#and both are always looking for friendship but unable to open up and actually develop one

[if-loki-was-a-fox]

There's this one conversation c!Ranboo and c!Techno have about c!Tommy, where c!Techno is joking about how c!Tommy would totally kill his pets (in this case Steve) and then go all "you can't hold me accountable for that, it was a full minute ago, I'm a changed person!" and what I find really funny about that conversation is how much it sounds like something someone might say about c!Technoblade.

(It sounds exactly like how c!Techno reacts to people bringing up c!Tubbo's execution)

Like c!Tommy and c!Techno both hate each other for their shared flaws. They say the same things when arguing why the other sucks.

But also on top of that, they both make up the same flaws for each other that the other doesn't even have. Like neither c!Tommy nor c!Techno would ever lay a hand on someone's pet (outside of self-defense), but they both think the other would.

(They both think the other is selfish and aggressive and doesn't care about anyone but themself, but in reality they're both kind and fiercely protective under all the layers of gruffness and abrasiveness, though in different ways)

[buckets-and-trees]

Bucky and the Situation

Characters/Pairings: Steve x female!Reader, Bucky x female!Reader, Stucky Word Count: 1351 Summary: Uncertain what to do next, when Bucky reaches out, you seize the opportunity to try and explain, though you’re not sure how this can work out.

Warnings: TECHNICALLY still none, but you know the situation reader is in.

Additional Notes: If you've only been reading the Bucky half of this series, the two collided in Steve and the Blindside and this takes place directly after - and you'll want/need to read all of Steve's sections if you want to know everything that's going on for reader. This is where the story is going, and I knew this is where the story was headed from the beginning of the drabble series… We can talk after. Only one more section and maybe an epilogue? Also, I've created a playlist and inserted the song for each section into its post.

Your phone dings to signal a text. It’s from an unknown number, and you unlock it to check the message.

UNKNOWN: Can we talk? Steve and I are leaving the country tomorrow to investigate some suspicious intel.

You’d given Bucky your number just yesterday morning.

How you were going to do this, you didn’t know, but you knew you owed it to him, so you respond back with a yes.

You owe it to both men, but you don’t know if you should try to make any overtures with Steve or give him more time.

BUCKY: Are you at the bookshop now?

YOU: Yes, come by whenever works best.

Though half of you had considered staying home that morning, you knew you needed the distractions of work after your mostly restless night where you’d been largely unable to turn off your brain.

BUCKY: On the way now.

Well at least you wouldn’t have to wait long.

As the owner there was plenty of administrative work to take care of on any given week for the bookshop, so you had holed yourself up in the office all morning without anyone questioning your need to do so. You decide to take a quick break to walk off some of your nerves around the shop, get an iced London Fog from the café, and tell Greg to send Bucky back to the offices when he arrives.

It’s not much later when there’s a firm knock on the door, and in a few steps you’re quick to open it, heart racing.

“Bucky,” you breathe, and step back, opening the door wider to let him in.

He gives you a tight-lipped smile and moves forward. You’re pushing the door closed right behind him when you meet resistance, and as you whip your head away from watching Bucky, you gasp seeing it’s Steve’s hand, pushing in as well. Your jaw goes slack, as does your hand on the door, and he slips inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.

There are two desks in the small office, each up against the wall so that if two people are sitting in the office, they sit back-to-back between them, fairly close to each other. The two super soldiers perch on the edge of one of them, and you mirror their stance, sitting gingerly on the edge of your desk.

Steve crosses his arms and can’t seem to look at you, but Bucky rests his hands on the desk beneath him and does look earnestly at you. “Why? When you knew all this time?

You nod and then take one deep breath before answering.

“I met you both in a matter of weeks, and in the beginning I didn’t know that it was going to develop into more with either of you, and it felt like it would be a stupid thing to talk about, like I was desperate or trying to just meet Avengers around town or something. And then when I started spending actual time with each of you, we always talked about other things, and it became more and more of an odd topic, especially when neither of you mentioned the other, so I also didn’t know if it was necessary.

“But then these past two weeks when things started to feel different and I thought maybe… well, at that point I didn’t want to talk about it because acknowledging that things were growing more serious than friendship with either of your meant I’d have to end things with the other, and I wasn’t sure that’s where it was going or who I could possibly choose until just this weekend when the ballet with Steve was clearly a date and then I thought maybe I was ready to walk things back to the casual friendship space with Bucky, but then…”

You trailed off.

“After you kissed me, Bucky, I knew I needed to talk to Steve, and so we went to dinner, and I didn’t want to bring it up, and then there we all were together.”

“And then you ran,” Steve finishes.

You bite your lip, heat rushing to your cheeks. Through all your explanation Steve still hasn’t looked at you, but at this point he does look at Bucky.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

The two look at each other.

“I don’t know what else to say,” you try to bridge the silence, but Bucky raises his hand to cut you off.

“We don’t want you to say anything else,” he says, and it’s so emphatic that you shut your mouth abruptly, feeling even more uncertain.

Your eyes glance back at Steve, who still won’t look at you, so you return your gaze to Bucky.

“We figured out a lot of things last night,” he starts.

“I know I–“

“Don’t,” he insists. “Just listen.”

It’s then you register that his voice holds more warmth than you were expecting. If nothing else, he’s clearly not here to be cruel. You take in another deep breath to steel yourself to hear him out. Whatever he’s going to say, you owe it to him – to both of them.

“Steve and I were up all night, and part of that was talking through all of this. We pieced together our timelines, and neither of us had staked a full claim to you yet – we were both still in the overtures. You didn’t tell either of us that you knew the other, and that is the only thing we fault you for, but we also can see there was no best case scenario here for you.”

He looks back at Steve then.

“You weren’t the only one who was holding back information either. Steve didn’t tell me about the dame he was spending all his Saturdays with, and I didn’t tell him I was getting to know a certain bookshop owner all too well, but finding out we were both involved with you last night made us evaluate out what we wanted.”

Bucky looks back at you. “We want you.”

You can’t help the broken sound that escapes your throat and shake your head. “I couldn’t choose before, that’s why we ended up in a clusterfuck last night-“

It’s Steve who interrupts you now, finally looking at you, and the intensity in his gaze makes your heart stop. “We don’t want you to choose between us, we want you to choose us.”

“What?”

“Steve and I mean too much to each other,” Bucky explains, “and we started to figure that out last night because of you. We want more with each other, and we both want more with you.”

In the next second, Bucky has closed the short distance between you and leans down to pull you into a kiss, his hand cupping the back of your head to angle your face up and tangle in your hair. Then you feel another hand tentatively joining Bucky’s in your hair, and Bucky’s lips break away and they turn your head slightly to meet Steve’s lips. His kiss is hungrier and more urgent than Bucky’s, and you gasp into his mouth. With his other hand – the metal one – Bucky seeks out your hand while he presses his lips to the side of your face, placing a few kisses along your jaw, over your cheek, and then at your temple.

And then suddenly they both withdraw – but Bucky does keep hold of your hand.

“We don’t want your answer now,” Steve says. “We got a chance to talk and think about this all night. We know what we want, but you get to decide if it’s what you want, too, and that decision can’t be rushed.” He brings his fingers up and gently strokes your cheek. “But to be clear: it is both of us or neither of us.”

You nod.

“We’ll be back in a few days,” Bucky adds, “but you take as long as you need to think about if you want this.” He squeezes your hand, and then they both turn without another word, looking back over their shoulders at you as they leave your office before closing the door.

NEXT PART | series list

HOW ARE WE, READERS? Still with me, I hope...

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

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[faroreswinds]

I hope you see this as a positive ask but I remember you saying you were surprised at mdimileth being popular, and I’m saying this mostly from a JPN perspective…but it really is? And I’m surprised to see others are surprised about it. The common thread between most shippers is that even though they’re both powerful men, one is highly repressed, awkward, but very noble and kind and also very tortured and sad, and the other man is awkward but quiet, repressed but in a different way, and unsure of how to act. It’s very different from what the developers intended I think! We like that they both learn how to act together and how to find their footing. They come together to help the land and fight the empire. One is the Ashen Demon who finds his heart after he meets people he comes to cherish and protect, the other the One Eyed Demon who finds his heart after he almost lost it to despair. A lot of us are also Blue Lions fans so I don’t know where this accusation comes from that says we exclude the rest of the lions for Byleth (my second pair is sylvix and my third is Mercedes with Dedue).

I had to look up English fan dictionaries for this but it’s also because one is big but kind but also repressed and he can tame a man who was scary and feared for being a demon but if you think about it, he’s actually submissive and breedable and almost like a twink. You can call me a fujoshi, but apparently that’s a bad word here? I’m not sure. I think another way to describe what we like is if you take Beauty and the Beast but apply it straight and reversed to both men at the same time. I’m sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself! I hope this explains our tastes well enough!

I hope you see this as a positive ask but I remember you saying you were surprised at mdimileth being popular, and I’m saying this mostly from a JPN perspective…but it really is?

