes her hands over her pants, “I think I’m going to take Leo out to get some ice cream and maybe go to the park. I’ll bring everyone something back. Emma, dear, what flavor does Killian like?”

“Um, strawberry, especially if it has actual strawberries in it. Or really anything fruit-related. But definitely not chocolate.”

“Got it. Leo and I will be on the lookout for ice cream for everybody.”

“Should I,” Mary Margaret starts, her eyes darting between all of them. “Do you want me to come with you, Ruth?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “You guys can just say that you’re going to leave to leave me here with David because he’s better at dealing with emotional fallouts.”

Mary Margaret blushes, her pale skin lighting up with red, but she doesn’t deny it. What she does is move forward and hug Emma, squeezing her a little too tightly. “I love you. I’m sorry that you dated a fucking asshole who is still trying to make you miserable despite the fact that he is the reason your relationship dissolved.”

“That’s some nasty language from you, Marg.”

“Yeah, well, he deserves it. Always has.”

Emma chuckles and leans into Mary Margaret a little bit more. “I love you too, by the way.”

“I know,” Mary Margaret sighs. “David is ready to go to hell for the two of you. Walsh isn’t going to have a job much longer if he has anything to say about it.”

She has a million words to say to that, but she doesn’t say any of them. She simply nods and releases Mary Margaret before stepping over to the fridge to get some water. She’s suddenly very thirsty, and she just know that she’s going to need something to fiddle with while she talks to David who is still furiously typing on his laptop probably cursing out several figureheads and managers and anyone else who dares pick up this story.

Emma is almost scared to know how widespread it’s gotten. She still doesn’t know where her phone is.

So, taking her bottle of water, she slowly steps back over to the kitchen table and settles across from David, pulling one leg up to cradle to her chest while the other dangles on the floor. He hasn’t looked at her, and that makes Emma’s chest absolutely ache.

“You okay, kid?” he asks, still not looking up.

“You haven’t called me kid in what feels like forever.”

The keys on his laptop continue to click for a moment before he’s closing the laptop and looking up at her with a wry smile. “It’s this place. It makes me think of you that way.”

Emma arches her brow. “It’s also because my life is kind of falling apart again, right?”

“Your life is not falling apart. I just – is all of the stuff in the article true? I know the things about his dad aren’t. He told me this morning all about it, but I…did you know about everything? You haven’t – he hasn’t hidden all of this from you, right?”

“No. God, no.” Her finger clutch at the ring, holding it tightly to her chest, and she notices David’s eyes flickering down toward it. “It was his mom’s,” she explains, watching the light glint off the silver and the small bits of sapphire. “It’s what he always used to wear, you know? He gave it to me before I commentated as a reminder that he’d be there cheering me on even if he was out on the field, and I guess…I guess he wants me to keep it now.”

David’s lips stretch into a small smile, even if she can still see little glints of anger and confusion residing in his eyes. Much like Killian, he looks exhausted and older and all-around done with everything having to do with today.

“That man loves you a hell of a lot, Emma,” he murmurs on a sigh while his eyes don’t leave hers. “It’s almost jarring to me because how he talks about you and looks at your and treats you reminds me so much of how I am with Mary Margaret. I’ve never…you’ve always deserved this really big love that was also a good love, and I didn’t want to admit it at first, but I think that’s going to be Killian.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

She bites her bottom lip and nods her head all the while her fingers mess with the little paper label on the bottle. “Yeah, I mean, saying things like that out loud terrify me because I’m so used to things going wrong. This morning is a prime example of that. But as much as I’m angry and upset and feel like I can’t even breathe over the thought of what this is going to do to me, I’m absolutely furious at what it’s doing to Killian. All of the low points in his life that he’s trying to erase are just…they’re there. Anyone with internet access can read about them, and you just know that this isn’t going to be the only article. It’s going to be everywhere. Walsh had to have known that when he set out to do this. He even gave out contact information for Brennan. Killian’s upstairs right now freaking the hell out, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I’m trying to handle this. God, I’m trying to keep it from getting big, but none of it is working. My phone won’t stop ringing from my email. Ruby has called me ten times because she can’t get ahold of you or Killian.”

“I don’t know where my phone is. It’s probably on the floor underneath my bed or something.”

David waves her away, and suddenly her throat feels dry enough that she needs to take a sip of her water. A huge sip. “I told her you’d call her when you can.” David sighs, and his shoulders deflate. “This isn’t going to be easy on either of you. It’s going to be worse for you at work. Killian is going to have even more focus on him than he has on him right now. Your lives are very much exposed, and that makes you vulnerable. I fucking hate that coward of a man for doing this to the two of you. Has he not hurt you enough?”

Emma shrugs, all of the feelings inside of her kind of going numb. “He always hated any time that I had success. He always hated that you were around to help me. It doesn’t surprise me that Walsh did this. What surprises me is that he was able to learn about any of this. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, so that just doesn’t make sense to me. And, like, how is it that only he had these pictures of us? Why had no one else released them? How is that even possible?”

“I don’t know. Killian is obviously a well-known guy but only in a small sector of the sports world. It’s not like he’s a household name. People are watching, as you know, but in hallways in the stadium and in airports so early in the mornings. That almost seems targeted.”

“Knowing, Walsh, it probably was. Such an asshole. Why didn’t you go into overprotective big brother mode when it came to me dating him?”

“You never would have listened to me,” David laughs, and it’s the first time that she’s felt a little bit light-hearted since she woke up this morning and looked at the little piece of artwork that Killian drew for her. “You were stubborn as hell.”

“Oh, and I’m not now?”

“You are.” David flashes her a grin. “Just a little more willing to listen now.”

Emma chuckles, but that little spark of joy has gone out because her thoughts have returned to Killian and how he must be feeling sitting upstairs in her childhood bedroom all alone.

What a morning.

She doesn’t even know what time it is.

“I don’t know how to help him, David,” Emma whispers, hoping that saying the words will somehow help her come up with some kind of magic solution. “I’m not good at this kind of stuff. How do you help someone who is hurting like he is?”

“You have got to stop saying you aren’t good at this stuff because you are. You have a lot of people who love you because you know how to connect with people, even if it takes some time. And looking at how the two of you interact, I know you know how to help Killian. All he wants is you to be there for you because I’m guessing half of his hurt stems from him being worried about you.”

“Yeah, probably.”

David tilts his head toward the staircase. “SoSo, go upstairs and simply sit with him for a little while? Don’t force conversation. Just…be you. I’m really sorry, sweetheart. The two of you don’t deserve this.”

“We don’t,” Emma confirms. “Killian really doesn’t. No one should have to deal with having their past thrown back in their face like that. No one should have shitty parents like that. It almost makes me not knowing mine seem like a good thing.”

“Emma.”

“I know, I know. Sadistic joke.” She reaches down and takes a sip of her water before standing up. “That’s a can of worms for another day. I’m going to go sit with Killian. Tell us when the ice cream gets here.”

“Nah,” David sighs. “I think I’m going to eat your bowl myself.”

Emma flicks him in the back of the neck in response before walking out of the kitchen and making her way up the stairs, avoiding the little creaks that she knows are in certain steps. It’s a force of habit from days of not wanting her presence to be known in this house, and even if she doesn’t mind that now, she still watches her step.

Her bedroom door when she reaches it, and Killian is stretched out of the mattress, the comforter laying low around his hips. He’s showered, his hair obviously still damp, and changed clothes, and she thinks from the subtle rising and falling of his chest that he’s asleep. Killian looks peaceful, all of the stress from his body gone and the lines on his face having fallen away. It’s almost enough to have her turn around and walk away, but selfishly, Emma kind of wants to hold him at this moment simply to feel the heat of his body against hers.

Slowly, she climbs into bed, making sure not to jostle the mattress too much, before tucking her foot in between Killian’s legs, wrapping her arm around his waist, and nuzzling her head into the crook of his shoulder. She thinks she’s made it without disturbing him, but then his right arm is moving underneath her until his hand is on her waist and she can feel the coarse bristles of his scruff moving against her forehead where he’s laying a kiss there.