I can't speak for others but... It sort of is to me. It's not a surprise that the ship exists, but I guess I'm surprised it's popular? Most shipping I've seen with Dimitri is with Femyleth since that's actually possible in the game, and Dimitri's other popular male ships are just with others, like Felix. I guess I always felt that the Male Byleth ship is simply just lost in the wave of others ships, especially since it's not possible to obtain. Say what you will about Dimitri's ending with Felix, it's still a possible ending one can achieve, while if you play with Manyleth then you are locked out with any ending with Dimitri entirely.

Don't get me wrong- I love Dimitri with Manyleth. I view Dimitri as a queer man, even if it's not intentional. I am not someone who just stamps queer onto any character I like either, I need either text or subtext to back this up. Without it, it just feels like I'm lying to myself. And since I feel Dimitri has adequate subtext, I feel that he should have been a male option for Manyleth and it doesn't make much sense that he isn't. Dimitri is pretty cute with Byleth period, and treats Byleth the same no matter what gender you choose. It would be odd to me that it only becomes romantic if it's a woman he talks to, when he's literally saying the exact same thing to the male one as well.

You can call me a fujoshi, but apparently that’s a bad word here?

I'm not sure where "here" is. Japan? Western fandoms? Well, in the West, it's not really a negative word. But I think most fujoshi's keep their tastes close to their chests. There is definitely a stigma against them, that they fetishize men and are unable to view male friendships without instantly shipping them. Which is so funny to me personally- I am asexual, but I love romantic stories about two men. I don't even care about the sex, I find something appealing about a two men being vulnerable to each other in a way that my culture is only recently opening itself up to.

I also find it funny because literally just the other day, I was chatting with a friend of mine and made a joke that Durin and Elrond from that terrible Rings of Power show seem more like an old married couple than the actual romantic pairings in the show at the moment. I don't actually ship them and honestly there isn't much subtext there, it's just the writing is so bad that they are the rare-pair actual interesting group of characters. My much older friend, who is NOT a fujoshi in any capacity at all, then made a comment how Sam and Frodo should have just kissed. She's clearly not fetishizing them at all, and is 100% capable of viewing male friendships as just friendships. Yet, she felt that Sam and Frodo were maybe a little more than friends, if you catch my meaning.

Sometimes, a chemistry is there, whether the writers intended it or not.

Anyways, point is- While I don't think fujoshi's are viewed negatively (especially since the West has been more and more open to queer relationships), it's still a private thing unless done over a blog where you can be faceless. That's my own experience though. Most of my friends in rl don't know I like mlm ships, save for two friends who are the same way. But in this regard, I tend to live in a bubble, so maybe someone else could educate me if I'm wrong.

There are definitely spaces where fujoshi are made fun of and ridiculed (like 4chan) but I don't even think most Western fans even know the term. It's becoming pretty common place to have queer ships just in general, especially in fandom spaces...

I’m sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself! I hope this explains our tastes well enough!

Don't apologize! My tastes are not much different than yours and I get the appeal.

It's just that since Manlyeth/Dimitri is not possible, I just figured it wasn't popular in Japan all that much. I was sure it had a following, but not a HUGE following, if you get my meaning. Especially since Femyleth seems disproportionally more popular just... in general.

[earliebirb]

i’ll save you a seat

steve/tony, established relationship, canon divergence, 1673 words

(inspired by this deleted scene from the avengers [2012])

“Waiting on the big guy?”

“Ma’am?” Steve looks up from his sketchbook, eyes squinting against the sunlight. 

He meets the gaze of one of the waitresses working at the café. Her long blond hair flows down to her chest and she is dressed in the café’s signature uniform: pastel orange blouse, black skirt, and a white half apron tied around her waist. 

“Iron Man,” the waitress clarifies, lips quirked up in a knowing smile. “A lot of people eat here just to see him fly by.”

“Right,” Steve says, lips twitching at their inside joke. He opens his mouth to say something else, but a familiar silhouette in the distance catches his eye and breaks his train of thought. “Uh, actually…”

He nods at the sky. The waitress follows his gaze.

The object grows larger, approaching at a high speed. It morphs into a blur of red and gold that streaks across the blue sky right above them, sending a gust of wind that ruffles the waitress’ blond locks. The figure lands a short distance away from the café with a distinct metallic thunk — the sound of gold-titanium alloy hitting concrete. 

All around him, people begin to whisper among themselves with excitement, some even taking out their phones to document the spectacle. Although Steve can’t really say he enjoys the attention, warmth still blooms in his chest as he observes the approaching figure. He finds himself hiding an involuntary grin behind his hand.

“Always a dramatic entrance, huh?” The waitress chuckles.

“You know it.” Steve sighs with fond exasperation. All eyes are on Tony as he walks toward the outdoor area of the café, the nanotech suit peeling away from his body. The excited murmurs and whispers increase in volume.

When Tony finally arrives at the table, he bends down to plant a kiss on Steve’s cheek. “Good morning, beloved.”

“Mr. Stark-Rogers,” the kind waitress greets with a smile. “The usual?”

“Please, Beth. I told you to call me Tony.” Tony reaches up to slide his sunglasses a few inches down the bridge of his nose, giving her a disapproving look that makes her chuckle. “And yes, please. Thank you.”

“Table’s yours as long as you like,” she says before disappearing into the indoor part of the café to relay the order. Steve knows she means it, too. She’ll make sure of it, just like she always has for the past few years.

The café had been Steve’s favorite café, at first. He visited the place often, especially during his first few weeks in the twenty-first century. He developed a fondness for their sesame seed bagels and the lovely view of Stark Tower from his favorite outdoor table, although the latter is a fact Steve would never admit to Tony even on pain of death. 

However, the café quickly became Steve and Tony’s favorite café when their reluctant camaraderie bloomed into friendship all those years ago. Even before they started dating, Steve and Tony already established a weekly ritual of having brunch at the café whenever their schedules aligned. 

Tony did eventually admit to Steve that he found the café’s coffee to be subpar. He did, however, insist that the café was his favorite, albeit for reasons different from Steve’s. Not for the bagels, not for the exceptional view of Stark Tower, and definitely not for the coffee, but because the café was a place full of memories. His memories of the two of them, his memories of Steve:

“That café was where I first made you laugh. Like, really laugh. I’d seen you smile or chuckle before, but that kind of full-body laughter? That was a first. And I remember thinking that… I really, really liked the way you laughed.”

It has been seven years since Steve first sat at this very table and sketched the figure of Stark Tower looming before him. Beth is still working at the café, having made her way through the ranks. Now a co-owner of the café, she has developed a friendship of sorts with Steve and Tony — both of whom she claims to be her favorite regulars. Tony likes to joke about how she probably says that to all of her regulars, something Beth always denies vehemently. 

Steve turns his attention back to Tony, who has taken off and folded his sunglasses, letting them hang from the collar of his shirt. 

“Would it kill you to take the elevator and walk?”

“It’s not like I do this every single time. Besides, why take the elevator when you have a flying suit? That’s just ineffective.” Tony makes a face as he pulls his chair out.

“‘S good exercise.”

“I exercise plenty.” Tony sits down on the chair across from him, scooting closer to the table. Under the table, his ankle brushes Steve’s. “Besides, we just engaged in a vigorous workout session this morning.” Tony bites his lower lip, giving Steve a lascivious wink.

“Tony,” Steve reprimands, but finds himself unable to say anything further, not when the back of his neck is heating up at the memory of what they were up to just a few hours ago. While Steve immediately showered afterward and headed straight to the café, Tony decided he wanted to sleep for a few more hours, promising to join Steve later. 

Tony grins before leaning forward on his elbows to peer at Steve’s sketch.

“Which lucky building are you sketching today, honeybunch?”

He squints and frowns when instead of a building he finds a rough and nondescript sketch of a person’s face. 

It could be anyone to the untrained eye, but Steve’s pen strokes are sure and confident, having rendered the same jawline countless of times. 

Every single time, Tony’s figure never fails to fascinate him. Always so beautiful from every angle, in every light. Steve knows it well enough by now to be able to sketch him simply from an image in his mind’s eye. 

Still, nothing beats the real thing. Steve takes in the sweep of Tony’s dark lashes and his coffee brown eyes as he appraises the drawing.

“It’s not a building,” Steve says instead. 

Tony hums noncommittally, tilting his head at the sketch and giving it one last look before leaning back in his seat. “How was your morning run?”

“Uneventful.”

“Really?” Tony says distractedly, his attention on Beth who is once again approaching their table with his cup of coffee, black as midnight.

Tony engages in more small talk with Beth as she sets the cup and saucer on the table, asking after her husband and kids. There is an easy and carefree smile on his face, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes.

All the while, his fingers are fiddling with two sugar packets Steve knows he will only use one of. He is always buzzing with energy, parts of him always in a state of perpetual motion, finding it near impossible to stay still. 

Steve also knows that he won’t finish the coffee because it wasn’t made by Steve or himself.

These little idiosyncrasies are details that make up Tony, the little quirks that only Steve knows.

The little things that make you mine, Steve thinks privately. He feels something inside him softening at the thought.

“Sorry, honey,” Tony says when Beth eventually leaves to take another table’s orders, his smile soft and affectionate. “You were saying? Running was uneventful?”

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly, “nothing really interesting.” He admires the way sunlight turns the tips of Tony’s dark hair into a lighter shade of brown. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re still the highlight of my morning.”