Emma’s breath catches in her throat, and she wonders if he has any idea the effect that he has on her in little moments like this. The smallest of touches and affections mean so much to her, and he seems to do them all without thinking. It’s all so natural to him.

“I wasn’t asleep,” Killian mumbles into her skin again before moving and slight shifting them so that they’re better aligned. “I was damn well trying, but I wasn’t asleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

He hums, the vibrations moving through his chest so that she can feel it. “Don’t be. How is everyone downstairs?”

“Everybody but David went to get ice cream. They’re going to bring us some back.”

“That’s nice of them.”

“Well, they were all leaving the house because David was going to talk to me. I think they assumed I was going to have some kind of breakdown.”

His warm breath ghosts over her skin. “Did you?”

Her hand scratches against Killian’s stomach, pulling his shirt up so that her nails can move through the dark patches of hair all the while Killian’s fingers keeping moving against her back like they always do, tracing words that she knows by heart now.

“No. We just…we talked about a lot of the same things you and I did. I’m obviously hurt and scared for me, but I don’t think I’m going to know how bad it is until I go back to work on Monday. I’m mostly upset for you though. I don’t like seeing you like this.”

“I’ll be fine, my love.” He punctuates the words with a squeeze of her hips another kiss to her temple. “I promise.”

“Do you need me to do anything?”

She can feel the shake of his head from side to side by the way that his whiskers tickle her skin, and he doesn’t say anything else after that. SoSo, Emma simply does what David told her to do. She’s there for Killian, sitting in the silence, and she steadies the thoughts in her mind by the consistent heartbeat underneath her ear and the sturdy up and down of Killian’s chest once more.

In no way is she sure that she’s helping, but if this is all Killian needs from her, this is what she can do.

She loves him, and she’d do anything to make him happy.

Minutes later, she has no idea how many, the front door audibly opens and then closes, bringing in the sound of happy voices chatting away and talking like everything is normal. To everyone else, it kind of is, and even though there is ice cream downstairs, Emma is fine to stay up here. But Killian insists that they get up and go downstairs, and he practically forces her out of her bedroom until they are down in the living room with cups of slightly melted ice cream in their hand.

He’s still reserved, his voice and smile not quite right, but Emma can tell that Killian doesn’t want to mess up this weekend she has with her family. He wouldn’t, no matter what, and she’d tell him that if he would listen.

Today probably isn’t going to be a day where he listens.

After they’ve eaten their ice cream, her brain a little frozen, Leo asks Killian if he’ll play catch with him outside. Almost everyone jumps on that saying Killian’s arm is hurt, but he shakes his head and insists that he’s fine enough to toss a ball back and forth with Leo. It’s a sweet gesture, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone.

Emma snaps a picture of it on her phone, wanting to preserve some good memories from this weekend too. There’s still goodness.

“That’s a good one you’ve got there, honey,” Ruth sighs as she rocks in the chair next to Emma. “I’m so happy that you’ve found a little slice of happiness with him.”

Emma reaches over to place her palm over Ruth’s knuckles. “He is a good one. He’s just got to believe it.”

#catch me if you can #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan

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dvp95 · 5 years ago

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quiet on widow’s peak (10)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, mystery, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, trans character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 2.8k (this chapter), 32.4k (total) summary: Phil’s got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

They try everything. Sophie handles the cameras and phones while Phil and Chris spend way too long cleaning up files on their laptops and doing what they can to get any clear images out of the mess. It's no use. By the time PJ returns from driving Dan home, all they've accomplished is figuring out that the corruption is on their devices, not on the exported files. No matter what they do, the videos and pictures they took have the effect of being scrambled, like someone has pressed fast forward and also put a noise filter over them. The sound is no better - there's a high-pitched sort of ringing in all of the video and audio recordings that Phil can't understand the source of. Some files won't open altogether.

"How does this even happen?" Sophie mutters, bent over Chris' phone with a furrowed brow. "There's nothing left. Like, at all."

"We still have footage from the first night," says Phil. He's trying his very best to stay positive, but this is unbelievably frustrating. They experienced something last night, even if they can't agree on what it was, and they're supposed to start driving back to Brighton before it gets too dark. They don't have time for this. "With the shadow, you know."

His friends make grunts of irritated agreement. Phil knows that all of them are disappointed and a little angry about the lack of evidence for their hellish night, almost like they went through it for nothing, but he doesn't have anything comforting to say.

Phil has never been very good at comfort. He's good at distracting people and forcing optimism, but seeing such visceral emotions from his usually mild housemates makes him want to retreat into himself. He takes his glasses off to rub at his eyes, fighting off a budding headache.

"That's not really enough for a video, though, is it," says PJ. "I mean, you're not going to convince anyone with just a shadow."

"Well, we can't stay to try and get more," Chris says with a little huff.

"I can," Phil points out. He doesn't think he wants to, really, because this whole situation skeeves him out and going back alone would not help, but he needs there to be a purpose to his friends' suffering or he'll never forgive himself. He stares at his unfocused laptop screen, full of files that don't work, and wonders if they're going to bother to try and stop him. "I mean, you guys all have work tomorrow. I don't have anywhere to be. And I kind of want to see this through, so I can, like… take the train home when it's done."

There's a moment of quiet. Phil feels his shoulders tense at the possibility that he's going to have to argue his way into this. It's his job. Plus, he already knows his parents are going to have a problem with him staying longer to investigate, and fighting with yet another set of well-meaning people is more than he wants to do.

"Normally I'd be like, whatever," says PJ. "You know what you're doing and you do this sort of shit alone all the time. But, Phil, how the fuck do you think the paralysis will work if you're by yourself?"

"I won't try to sleep there," Phil decides, shoving his glasses back onto his face. "That's the only time it's happened, right? When people are already falling asleep?"

PJ's mouth twists unhappily, but he doesn't protest further. Phil wonders if he's actually won this argument or if PJ is just too tired from bickering with Dan about cryptids, or whatever they talked about on the drive. Thinking about Dan is a distraction, and not exactly a welcome one. Phil doesn't know how he feels - or even if he should be feeling anything at all - and he doesn't want to add that crisis on top of the one he's already dealing with.

"So you're just going to go there," says Chris. "Alone. And then poke around and go home?"

"That's what I do in most haunts."

"Fair play. Carry on."

It's almost funny how quickly PJ's expression nosedives into aghast. "What? That's it? You're not putting up more of a fight?"

"Why bother?" Chris asks with a little shrug. "He's a stubborn bellend."

"Hey," Phil half-heartedly protests. His friends don't deign to acknowledge it.

"You should bring a sigil with you," says Sophie. Her voice is soft and tired, but her eyes are kind in a way that PJ and Chris don't bother to be. "Why don't you bring something down that you'd have on you, and we'll all put something on it?"

"Really?" Chris asks. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking. Phil doesn't know if he thinks the idea is good or stupid, but he nods after Sophie does. "Alright, we can do that."

PJ is looking off into the distance while cogs seem to turn in his head. "Something you'll have physically on you, Philly, since we can't put it on your skin itself. Let us draw on your glasses or jacket or -"

"Knickers," Chris chimes in.

"Or your knickers," PJ agrees, far more solemnly than Phil thinks is necessary.

It doesn't seem like it'll actually help, but Phil feels so much affection and gratitude for his friends wanting to protect him in any way they can that he doesn't argue.

Phil doesn't really like the idea of going to the Wilkins place alone, either, but he's a lot more comfortable doing that than dragging his innocent friends along for the awful ride again. He thinks about Sophie's kind eyes staring up at the ceiling blankly, the way PJ gasped when he woke up, Chris trying to hide his own concern about the situation, and he feels his resolve stiffen even more.

Maybe he is a stubborn bellend. This is his responsibility, though. It's not right for him to keep asking for help. Phil lets the conversation flow to what snacks they're going to get for the drive and thinks about how he's going to break the situation to his parents.

It doesn't feel as satisfying to shut the door of his childhood bedroom, now. Maybe it's the fact that he's too mature to slam it, or maybe it's that the room itself isn't the haven it used to be. All the neutral colours and boring pieces of art are like a constant visual reminder that his life isn't here anymore.