Tony huffs, rolling his eyes, but his lips curve up into a pleased smile and his brown eyes are warm with affection as he meets Steve’s gaze. He reaches for Steve’s hand on the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. The band of vibranium around his husband’s ring finger gleams in the late morning sunlight.

“I better be, after waking you up with one hell of a—”

“Tony!” Steve exclaims, knocking his ankle against Tony’s in warning. “Stop it.”

“What? It’s the truth! You really did enjoy it when I—”

“There are children around,” Steve hisses, casting a furtive glance at a nearby table occupied by a family of four. 

Tony laughs softly, his shoulders shaking with it. Still holding his gaze, he brings Steve’s hand to his lips, pressing two feather-light kisses to the back of his hand. He continues holding Steve’s hand against his mouth, and when he speaks Steve feels his lips and the bristles of his goatee brushing his skin.

“Sorry, baby, I can’t help it.” Tony hides a smile against Steve’s knuckles. “You’re just so pretty when you blush.”

Steve looks down, avoiding Tony’s eyes in favor of staring at the cookie crumbs next to his half-full cup of coffee that has long since gone cold. His cheeks are still burning, and Tony’s words are not helping.

“See?” Tony says, before planting a kiss to his knuckles. “So pretty.”

Steve shuts his eyes with a defeated sigh. “Please just drink your coffee.”

Tony chuckles again but Steve hears the clink of ceramic, a cup being lifted from its saucer. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

He only allows himself to open his eyes when Tony gets distracted by some pigeons, immediately launching into a spiel about the one time he was attacked by a pigeon who was apparently really determined to steal his sandwich.

Steve nods along dutifully, reacting at appropriate times throughout the story, but all he can think of is that sitting there, at a café’s outdoor table on Park Avenue on a bright Sunday morning, his husband sat in front of him talking a mile a minute, is that there is nowhere else he’d rather be.

His gaze falls down to where Tony’s hand is still holding his, even when his other hand is gesturing animatedly as he tells his story.

Yes. Steve thinks, smiling helplessly at the twinkle in Tony’s eyes — the one that appears whenever he gets excited. I’m home. 

[autumnscribbles]

cheap wine | b.s

requested by anon! (thank you i love this!!)

summary: y/n’s friend brad is jealous of her friendship with colby brock, leading to one night where he can’t keep it to himself anymore

word count: 1.8k

warnings: little bit of suggestive language, i wrote smut but it was really bad and i hated it so i adjusted LOL

a/n: i finally managed to write a long dish imagine!! i love me some jealous brad :) keep sending requests, i love them! i hope you enjoyed, i had fun wiring this one

                                                       ~

Brad sat on the couch across from you, eyes boring into Colby as he tickled you on the black couch of your apartment. You had invited some friends over for drinks, movies and board games, just wanting a chill night with your friends. It was a nice change of pace from the LA parties you both always ended up at.

Brad, hoever, was hoping that Colby wasn’t going to show up today. Of course, he did, being your best friend. Brad’s jealousy seemed to course through his veins, plastering on a fake grin every time your eyes managed to catch his. 

You squealed as Colby picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder as he ran around the room, your giggles and shrieks filling the room, everyone else laughing along except Brad. He wanted to be the one to get those laughs out of you, and he didn’t know why he suddenly cared so much.

He had seen you with Colby many times, assuming you had feelings for him, or that Colby had feelings for you. When he found out from a third party that it wasn’t in fact true, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of joy. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint when these feelings began, but now they were full throttle, and Brad had a difficult time ignoring them. Pretending they didn’t exist seemingly just wasn’t working anymore.

Brad stood up, asking Connor who was also invited if he wanted to go grab a drink. Connor agreed and both boys made their way to your kitchen, pouring themselves glasses of cheap wine from the bottles you had laid out across the kitchen island. Brad downed his fast, wanting to forget the feelings he had for you and the jealousy he felt watching you with Colby.

“Woah, mate,” Connor laughed. “You okay?”

Brad downed the drink, beginning to pour another one before answering Connor’s concerns.

“Fine,” he muttered.

“It’s y/n and Colby, isn't it?” Connor inquired, despite already knowing the answer to his question.

“No,” Brad lied. “She can do what she wants, I don’t own her. I just have a hard time believing that Colby doesn’t have feelings for her.”

“I don’t know,” Connor shrugged. “They are really good friends.”

“Whatever,” Brad shrugged. “I have no right to be jealous.”

Brad and Connor grabbed their wine glasses, heading back out to the living room, plopping back down on the couch. 

Your eyes caught his, quickly standing up to go sit next to him after realizing you hadn’t spoken much since he got here. Brad had been more quiet than usual, almost like he was avoiding you.

“Hey,” you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder quickly.

“Hey,” he replied, putting a smile on.

“Already almost done?” you asked, eyeing his wine glass.

“Yeah,” Brad chuckled. “I guess I’m going a bit fast aren’t I?”

“Nonsense,” you guffawed, waving him off before taking his glass, offering to go refill it at the same time you were going to refill yours. 

As you made your way to the kitchen, Colby followed, skipping happily alongside you. You looked back at Brad, noticing the unhappy look on his face yet again, unsure where it was coming from. Colby noticed you staring, nudging you back to attention as you began pouring the wine into the glasses. Despite the fact that you could afford better alcohol, you liked to stick to your cheap wine, it always made you happy.

“What’s up?” Colby asked, realizing right away something was off in that moment.

“Nothing,” you shrugged. “Brad’s just acting weird.”

“A little, yeah,” Colby shrugged. “Probably because he’s into you.”

“He is not,” you protested, unable to hide the smile creeping onto your face.

“He totally is,” Colby insisted. “And you’re totally into him.”

“I’m not, Colby,” you said, pushing him lightly, making him stumble backwards slightly, already feeling a slight buzz.

Despite your protests, Colby was right. You had developed feelings for Brad. Everyone always assumed you liked Colby that way, but you didn’t. Ever since you met Brad, you found yourself always thinking about him, wondering what it would be like if you two were together. Sometimes you convinced yourself he had feelings for you too, but your tendency to overthink made you second guess it. He was hard to read, and you weren’t very good at reading people.

“Keep lying to yourself,” Colby said, clinking his glass against yours before sipping it.

You sighed, grabbing yours and Brad’s glass and heading back out to hand it to him, feeling yourself loosen up with each sip.

The night carried on, you pulling out the Twister mat for everyone to play. Everyone was already drunk enough that they were all excited about it, friendly competition already starting. After most people lasting a long time, it was just you and Colby left. Your friendship had consisted of many twister games, both of your competitive natures surging.

Brad watched as both of you got tangled in each other, his head foggy from the wine. He had lost track of how much he had already, but it was a lot, and he was starting to accept his thoughts of you rather than pushing them away.

Colby finally crashed to the floor, you screaming excitedly despite knowing all along you would win. You jumped up and down, pointing at Colby and jokingly calling him a loser.

“We get it,” he groaned. “You’re the best at twister.”

“We know,” you grinned, helping him up off the ground. “I’m gonna go pee now.”

You downed the rest of the wine in your glass, planning on refilling it after you went to the bathroom, heading down the hall towards it. Someone had turned up the music you had put on, a smile across your face as you thought about how much fun you were having.

In the other room, Brad had decided to go for what he wanted. He stood up, the wine heading straight to his head as he stumbled slightly, walking down the hall towards where the bathroom was, waiting outside of it for you. He looked back to make sure no one had followed him, but he was in the clear.

You dried your hands off, opening the door to find Brad standing in the dimly lit hallway, looking at you.

“Need to pee too?” you asked, motioning towards the bathroom.

“No,” he chuckled. “Just wanted to be alone with you for a second.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you approached him, feeling confident.

“Yeah,” he smirked. “I haven't been able to keep my eyes off of you, and it’s really hard to keep my hands off of you too.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, not expecting him to say that in the slightest. You had really thought Brad was upset with you or attempting to avoid you all night, maybe this was why.

“What’s stopping you?” you flirted back, taking yet another step closer, now able to feel Brad’s breath against your skin, his lips slightly stained from the red wine you had been drinking all evening.

“I’m not sure,” he mumbled, leaning in closer to you.

Both of you losing your inhibitions, you pressed your lips together desperately. It had been something you had both been thinking of for a long time, the satisfaction seeping through you as you felt his soft lips on yours. His hands reached for your waist, turning around so you were against the wall in the shadows of the corner of the hall, his lips moving hungrily, the kiss deepening.

You reached up, lacing your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly, earning a groan from Brad in return. His tongue teased your bottom lip, and you opened wider, your tongue touching his. He pulled away for a second, you breathing heavily as he moved to your neck, hands moving up and down your sides.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to do this,” he muttered, the feel of his breath on your neck sending shivers down your spine. “I have a pretty good idea,” you blurted out.

“I’ve been thinking abut you all day, it was killing me seeing Colby all over you,” he said.

“I only want you,” you breathed out.

“Good,” Brad smirked before you pulled him back to your mouth, hungry for his kiss again. 