He doesn't want it to be here. That isn't the problem. It feels stupid if he thinks about it for too long, but he grew up in this house. He's got scars from the sharp corners of the old furniture and more memories than he has in any other singular location. Sure, it makes sense that his parents are retiring and want to downsize from a big, empty house, but Phil really isn't comfortable with this level of change. He kind of assumed he'd always be able to come visit and feel at home again.

Phil sinks onto the mattress. For a long moment, he seriously considers going to sleep. It's barely past seven, but he didn't sleep well this morning. At least if he's unconscious he doesn't need to deal with the crushing weight of his parents' disappointment and worry.

The decision is made for him when his phone buzzes with a notification from Tumblr.

tell ur parents thanks for letting me stay and tell pj thanks for bringing me home and tell urself thanks for the uhhhh experience lmao its deffo not one im gonna forget anytime soon

Phil huffs a laugh and gets comfortable. You're very welcome. I'll tell them when I come out of hiding.

arent you in a very small car on your way to brighton mate… how tf do you manage to hide in there when youre huge

Oh I'm not in the car, I'm still at my parents' place. It's a long story and I hate typing a bunch on my phone. Phil grimaces at himself for the way that sounds, like he's cutting off any questions Dan might have before they ask. He sends another message. Voice call me on Skype or something if you wanna hear about my no good, very bad day.

He doesn't expect Dan to actually call him, let alone immediately, but Phil's phone starts buzzing with a Skype call before he's collected himself enough to find his headphones. He's still detangling while he answers with a sheepish, "Oh, hello!"

"Hi," says Dan. Their voice is low and amused, and Phil can't believe how nice it is to hear after only a handful of hours.

"I'm woefully unprepared, as per usual," Phil rambles, finally getting his headphones in and grinning at the bland wall in front of him. Nobody is here to judge him for it. "You, er, got home alright?"

"Obviously yes," says Dan. "So, you had a bad day?"

"'Cause you had a bad day," Phil sings back to them. The sound of Dan's giggle makes any embarrassment worth it, he thinks. "Yeah, uh, it was rough. So we wanted to look over the footage from last night to see what the camera caught, y'know, but… I don't know how, I don't have an explanation for it, but everything is corrupted. Our audio, our video, our photos. They're all beyond repair."

There's a few moments of silence, where Phil would think Skype had frozen if he couldn't still hear the faint music on Dan's end. Then, "What? You - what? We don't have anything?"

Phil likes the sound of 'we'. He probably shouldn't.

"We tried everything," Phil explains, his heart feeling heavy all over again at the reminder that they spent hours terrified for nothing. "But the corruption isn't even in the exported files, it's on our devices themselves. Chris' phone, our cameras… they're all fucked."

"If you're swearing, it must be fucking serious," says Dan. Phil wants to interrupt then, explain that his policy on bleeping out curses is more about staying monetized and keeping his parents happy than any personal morals, but Dan has already shot past the topic at the speed of light. "So basically we've got no proof we were ever there, let alone that something weird happened - which I'm not saying is some kind of fucking paranormal shit, by the way, but it was weird - and now you've got nothing to make a video with and I never should have told you about this place to begin with?"

"Dan, breathe." Phil waits until he's sure that Dan is at least trying to follow the directive. "It's okay. I'm glad you brought me here. And that's why I'm still in town - I'm going to get more footage."

"Not alone, you're not," Dan says fiercely.

"Peej and the other Scoobs already went home. I just didn't go with them."

"I don't care where your friends are," says Dan. Phil can almost see their hand waving dismissively. "You're not going back there alone. End of story."

The clear insistence in Dan's voice should be getting Phil's back up against the wall. He hates being told what to do with his own projects, needs to be in complete control whenever possible. Instead, he finds himself thinking that it's sweet of Dan to worry like that.

Christ, but he's got it bad.

"I'm still in town either way," Phil says, picking at a loose thread in his sleeve absent-mindedly. "Which my parents are, uh, not thrilled about."

"Really?" Dan sounds genuinely surprised. "They seem like they really love you, mate."

Love has never been the issue. That feels strange to think, cocky almost, but Phil has never really worried that his parents won't love him. Even with the secrets he keeps from them and their fears about the way he lives his life, the worst he's ever expected is disappointment. That just isn't the way their relationship works.

"Oh, they do," says Phil. "But they hate my job, and they think that it's stupid of me to keep investigating a place that clearly doesn't want to be investigated. They believe in ghosts and demons and all that jazz, y'know, they think I'm inviting evil into my life, so they said they'd let me stay here while I work but that we're going to have a 'serious discussion' about my life trajectory when I'm done."

"Ouch. I'd hate that conversation."

"Trust me, it's going to suck. I just got the preview today, and I already know I'm going to want to run away to Iceland."

There's a beat. Then, Dan says, "At least when you're there you can look into the hidden people. You know, the Icelandic elves or whatever that live in a parallel world. That seems up your alley."

"Your mum lives in a parallel world," Phil mutters.

Dan giggles. The sound of it is soft, like they're aware of their own volume, and Phil remembers that Dan lives in some kind of housing with a bunch of other students. He still loves the sound, so much so that he drifts into a nonsensical daydream of making Dan laugh as much as possible and almost misses Dan's voice coming through his headphones again.

"Since you're still in town," Dan is saying, and Phil makes a conscious effort to tune back in, "you should come by the shop tomorrow. I have an early class, but I'm starting work at eleven."

The prospect of seeing Dan again is such a good one that Phil doesn't even hesitate before he's agreeing. It'll be a bit of an effort to get out of bed early enough to avoid his parents and catch Dan for a good amount of time, but Phil feels like it's definitely going to be worth it. He likes Dan, likes being around them if absolutely nothing else, and the ill-advised butterflies in his stomach aren't enough to make him fall on the side of finding this a bad idea.

It isn't until after he's hung up and getting himself a sandwich so he doesn't have to eat an awkward dinner with his parents that Phil realises he's going to have Dan all to himself tomorrow. Well, to himself and to whatever patrons come into the coffee shop. The force of those warm eyes, just focused on him… it's going to test Phil in a way he's not sure he's ready for.

He turns away from the fridge and almost jumps out of his skin.

"Mum," he complains, free hand clutched to his chest. "Don't just stand there, you scared me!"

A smile tugs at Kath's lips, but her arms are crossed and her eyes are staring into Phil's very soul. He feels cornered all of a sudden, like he ought to be clawing for escape.

"Philip," she says, all warmth. There's that slight edge that he remembers so clearly from mishaps as a child, but for the most part it seems like she isn't here to lecture him. He imagines that's going to come from both of them. "This thing that you insist on doing… it's dangerous. You must know that, love."

Phil doesn't actually know that. For the most part, his career hasn't given him anything but boredom and a complex about his own creativity. It's just the odd cases, the ones like the Wilkins house, that get him squirrelly.

"I know, mum," he says anyway. It isn't worth the argument. "But this is my job."

"It doesn't need to be," she presses, and Phil realises that his assumption was very, very wrong. They're going to divide and conquer. She continues like she hasn't noticed the way his whole body is tensing up. "You have such a wonderful mind and loads of ambition, my dear. And that imagination! Gosh, you could do anything that you set your mind to."

Anything he set his mind to - if he actually tried. Phil can hear the words that she isn't saying, that his dad will have no trouble voicing later, and he feels the familiar burn in his throat like he's going to start crying.

He won't. He doesn't cry much, as a rule, but he's well-acquainted with the sensation of holding it back.

"I know that I can," says Phil quietly. He looks down at his sandwich. He isn't very hungry anymore. "Mum, I'm not - I don't do this because I - you know, I like my job."

That's not exactly the truth anymore, but Phil is also well-acquainted with the art of lying to his mother. She doesn't need to know about the doubts that plague Phil, the way that he's felt like he's slogging through videos until they catch his interest properly. That's something he can figure out on his own. He forces his eyes back up at her to drive the point home with a sincere, pleading sort of look.