You put your hands on his chest, his firm muscles against your hands through the soft fabric of his shirt. You trailed down to his stomach, revealing in the feeling of his body. He did the same to you, hands trailing around you, landing on your ass as he gave it a slight squeeze.

You pulled him closer to you, wanting him even closer than he already was, wanting all of him. You felt his crotch against yours, smiling in the kiss about what you did him.

“I want you so bad,” he groaned.

You took his hand, leading him to your bedroom, kicking the door closed behind you. He set you down on the bed, climbing on top of you as you wrapped your arms back around him, drowning in the kiss and his body. He smelled of cologne and tasted like wine, it was intoxicating.

You reached for his pants, toying with the button when there was a knock on the door, startling both of you.

“Y/n?” Colby asked from the other side of the door. “Are you in there? Just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

“Yeah!” you blurted out as quickly as you could. “I’m fine I just wanted to change clothes.”

You facepalmed yourself after saying that, Brad laughing at you. Now you actually would have to change clothes to make it believable. Although, you assumed Colby had some idea about what was going on.

“Rain check?” Brad asked, despite how badly he wanted to go further.

“I guess so,” you sighed. “You can at least take me out for dinner first.”

“Of course, m’lady,” he chuckled. “How’s tomorrow sound?”

“Sounds lovely,” you grinned. “Now get out so I can change and we don’t look suspicious.”

“I think we already look suspicious, love, plus I want to see you without clothes on.”

You shoved him, letting out a laugh.

“You almost get some action and suddenly you’re so bold?” you ask.

“It's the cheap wine, babe,” he nodded. “It’s all about the cheap wine.”

You changed quickly, letting Brad stay in the room, kissing and fondling each other a little more. You wanted to go all the way, but your friends were all in the other room, and you were the host. You took his hand, leaving the room and shutting the door.

“Have fun?” Connor asked, eyeing both of your messed up hair, Brad’s pant button still undone.

“Oops,” you grinned, standing in front of him so he could button it up.

You sat on the couch next to each other, Brad’s hand brushing your thigh, still wanting to be as close to you as possible.

“Not a word,” you pointed at Colby, earning a laugh from everyone in the room.

You looked over at Brad, his soft brown eyes boring into yours. You knew this wasn’t just lust, and that maybe what you’ve always wanted was in the near future. 

Maybe he would be yours.

[helloalycia]

teenage dirtbag [three] // wanda maximoff

summary: Wanda's boyfriend continues to be an aggravation in your life, causing some distance between you and Wanda

warning/s: none

author's note: i really appreciate the feedback you guys gave in the last part – it’s always motivating to read your reactions/comments 🥰

part one | part two | part four | part five | masterlist | wattpad

Sorting things out with Wanda made everything return to normal in no time. So much in fact that she decided I was worth inviting to her and her brother's birthday party.

Never in a million years did I expect the most popular girl in our grade to know who I was, let alone invite me to her birthday party, so to say I was surprised was an understatement.

"It's not a big deal if you can't make it," she said when she handed me the invitation in class. "I mean, I'd love it if you could, but yeah, no pressure."

I was in awe, accepting the invite and reading it quickly. It must have been a pretty expensive party if she was giving out special invites, that's for sure.

"You want me to come?" I asked, still unsure whether this was a joke or not.

"Only if you want to," she said quickly, eyes darting around the room and anywhere but at me. "Like I said, you don't have to. It's not a big deal and– I– yeah." She pressed her lips together and stopped rambling, offering me a small smile.

"Thanks," I said quietly, slotting the invite in my notebook. "I'll, er, I'll think about it."

She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and faced forward, nodding. "Yeah, sure, no rush."

After that awkward conversation, I discovered she'd also invited Y/BF/N, the two of them developing a little friendship the more she'd hung out with me. He didn't mind going, but only wanted to do so if I went.

"I feel like I kinda don't wanna go," I admitted to him after school as we were studying in the library.

"Oh?" He rose an eyebrow. "And why's that?"

I played with the pencil in my hand. "I don't know, it's just– it's gonna be full of all of her other friends. And they don't really like me. Plus, her dick of a boyfriend is gonna be there. I just think she might have invited me to be nice. Like she might have felt like she had to because we sit together, y'know?"

"I think you know that isn't true," he said knowingly. "Maybe, just maybe, she actually wants us there, wants you there, to celebrate her birthday."

I chewed the inside of my mouth, giving it some thought. But the idea of going to Wanda's house party and seeing a bunch of people I didn't care about getting pissed wasn't comforting. Besides, even if I went, I'd probably see Wanda once before she'd get scooped away by Nate. What was the point?

"Nah, I don't think I'm going," I decided. "She won't notice. I'll just get her a present instead."

Y/BF/N sighed, clearly not impressed with my answer. Nonetheless, he said, "Okay, suit yourself."

"You can go if you want," I added, knowing his presence wasn't linked with mine.

"No Y/N, no party," he said with a dismissive shrug, and I couldn't help but smile.

"Such a good friend," I said teasingly, but there was truth to my words. And I knew he knew that. 

When I saw photos and videos of Wanda and Pietro's party all over my social media the day after, I knew I'd made the right choice in not going. It was the same visuals of everyone getting drunk, doing stupid shit and making a mess. Call me a loser, but that wasn't really my scene. Pietro and Wanda both seemed to enjoy it though, judging from the pictures.

Instead, I bought her a birthday present, knowing I didn't have to but I kind of wanted to, and planned to give it to her when she turned up to class. It was her birthday today, despite throwing the party over the weekend, so I hoped it would make up for my absence (thought I doubted she noticed).

She showed up and settled beside me as I was writing the date in my notebook, making me look up to see she'd made an extra effort to dress up for her birthday, looking fancier than usual. I couldn't help but smile at the giant '18' birthday badge pinned to her jacket.

"Happy birthday, Wanda," was the first thing I said when I saw her. "You look amazing."

A bashful smile appeared on her lips. "Thank you, Y/N."

"I hope your party went well," I said, giving her my full attention whilst trying not to drool over how beautiful she looked.

Surprisingly, her smile faded and her eyebrows knitted together. "Yeah, it did... could you not make it? I tried looking for you and– yeah..."

I opened my mouth to speak, admittedly a little embarrassed that she'd caught me out. I was sure she wouldn't notice – the pictures made it seem like there were loads of guests, I'd definitely have blended in if I were there – but clearly I was mistaken.

"I just thought–" she began, before shaking her head. "Never mind."

"Sorry, I thought–" I started, but like her, didn't know what to say. "Parties aren't my thing," I admitted truthfully. "But it looked fun. You enjoyed it, right?"

She nodded, a small forced smile on her lips. "Yeah, right. It's cool. No biggie."

I swallowed awkwardly. It seemed like a biggie and now I felt bad.

"I, er, got you a gift," I blurted, hoping to change the subject. Reaching into my backpack, I pulled out the terribly wrapped present and held it out nervously. "I hope you, er, like it."

Her eyebrows raised as her eyes flickered between the present and I. "Oh? You didn't have to. I wasn't expecting anything."

Was it hot in here or was it just me?

I pulled my collar away from my neck, hoping to circulate some air. "I wanted to. It's not a big deal."

She accepted the gift, fingers brushing mine and making me even more nervous, before opening it up. Her eyes sparkled with delight as she revealed a brand new leather paintbrush carry case.

"The one you always carry around is tattered and falling apart, so I thought I'd get you a new one," I explained, feeling like I had to. "I mean, unless the other one has some sort of sentimental value, then in that case, I can just return this."

"Are you kidding? I love it!" she exclaimed, looking to me with a grin. "It's beautiful, Y/N. I don't even know what else to say."

My shoulders relaxed, a relieved smile tugging at my lips. "Good. Th-that's good. I'm glad you like it."

Without warning, she moved forward off her stool and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, pulling me in for a hug. I was startled, unable to think straight with her body pressed so close to mine and her floral perfume wafting into my nose. Why did she have to smell so good?

"Thank you," she muttered, pulling away but not quite letting go. Her eyes were glowing as they watched me carefully, accompanying her weak-in-the-knees smile. I was sure I'd melt. "It means a lot."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak for fear I'd say something stupid. I resisted the urge to look down at her lips, which were pulled into a small, appreciative smile. She let go of me, looking to the case again and unravelling it. I caught my breath meanwhile, my senses still on override as her perfume lingered.

She was just so damn beautiful.

—

"Okay, how about this – robotic or organic aliens. Which would you rather invade our planet?" Y/BF/N asked.

I chuckled at his question. "Definitely haven't thought about that one, but let's see..."

We were hanging in the bleachers out near the football field as we waited for football practice to end. Y/BF/N had a Film project to do and needed to film the field, so I offered to help like the good friend I was.

"Probably organic," I answered as I balanced on the bleachers, standing up and tiptoeing down them like steps. "At least we could reason with them if they tried to kill us because they'd have a conscience. Robotic aliens would just be programmed to take over and that's it."

Y/BF/N seemed against the idea as he played with his camera. "Yeah, but if they were robotic, all we'd have to do is launch a missile at them and they'd explode. You can break metal. It's harder to break organic matter."

I stifled a laugh. "You've given this much thought, I see."

He gave me a knowing look. "You telling me you don't think aliens exist?"

I stopped tiptoeing and stood still as I looked down at him with humoured eyes. "You know I know aliens exist."

He waved his hand like that was enough reasoning. "There you go then!"

I laughed, wondering how he thought of this stuff, then continued to balance as I walked down the bleachers. Probably the wrong choice as when I heard a voice call me, I looked up, saw it was Wanda, then proceeded to miss a step and fall onto my arse.

"Oh God, Y/N, are you okay?" she asked, moving forward to help me.

My face heated up as Y/BF/N laughed his arse off beside me. I accepted Wanda's hand and let her pull me up, before letting go immediately when I could handle it myself. Her presence always made me nervous, but this was just terrible.

"Yeah, I'm good," I said, glancing at her and freezing at her piercing gaze and suppressed smile.

"You sure?" she asked, glancing at Y/BF/N, before trying to hide her own laughter.

Fuck me, why was I such a mess whenever she was around?

"Very sure," I said, though my back began to ache from where I hit it. "What's up, anyway?"

Y/BF/N finally shut up, to my relief, and Wanda minimised her laughter before scratching her head.

"I'm waiting for practice to end so I can take Pietro home," she said, nodding to the field. "I saw you both sat here and thought I'd say hi. Are you guys watching practice?"

"Not really," I answered, before tilting my head to Y/BF/N. "We're just waiting for it to end so Y/BF/N can film for his project."

"Ooh, that sounds interesting," she said, intrigued and looking to him now. "What's that about?"

As he caught her up on it, I found myself checking Wanda out without realising. She was animated as she listened to Y/BF/N talk about his assignment, eyes giving him all of her attention, and a permanent smile was fixed on her lips as she listened to him. Though it wasn't directed at me, I felt butterflies swirling a storm in my stomach and clutched it, hoping they'd go away. I loved and hated the feeling all at once.

Breaking me from my reverie, a football flew past all three of us and hit the bleachers, startling us all. We looked in the direction it came from and saw the football team looking back at us, some laughing and some disgruntled. Two players ran towards us and when they got close enough, I made them out as Pietro and Nate.

Nate was laughing as he looked between us all, before his gaze fell on me. "It's Y/N, right? I feel like I'm always throwing that thing at you. Sorry about that."

But his constant laughing and lack of guilt refuted his words. I merely clenched my jaw and narrowed my eyes his way, not that he seemed to care nor notice. I was a mere fly in a world that revolved around him. He'd never notice.

"Babe, I'm sorry, I didn't even know you were over here," he added, looking to Wanda. "You okay?"

Wanda crossed her arms and seemed frustrated. "I'm fine, Nate. Just get your ball."

He shrugged and grabbed his ball. Before leaving, he pressed a kiss to Wanda's cheek which made me wince, but she made no attempt in enjoying it. He didn't seem to care as he took off running back to his team. Pietro smiled apologetically at the three of us.

"I'm sorry," he said genuinely. "He can be such a dick sometimes."

That was the understatement of the century.

With that, he turned and ran back to his team to finish up. Wanda sighed, running a hand through her hair, as Y/BF/N and I exchanged glances.

"I should get the car running," she said awkwardly, pointing a thumb over her shoulder and towards the car park. "Good luck with your assignment, Y/BF/N. And I'll see you tomorrow, Y/N."

Waving goodbye with an awkward smile, I watched her leave and wondered the same thing I always did whenever Nate decided to make an appearance in my life.

How could she be dating such a dick?

—

Apart from the birthday party I didn't go to, I'd never been invited (or had a reason to go) to Wanda's house. I'd seen it, rode my bike past it, but never actually been in it. So, when she invited me to her place to work on a project we'd been assigned in class, I was unsure how to feel. She was adamant though and I had no reason to say no, so the only thing left to do was say yes. Even when she offered to drive me there after school.

"This is your car?" I asked with disbelief.

I knew absolutely nothing about cars, but I wasn't blind. Hers was a gorgeous deep red colour with a convertible roof that was currently lowered so anyone in it would feel the sun on their back and wind in their hair.

"Yeah, you like it?" she asked as she got into the driver's seat.

I gulped and sat in the passenger's seat, throwing my backpack at my feet. "It's so nice. You sure you don't mind me drinking in this?"

I had a Pepsi bottle in my hand and was deathly afraid of opening it now in case I spilt it and the cleaning bill would be more than I made in a year at the pizza parlour.

She laughed, already pulling out of the car park. "Of course. Don't be silly."

I glanced in her direction, trying not to get distracted by how good she looked in the driver's seat. She was wearing a red leather jacket, funnily enough, matching the exterior of her car, and she had dark eyeliner around her eyes, accentuating the shape and colour of them and leaving me speechless whenever she looked my way.

"There's CDs in the glove compartment," she was saying as she focused on the road. "Or you can mess around with the radio. It's up to you."

"CDs?" I asked, it piquing my interest. I reached into the glove compartment, adding, "What is this, the 2000s?"

She rolled her eyes playfully, accepting my teasing, as I flicked through the small stack of albums.

"I don't know, I guess I just like having the physical version," she said with a shrug. "It's kind of like a collection."

I chuckled at her need to explain herself, watching the way she rubbed her neck nervously, smiling with embarrassment. Looking back to the albums, a particular one grabbed my attention and I plucked it out with raised brows.

"Oh my God, you like Paramore?" I asked, looking to her with surprise. "Now it's definitely the 2000s."

Her cheeks flushed as she grew flustered. I nudged her in the side gently, getting her attention briefly.

"I'm kidding," I reassured, tilting my head her way playfully. "I actually love Paramore. They're my favourite band."

"Really?" she asked with surprise as I put the CD in her car. I hummed in response, to which she continued, "Have you ever seen them live?"

As For a Pessimist, I'm Pretty Optimistic played quietly in the background, I nodded my head. "Yeah, once. It was a few years ago, but the tickets were shitty and I could just about make them out on stage in the distance."

Wanda laughed, the sound making my heart skip a beat. "No, that's so sad!"

I chuckled in agreement. "Yeah. It was, but oh well. They have a tour coming up this summer, right? Maybe I can get better tickets this time 'round... what about you? Have you ever seen them live?"

She hummed, making a turn at some traffic lights and chewing her lower lip as she focused on doing so. It was definitely the wrong time, but I found myself admiring how attractive it was, especially when her jaw tensed and her defined jawline was on display.

"Yeah, I saw them a few times," she finally responded, pulling me from my stupor. "Some really good seats, some really shitty ones." She giggled at the end, making me smile. "Maybe we could go to that concert in the summer. If you're up for it?"

This seemed like one of those times where you made plans with a friend that you knew would never happen, so to not cause an awkwardness in the conversation, I nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, maybe."

She glanced at me and I mirrored her smile, the flash of excitement in her eyes knocking me breathless.

When we reached her house, I was awestruck at how big it was from the inside. I mean, it looked huge from the outside, but the inside was even better. Her family were rich, I knew that, but this was some other level of rich.

"Here, c'mon, I'll get you a drink, then we can go into the dining room to start," Wanda said, failing to recognise my amazement and instead leading me to the kitchen. "We have tropical juice, apple juice, water, Sprite, Cola... which d'you want?"

I settled at the island, taking a seat and subtly admiring her kitchen. "Er, apple juice is fine with me."

She smiled brightly before pouring me a glass, whilst pouring herself some Sprite. Standing opposite me, we both took a moment to have a drink, but didn't get chance to exchange words as her mum entered the room and noticed me instantly.

"Y/N, it's so lovely to see you again!" she said kindly, patting me on the shoulder before heading to the fridge. "You girls hanging out? Studying?"

"We have a project," Wanda filled in as I nodded in agreement. "We alright to claim the dining room?"

After grabbing some water from the fridge, Wanda's mum pressed a kiss to her daughter's cheek. "Sure thing, sweetie. If you need anything, just let me know." Smiling once more at me, she said, "It's good to see you, Y/N."

"You too," I said with a friendly smile before she left.

"Come on," Wanda said, motioning for me to follow. "We have tons to do."

The next hour and a half was spent with Wanda and I planning out our project, our work sprawled along the dining table messily. We were making progress, until she got a call suddenly. It seemed serious as she gave me an apologetic glance and excused herself. I let her go and leaned back in my seat, wondering what I could do as I waited for her to return. That thought was resolved quite quickly when Pietro popped his head in the doorway and spotted me.

"Y/N! What an honour to welcome you to our humble abode," he exclaimed, entering the room fully. "What brings you here?"

Pietro's presence always brought an amused smile to my lips. "Wanda and I are working on a Chemistry project. She's just nipped out for a phone call."

He tutted dramatically, crossing his arms. "Well, well, well. We can't have that! Wanda needs to learn to entertain her guests. C'mon. I was about to head to the gaming room and could use the company."

I was visibly surprised. "You have a gaming room? Dude, that's awesome!"

He laughed. "C'mon."

Joining Pietro, the two of us headed to this so-called gaming room and I was not disappointed. There was a huge TV with a PlayStation and Nintendo Switch connected to it, a snooker table, a foosball table, a dart board, some old arcade games – it was amazing, any gamer's biggest dream.