Her mouth twists, unhappily this time.

"You need to grow up sometime, Phil," she says, so soft that it almost cushions the devastating blow of her words.

Almost.

#quiet on widow's peak #words words words

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talesofawaywardsoul · 4 years ago

Text

A friend of mine recently started sending our group story prompts. I saw this as a perfect way to actually use this tumblr for its intended purpose which was to get me writing again and actually sharing what I wrote. Today while at work I pushed out a little short story based on the first prompt she sent. Hope you enjoy!

Prompt: Curse breaking only pays like, half the bills. The other half comes from Arby’s. (I changed it to Burger King)

The Curse Breaker’s Curse

Every hero or adventurer has a struggle that haunts them, a battle they lost, a person they couldn’t save, a villain that eludes them. It comes with the territory.

For me it was a curse, the only curse in my long career of curse breaking that I’ve never been able to break. The curse of working in food retail.

“Hey buddy you listening?”

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

“Jesus Christ, I don’t have all day you know. I shouldn’t have to repeat myself, you should be doing your job. I got places to be, important places. I don’t have time to be dicked around.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

“I want the whopper without the lettuce, tomato and onion.”

“So a cheeseburger?”

“No a whopper without the lettuce, tomato and onion.”

“Without that on it, it’s just a cheeseburger. It would be cheaper for me to charge you for that.”

“Yeah except I don’t want a cheeseburger, are you dense. I want a whopper.”

I wanted to respond. Wanted to break my vow and place a curse instead of break it. It would be so easy. But the side eye from my manager stopped me.

“Of course, sorry about that. Would you like to make it a meal?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, you can check the screen for the price.”

“What, why is it so much?”

“That’s the price for a meal.”

What a Neanderthal.

“No, that’s not what the board says.”

I turn to look at the large menu board. With my back to the customer I finally roll my eyes, a nice deep eye flip. An easy ten if eye rolling was a gymnastic sport. I finally turned back to the customer.

“That’s the price for just the sandwich.”

“This is ridiculous. I order the same thing every time I come and I’ve never paid that much. Where is your manager?”

My manager had been nearby the whole time, listening to everything. I only had to turn around and he was walking over.

“What seems to be the problem sir?”

“This cashier is overcharging me for a whopper meal. He’s obviously charging me some fee for asking for it without the tomatoes, onions and lettuce.”

“Everything he has entered is correct. There are no additional fees.”

“This is ridiculous. You are making me late for a very important meeting. I am not paying this ridiculous amount.”

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience. What I can do in this instance is ring you up for just the whopper and drink and give you the fries for free. That will bring you closer to the price you mentioned. Is that satisfactory?”

“Fine, whatever. Just put my order in so I can leave.”

I tried to keep my anger at bay as I watched my manager ring up a cheeseburger with a meal add on. The customer shoved his card at him and then huffed off with it as soon as it was swiped, without his receipt.

I stared at the customer imagining him breaking out in boils or weeping sores. I whispered a quick phrase in Latin as he walked away. Not an actual curse just more of a marking. If any other curse breakers interacted with him in passing they would avoid him.

“My office please.”

The manager didn’t even wait for a response. A fellow employee who had seen most of what occurred gave me a sympathetic look. No one enjoyed the manager's chats.

“Please have a seat.”

I sat gingerly on the overturned crate that sat diagonally from the desk. This room was never meant as a real office. Just a dumping ground for the safe, important papers and security cameras.

“You’ve been with us for what two years now?”

I nodded.

“I know customers like that can get annoying especially the longer you’ve been here but we have to be diplomatic with them.”

I stared at the monitors behind my manager instead of directly at him. The customer had just received his food.

“I know customers like that can be difficult but we have to be empathetic, who knows what’s going on in his life, maybe he’s cursed.”

I didn’t find his joke funny. People are either assholes or not, it has nothing to do with curses. Most norms don’t truly understand curses. Or the fact that the people like me out there breaking them don’t get paid near the amount we should. Most of what I make is from cleaning up after people trying to break a curse themselves and no one thinks they should have to pay as much when they “got the process going”.