"What you feeling, princess?" he said with that flirtatious smile of his.

I rolled my eyes playfully. He was being overtly flirty, more so than his sister was – was it a Maximoff personality trait or something? – and I wasn't sure whether he meant it or was just being his usual self.

"Are you flirting?" I deadpanned, tilting my head curiously. "I can't tell."

He pocketed his hands, swinging back on the heels of his feet. "That depends. Is it working?"

Despite my lack of interest in him like that, I felt my face heat up at the attention. "Pietro, I must tell you that any moves you attempt to make kind of won't work."

"And why's that?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the snooker table with a cheeky smile on his lips. "Am I not your type?"

"Unless you change into a girl, then no," I played along, making him flush with embarrassment. "Hate to break it to you, but I'm gay."

"Okay, I guess that makes sense," he mumbled to himself, before sighing and meeting my eyes. "We can still be friends, right? Or is that forbidden since you're already friends with my sister?"

I laughed and approached him. "Friends works. I don't think Wanda will care. I certainly don't."

He grinned. "Awesome! Well, d'you wanna play a round of foosball?"

"Sure," I said with an amused expression. "Bet I can kick your arse."

He pushed himself off the table and feigned surprise. "Oh? Game on, Y/L/N."

I didn't realise how long Wanda had been on the phone until I managed to get through three rounds of foosball and was in the middle of a snooker game with Pietro.

"You may have beat me at foosball, but you're terrible at this," he pointed out with stifled laughter.

I'd missed my third shot and it was more funny than it was embarrassing.

"Your talking distracts me," I said dismissively, before lining up the next shot with my cue.

He watched as I tried to take my shot before sighing loudly. I glanced at him with a quirked brow.

"You have a thought you'd like to share?" I asked playfully.

He hesitated, moving forward to correct my posture. "Look, if you just aim it like this–"

"Don't even think about it, Romeo," I said jokingly, standing up straight and pushing him away gently. "I know what you're thinking."

He laughed. "What? I was just going to help you aim!"

I gave him a knowing look. "So holding me close is just a bonus?"

"Fine, take your shot without my help and see what happens," he said dismissively, waving his hand.

"I'll do just that," I said with confidence, before bending down and taking my shot. The ball hit the other and neither were pocketed, which was an achievement as I'd got the cue ball in several times before, but still pretty shit as I didn't score any points.

Pietro smiled with satisfaction, leaning on his cue. "You happy with that?"

I held in a laugh as I looked to him. "Shut up."

He chuckled before bumping me out the way. "Now for the professional."

Bending down to take his shot, he pulled back his cue before hitting the balls. They rolled around on the table and one ball was about to go in, but I quickly grabbed it before he could get the point.

"Y/N!" he shouted between laughter. "That's cheating!"

"Technically we didn't establish rules," I pointed out, before moving backwards as he tried to grab it from my hand. "What do you say to calling it a draw and playing something else?"

"I say that's a childish way to admit you've lost," he responded, before moving forward quickly. I dodged his attempt and he pursed his lips. "Y/N."

"Pietro."

He smirked. "Seriously?"

I grinned.

He tried to grab it again and ended up chasing me around the room as I avoided giving in. Taking the piss out of Y/BF/N enough times had prepared me for moments like this, so I was able to avoid Pietro long enough to run into whoever walked through the door.

"Shit, Wanda, I'm sorry," I said between laughter, steadying both me and her.

She smiled with confusion, about to speak, but Pietro caught up to me and lifted me up, throwing me onto the couch before I could protest.

"No more cheating," he said sternly, as I lifted my head from the pile of cushions on the couch to look up at him.

"You're an arse," I said, pushing myself up off the couch.

"And you're a sore loser!"

We had a mini staring competition before the two of erupted into laughter.

"You're not half bad, Pietro," I complimented as he helped me up.

"Thank you, princess," he said, the flirtatious smile on his lips again.

I shoved him in the shoulder playfully before looking to Wanda, who was chewing on her lip as she looked between Pietro and I with an unreadable expression.

"So, what prompted you to leave Y/N alone for an hour?" Pietro asked, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, making me shove him away. He grinned at me before looking to Wanda.

"Nate called," Wanda responded carefully, arms crossed as she continued to look between us. God, I hoped she didn't think Pietro and I liked each other. That would be embarrassing.

Pietro scoffed from beside me, making Wanda sigh with annoyance.

"Don't start, Piet," she said and gave him a look which he seemed to understand.

By the sounds of it, Pietro didn't seem to like Wanda's dick of a boyfriend either. That was strange since wasn't impressing the brother the first part of being in a relationship with someone? And they were on the same football team, so I figured he'd at least tolerate him.

"Are we alright to get back to studying?" Wanda asked, directing her stare to me. The annoyance she held for Pietro was still present in her eyes and I suddenly felt nervous when she looked my way.

"Yeah, of course," I said, before giving Pietro a half-smile. "Rematch at snooker next time. Sound good?"

"Try to keep the balls on the table and we'll see," he teased, before nodding to Wanda. "You should get back to your project before Wanda kills us both with her deadly glare."

I smiled awkwardly, looking back to Wanda as she was indeed glaring at her brother. Clearly there was some sibling rivalry going on here, and I definitely didn't want to get in the middle of it, so I headed to Wanda, signalling I was ready to leave.

The two of us headed back to the dining room in an uncomfortable silence. I felt like I'd done something wrong and she was giving me the silent treatment which was strange. Then I figured it was probably something with Nate that made her annoyed, so didn't question it too much.

We sat back down and I looked at what we'd done so far to try and pick up where we left off, but then she spoke out of the blue, taking me by surprise.

"Do you like my brother?"

It was so abrupt that I took a moment to acknowledge it, blinking. "What?"

"Pietro," she clarified, saying it with such dismissiveness like it wasn't a big deal. Her attention was on the books before us as she continued, "Do you like him?"

I tried not to laugh as I shook my head. "No, Wanda. I mean, don't get me wrong, he's a great guy. But yeah, no, I don't like him like that."

She chewed her lip, nodding, but I swear I saw a hint of a smile on her lips. I hoped it wasn't the thought of Pietro and I that made her annoyed. I wasn't that bad, was I? I know she cared about her brother and was probably overprotective, but me being his girlfriend couldn't have been that bad, right?

We got back to work in no time, getting a lot done. I didn't realise how late it was getting until Wanda's mum poked her head in, asking if I wanted to stay for dinner.

"Dinner?" I asked, eyebrows raising with surprise. I checked my watch and realised how long I'd been here. "Damn, maybe I should head back."

"Nonsense, you must stay," her mum insisted. "Y/M/N won't mind. A daughter of hers is a daughter of mine."

"You can even sleepover if you want," Wanda offered, and I almost choked on my own spit. "It's getting pretty late."

I shook my head, forcing a small smile so they wouldn't get offended. "Honestly, it's fine. I can head back."

"Please?" Wanda asked with a hopeful expression. "It's the least I can do. I kinda wasted your time for an hour earlier..."

"I should ask my mum," I said, chewing on the inside of my mouth.

"Oh, I'll ring and let her know," Wanda's mum said breezily, before looking to Wanda. "D'you think you can clear your things up? Your brother is gonna set the table."

"Sure, mum." Wanda smiled her way as she left, before looking to me. "I've got clothes and a spare toothbrush you can use tonight."

I smiled awkwardly, nodding. Sleeping over at my crush's house wasn't how I thought I'd be spending my Wednesday evening, yet here we were.

[alliedbiscuit]

msr fic / s7 post-closure but pre-all things / wc: 3398

Scully takes Maggie out for a birthday dinner, and you'll never guess who they run into.

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

“So, how are feeling about dessert?” the waiter asks hopefully.

Maggie Scully scoffs. “Oh, no. I couldn’t eat another bite. Maybe just a cup of coffee? Decaf, please.”

“Mom, are you sure? You should get dessert,” Dana Scully prods, stopping herself short before she could let it slip, “It’s your birthday!” The last gift her mother would appreciate is a gaggle of underpaid waiters singing some public-domain-compliant version of a birthday song while the whole restaurant turns its attention toward her. Like mother, like daughter.

Well, the daughter made an exception and found that kind of thing charming exactly once. But at least she got a nice keychain out of it. All her mother would get was humiliation and a chocolate lava cake.

As soon as the waiter leaves to fetch their after dinner coffees, Maggie reveals her true intentions.

“I was thinking we could go to that ice cream parlor down the street. If I’m going to indulge, I think I want a hot fudge sundae. Or maybe we could split a banana split?”

“Or you could get a hot fudge sundae and I could get a banana split, and we could split both,” Scully suggests.

“See, that’s why you work for the FBI.”

“Dessert Conflict Resolution was part of my training at Quantico.”

Both Scullys giggle.

“Does Fox have the same specialty? Or is that what you bring to the team?”

“Mulder’s dessert strategy is just to eat everything and then swim a mile and run five the next day. No, he’s a Takeout Menu Marksman, though. He knows where to order from and what to order so it travels the best and doesn’t get cold and congealed by the time it arrives. Might sound like a trivial skill, but it’s a lifesaver on movie night.”

Maggie continues smiling but cocks her head slightly. Dana realizes why almost instantly.

“You have movie night?”

“It’s not a set thing or anything. We just…if we’re not busy with a case.”

“You just watch movies? As coworkers?”

“As friends.”

“Just friends?”

Dana lets out a long sigh as she stares her mother down. Her mother, maintaining that gentle yet challenging grin. Dana considers her response carefully. She could offer a simple yes because that is the fact of the matter. They are just friends. She could criticize the wording choice. “Just” friends? Why does it have to be “just” friends? As if friendship isn’t somehow enough or isn’t valuable?

She could realize it’s her mother’s birthday and she’s the only other Scully woman left to confide in about matters of the heart, and although she doesn’t want to bring up the New Year’s kiss because she still doesn’t really know what it meant, maybe they both need this little gift of honesty, filled with tempered excitement and promise.

“For now,” Dana Scully finally admits.

Maggie’s grin grows as Scully just shakes her head and manages to keep her slight eye roll from reaching embarrassed teenager level. The waiter does bail her out a bit by choosing that moment to deliver their coffees.

“How is Fox doing? After his mother…” Maggie trails off, but her daughter knows not to expect any more specifics.

“Better? I mean, as well as can be expected. The thing is, right after that, he found out some more about his sister. About what happened to her. It was just so much all at once. I was really worried…”

Maggie reaches across the table to lay a hand on hers.

“But, it was almost like he was ready for it. He finally had some answers. Like it brought him some peace.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah. He needed that.”

“We all do.”

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

Maggie is the one to spot him first as they’re heading for the door.

“Is that- is that Fox?” she asks her daughter.

“What? No, he wouldn't…” Dana trails off as she looks straight ahead to where her mother was indicating and confirms that it is indeed Fox Mulder, standing with his hands in his pockets and his eyes trained to the floor as he appears to be waiting near the vestibule for the restrooms.

“Mulder?” Scully questions as she approaches, her voice giving away her confusion and growing concern.

His head darts up in surprise, but a beaming smile of recognition quickly overtakes his face.

“Hey, Scully! Mrs. Scully, it’s so nice to see you!”

“You too, Fox,” Maggie kindly replies, although a quick glance to her daughter confirms her suspicion that Dana is still very confused by his presence.

“Did you…did you need something?” She suddenly feels silly for presuming that he must have come there with urgent news or a case or something, but why else would Fox Mulder be at Petrino’s on a Saturday night? Did his informants trade in clandestine meetings in parking garages for family-style Italian?

“Hmm?” Mulder asks.

“You didn’t come here to find me? I told you I was bringing my mom here for her birthday, didn’t I?” He didn’t look like he had rushed to the restaurant from the office or his apartment as she had originally assumed. He had clearly shaved and combed his hair nicely. He wore an olive green sweater with dark blue jeans and a black wool pea coat rather than his leather jacket. He had definitely made an effort.

“You did, but I thought you were going out tomorrow night on her actual birthday. Happy birthday, by the way, Mrs. Scully.”

“Thank you, Fox. I’m going to have lunch with some ladies from church after mass tomorrow, so I asked Dana if we could do Saturday night instead.”

“Ah. What a weird coincidence then. I can’t believe we didn’t see you at all during dinner.”

We.

Oh God.

Mulder was on a date.

Mulder was on a date in this restaurant on the night he thought Scully wasn’t going to be there. Mulder was on a date right after Scully had confessed to her mother (and herself) that their “just friends” status was in the process of changing. Mulder was on a date right after he’d been through so much pain but seemed to come out lighter and more open and he wanted to share it with someone…who wasn’t Dana Scully.

“So, you’ve already eaten then?” Maggie asks since her daughter appears unable to form a coherent statement at the moment.

“Yeah, we just finished. I’m just waiting for her…” he seems to trail off just to motion towards the restroom rather than say anything indelicate, but then he notices Maggie’s poorly masked look of concern toward Dana, and then he notices Dana’s completely unmasked look of shock.

And then he gets it.

“Oh, no! It’s not…I want you to meet her,” Mulder insists as he grabs a hold of both of Scully’s elbows and then glances anxiously toward the restroom door.

Dana Scully looks like she might be ill.

Thankfully Mulder only stammers a moment longer until the restroom door opens and he finds reprieve when a tall, thin woman appearing to be in her mid-60s walks through the door.

“Aunt Helen,” Mulder calls.

Somehow Scully’s eyes manage to get even wider as some of the color returns to her face.

“Aunt Helen, there are a few people I’d really like you to meet. This is my partner, Dana Scully, and this is her mother, Margaret Scully.”

Aunt Helen smiles widely in recognition, first shaking Maggie’s hand and then Dana’s. “It is such a pleasure to meet you both. I’ve heard such wonderful things.”

She lingers with her hand holding Dana’s while she says this, and the younger Scully is left blushing. She hazards a look at Mulder, but he doesn’t look embarrassed by this revelation. He holds her gaze with nothing but pride.

“This is my aunt, Helen Briggs. She’s my mom’s sister. She’s visiting for the weekend from Charlotte.”

They all kind of marvel over the fact that they were in the same restaurant and what a coincidence and oh, we were seated near the back bar, that must be why we didn’t see you and Scully is just starting to feel her pulse return to normal as Aunt Helen laments not having a chance to talk with the Scullys.

“Well, Dana and I skipped dessert so we could go to The Big Dipper for some ice cream. Would you two like to join us?”

“Oh, that would be lovely. As long as we’re not intruding,” says Aunt Helen.

“Not at all,” Scully assures her. “There is one catch, though.”

“It’s not real ice cream. It’s that Tofutti nonsense, isn’t it?” Mulder groans.

“It better not be,” Maggie insists. “I don’t know how she eats that stuff.”

Scully ignores her mother and her partner’s bad mouthing of her frozen treats as she returns her attention to Aunt Helen.

“I’m afraid if you want to come along, you will have to reveal a few good Young Mulder stories. And by ‘a few,’ I mean as many as you’ve got. And by ‘good,’ I mean the more embarrassing the better.”

“I’ll start thinking now,” Aunt Helen laughs.

“I knew I should’ve picked a different restaurant,” Mulder says regretfully.

***********

They’ve just sat down to a small, round table for four with their ice cream when Mulder stands up to get them all more napkins, and Aunt Helen retrieves a small, rectangular piece of paper from her purse that she then deftly slides to Dana.

“Oh my god!” Scully exclaims with joy.

Staring back at her from the paper is a very young Fox Mulder. She guesses he must be around 8 or 9 in the school photo. His long, sandy brown hair falls just above his eyebrows. He doesn’t have his distinctive nose yet, but his bottom lip is already a little pouty. The real give away is the eyes. He’s grinning for the camera, but his eyes still have that soulfulness, that slight sadness.

She’s surprised. She knows she shouldn’t be. His eyes didn’t suddenly change when Samantha was taken. His eyes were probably always like that.

But she had always assumed that the great tragedy had flipped a switch for Young Fox Mulder. That before that single event, he had certainly been a perfectly happy child. Funny and athletic, popular for sure. But the humor developed as a defense mechanism later in life. And the sports were a great physical release as well as an excuse to be out of the house as much as possible. She didn’t actually know what he was like before, but now that she thought about it, home life was probably never all that great if it eventually led to a father sacrificing one child and leaving the other to always live with the guilt and loss.

It was very possible that Fox Mulder had always been a little boy with a lot on his mind.

In contrast, present day, adult Fox Mulder looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world as he returns with extra napkins, ready to tuck into his chocolate peanut butter ice cream in a waffle cone – that is until he realizes what his friend and partner Dana Scully is looking at.

“Oh come on. I was gone for thirty seconds, and you have the visual aids out.”

Scully continues to beam as Maggie finally gets a glimpse of the photo in her hand.

“Oh, Fox!”

“Okay,” Mulder said exasperatedly. “Does this meet your embarrassment quota?” he asks, looking pointedly at Scully.

“Not even close! This isn’t embarrassing. It’s adorable!”

Mulder rolls his eyes but can’t hide his bashful grin at her comment.

“It’s only fair, Fox. I know you’ve seen family photos of Dana at my house,” Mrs. Scully says, sounding like a mother well practiced in settling disputes between children.

“Just a couple. I do like that high school graduation picture, though. I still don’t know how you kept your cap on with all that hair.”

“That was the style back then. Everybody teased their hair and used a ton of hairspray.”

“I thought it might be a religious thing at Catholic school. The higher the hair, the closer to God,” Mulder teases.

Maggie and Aunt Helen chuckle, though the latter gives him a good-natured swat on the arm in admonishment.

“See, this is what I need, though. I need something from the teen years. That’s peak embarrassment fodder,” Scully says.

“If you ask our colleagues, I think my peak embarrassment fodder would come from about 1991 to present,” Mulder points out.

Aunt Helen just looks slightly regretful. “I’m afraid I don’t have many stories from those years, Dana.”

Mulder makes eye contact with Aunt Helen. “You didn’t miss much,” he insists. She looks like she wants to debate him, but he just places a hand on hers reassuringly, and they seem to make a silent agreement to not argue the point any further.