“Tell me, where do you see yourself in five years, surely not as a simple cashier. There has to be more you want to do with your life.”

I’m only six years older than him, but he has a way of making me feel ancient.

“I think you have potential as assistant manager but we’ve got to work on your attitude. Act like you want to be here, like you care about the work and the customers. I see you going places.”

Yeah out the door in thirty seconds.

“Think about it, okay. Here’s the application, take it home with you.”

I took the application, wishing I was a pyrotechnic instead of a curse breaker and could burn it right there in front of him.

“I’ll take a look at it, thank you.”

“Good to hear. That’s all.”

I stood to leave.

“Oh make sure you clean the bathrooms before you leave.”

I looked at my watch as I stepped out of the office closet. It was already 4, time to clock out. I considered just not doing the bathrooms but I believed strongly in Karma, unfortunately.

I went to the back and started grabbing the cleaning supplies. Maybe it was just time to quit. I could manage on just curse breaking for a bit. I’d have more time to build my clientele. I shook my head. I knew it would never work. I had rent payments, insurance, had to eat no matter how much I tried living off rice and beans it never worked for long. My student loans were out of control. Why I ever thought going into curse breaking was a viable career I’ll never know.

I grudgingly pushed the mop bucket toward the front using the mop as the steer. A customer was at the counter but I pretended not to notice. I almost kept going but realized the other cashier was nowhere around. I wanted to go home, why couldn’t I go home.

“What can I get for you?”

“Hi, can I get a Big King with a meal and a chocolate shake.”

“Sure thing. Will that be all?”

“Actually there was something else.”

She looked from side, getting an eyebrow raise from me.

“I hear you’re the person to ask about breaking a curse.”

I tensed slightly and looked around. I could get into trouble talking about my “side business” at work but I didn’t want to miss out on a potential client.

“Im off in like 15 minutes. Can I find you after?”

“Of course. I’ll be sitting in that booth.”

I rang her up. I couldn’t even hide the smile on my face. I hadn’t had a new client in weeks. I rushed through cleaning the bathrooms. I wasn’t going to be any later than the fifteen minutes I told her. I clocked out as soon as everything was put away and then grabbed my backpack, pulling out my notebook as I walked over to the booth.

“Thank you for sitting with me. I know there’s technically a process for these kinds of things but it’s an emergency.”

“Understandable. Tell me what the problem is.”

I pulled out a pen and opened my notebook to a blank page and started scribbling down notes.

“We didn’t realize it was a curse, just thought I was suddenly unlucky. But the past year things have just gone horribly wrong.”

“Is it just random things or is there a similar factor.”

“I honestly hadn’t thought about it, it’s just been random things.”

“The best made curses are always the ones that seem random.”

At this point I’m feverishly writing down notes. The possibilities could be endless, but I take in things I observe about her that will hopefully help narrow things down once I have time to think it through.

“They’re also the hardest to break. We’ll have to take some time to get to the root of each occurrence and see what they have in common. When can you meet again?”

“Tomorrow, I want this to be over as soon as possible.”

“Alright, tomorrow evening works for me. About my fee, I have a standard consultation rate and then the cost of the actual counter curse will depend on the intricacy of it.”

“Okay, will the discount be applied to the consultation or the counter curse fee.”

I pause my writing.

“Discount?”

“Yes, the discount. I was told that if I came here and ordered food I would get a discount.”

“And you believed that?”

“Well you do work here, I’m giving you business.”

I put my head in my hands rubbing my eye sockets. Part of me wanted to gauge them out.

“I don’t own the business lady, I don’t make money from you buying a meal.”

“But they pay you here, so in a way I’m paying your salary.”

“And I don’t make nearly enough.”

I stood, stuffing my notebook and pen back into my bag and sling it onto my back dejectedly.

“If you change your mind and want to pay full price like everyone else here’s my card.”

I turned and headed for the door. As I did I saw my manager behind the counter, arms crossed, a scolding look on his face. Maybe it’s time to look for a new job.

#writing #short story #flash fiction #story prompt #creative #writer #fantasy #reality #fast food #curses

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