Mulder had never really mentioned any other family before. She knew his grandparents had all passed before she met him, but she had assumed, just like with everything else, that any other extended family connections had disappeared along with Samantha. That no one would know how to comfort and console The Mulders in a situation like that, with no explanation.

His aunts and uncles must have had questions, probably even had their own theories. Did his mother’s side suspect his father’s involvement, or did his father’s side blame his mother somehow? Did any of them blame…no, she couldn’t go down that route. Besides, did anyone ever suspect horrific things like that before the days of cable news and supermarket tabloids?

The point is, it was a tense situation, so Scully assumed they had all done what wealthy white people in places like Martha’s Vineyard and Boston and Raleigh did with any uncomfortable subject – they avoided it completely.

And that meant avoiding the little boy with a lot on his mind as he became a teenager with even more on his mind.

Scully had accompanied Mulder to a small burial service for his mother in Raleigh a few months ago. It was just the service. No gathering or dinner after, or at least not one that Mulder told her about. The attendees at the service were all pretty spread out, not much mingling. Again, it was another sudden loss shrouded in mystery. They all avoided particulars as much as they could.

Scully didn’t remember seeing Aunt Helen that day, but maybe she was there and just couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Maybe she wasn’t there because she couldn’t bring herself to go and then regretted it. Dana Scully didn’t know, and it didn’t actually matter. The point is that she’s here now. And that’s exactly what Mulder’s look of reassurance and acceptance seems to say.

It seems to help her perk up because she offers playfully, “Oh, what about that summer on Quonochontaug? I think you were 9 or so, and you were collecting leaves for one of your Indian Guide badges.”

“Oh god!”

“I’m hooked already. Not to jump ahead, but please tell me there’s poison ivy involved,” Scully says gleefully.

Aunt Helen’s bark of laughter and Mulder’s exaggerated eye roll are all the confirmation she needs.

“It was heavily involved! But that’s not the worst part. While he was working on his Leaf Collecting badge, he also earned credit towards his Wildlife badge when he came across a skunk in the woods.”

“No!” Scully shouts.

“Ivyed and skunked at the same time,” Mulder admits.

“Oh you poor thing,” Maggie adds sympathetically, but with barely contained laughter.

“He had to jump right from a tomato juice bath for the skunk smell…”

“Which didn’t work!”

“…into an oatmeal bath for the itching.”

“Which worked better, but I still smelled like a Grateful Dead concert.”

Both Scullys are full on giggling at this point.

“Do you remember what Grandpa Ralph said when he walked in and saw you and mom dunking me in a tub of oatmeal?” Mulder asks.

Aunt Helen pitches her voice deeper and amps up her Southern twang, “Why don’t cha dip him in some egg and flour next? We toss him in the frying pan, we got supper! We’re havin’ Fried Fox tonight!”

Now they’re all in hysterics. Even the man who usually hates his given name can’t help but laugh along, especially when it makes his lovely company so happy.

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

Scully enters the basement office Monday morning to find Mulder already there, flipping through an open drawer in the filing cabinet.

“Good morning,” she says cheerfully.

He looks up and smiles. “Good morning. Long time no see.”

“How was the rest of your weekend? Did you guys do any sightseeing or anything?”

“No, we just had a late breakfast yesterday before I took her to the airport, but it was good to catch up some more. She told me to thank you again for letting us tag along for ice cream. It was really nice.”

“It was,” Scully agrees.

Mulder appears to be considering something for a moment before he crosses over to the desk and picks up a small envelope.

“She also told me to give this to you,” he says almost bashfully, extending the envelope in Scully’s direction. “She told me I couldn’t look inside, and I didn’t. But I think I know what’s in there, and if I’m right, you don’t have to keep it. You can just leave it here on the desk.”

Well, now she’s intrigued. Scully opens the envelope to find a small handwritten note at the top.

“I thought you might like these. I have plenty more too, if you’d ever like to see them or want any more stories. Please don’t be a stranger.”

Scully lifts up the note to see the remaining contents inside and finds a small stack of photographs, a mixture of more school photos along with a few wallet-sized family portraits and a couple candids taken on the beaches of the Vineyard or Rhode Island, she can’t tell. But she sees the same set of eyes in all of them.

She looks back to read the rest of the note.

“I’m so glad I got to meet you, Dana. Take care!”

Below Aunt Helen’s elegant signature, she has also written her home address and phone number. Scully will have to call and thank her.

“She tried to give some to me,” Mulder explains, “but I didn’t really want…and like I said, you don’t have to…”

“No, I’d like to keep them,” Dana insists.

Mulder lets her statement hang in the air for a moment, but he can’t help but diffuse it.

“You just want more blackmail material.”

“Something like that,” Scully says teasingly, but there’s no bite behind it.

“I knew I should’ve picked a different restaurant.”

She chuckles lightly as she shuffles the photos into a neat stack to place back in the envelope, thinking that this is the point where they get back to work. Mulder stays standing in front of her and appears to be considering something again. Does he have another envelope that he’s afraid to give her?

“You know it was pure luck that we ended up at Petrino’s the same night as you. I actually gave Aunt Helen a few options and let her choose. I was pushing more for that Thai place in Arlington, just off Old Dominion. The one that’s been there forever,” Mulder explains.

“Oh, the one with the secret menu? I’ve still never been there. Can’t say I’m surprised that Aunt Helen wasn’t up for Thai food, though.”

“Yeah. Fair point,” Mulder nods for a moment too long before continuing. “Would you like to go there sometime? Like this Saturday? With me?”

Scully slowly looks up from the envelope to see Mulder’s face because in all matters, other than the divine, Dana Scully needs to see to believe. And the slightly nervous yet gentle grin that she finds allows her to believe it to be true – Fox Mulder has just asked her out on a real date.

“I would like that,” Scully says gently.

“Good. You wanna say 7:30? Or we can always figure out time later,” Mulder states, aiming for practicality to keep him from grinning like a complete idiot. He ends up grinning like a moderate idiot, but he’s okay with that.

“Sounds good.”

Yep, Scully will definitely have to call Aunt Helen and thank her.

[mitsukui]

put your lips like this | f.w.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader.

Summary: there is a secret buried inside your heart that is keeping you from going to the Yule Ball. However, Fred decides to be the greatest of friends and  teach you one thing or two.

Word Count: 2.1k - oops...

Warnings: none! Just a whole lot of fluff! ✨ Oh, there is a curse word towards the ending.

Disclaimer: none of the pictures used in the edit below belong to me; I simply put them together.

A/N: HAPPY HOLIDAYS, BABIES! *aggressively listens to ‘My Boo’, by Usher and Alicia Keys*. Not to be dramatic, but James Phelps with long hair could punch me right in the face, and I would thank him. Please, leave me some feedback if you feel like it! My askbox is open for your opinions, thoughts and requests. Thank you so much for your time and attention!  ♡

Masterlist!

“You know I’m good at keeping secrets, so just tell me already! C’mon, tell me why you don’t want to go to the Yule Ball.”

A heavy and utterly annoyed sigh left your lips. Fred Weasley – that prick! – had been tormenting you the entire day. You knew he was a curious soul, but you had never imagined he would try so hard to make you spill one of your secrets out.

It was not something you fancied sharing; actually, it was something that made you feel rather pathetic and embarrassed. How could you tell your friend, whom you had unexpectedly developed feelings for, that you had never been kissed?

Curiosity and anticipation were emanating from his figure as he whispered soft ‘tell me’s, and moved anxiously on his chair. You fidgeted with the quill in your hand before you sighed once more. It did not seem like he was going to give up on solving that mystery any time soon. “Alright, fine. I will tell you. But only if you promise you will act as if nothing had ever happened.”

“Pinky promise!” He immediately dropped his own quill and extended his right hand towards you, his little finger waiting up to be intertwined with yours. Your eyes studied his hand, and you did not fail to notice how big and veiny they were.

Oh, Godric, the voice that took form of your consciousness echoed in your head, this boy is going to be the death of me.

Reluctantly, you closed your textbook and put your quill down on the wooden table, these two actions being followed by the connection between your fingers. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, the similarity to a little boy that he carried in his behavior causing you to chuckle. However, your good spirits soon vanished away when you came to the realization you now had to tell him the truth. You had never been good at lying, for all it mattered.

He beamed widely at you, and he had his ears ready to capture all the words that were about to slip from your lips. But nothing was coming out of them, and a slight impatience resulted in his eyebrows being furrowed together. Fred went back to whispering words to hurry you into opening up, and the situation just overwhelmed your inexperienced heart.

It was all too much: you could not bear with the fact that he was staring so intensely at you, nor with the fact that you were about to tell him you saw yourself as a ridiculously stupid teenager who had never felt a pair of lips brushing against their own.

“I don’t really know how to do the whole…kissing thing. And I refuse to go to the Yule Ball because of it, given that chances of being kissed by your date are high.”

Your confession came out as a train losing its track – fast, unruly and through gritted teeth. Although you were deeply ashamed of that part of you, his face expressed the total opposite of any of your feelings.

His eyebrows were still furrowed together, but now scoff dripped from his words. “Yeah, right. And George is more handsome than me.”

You could swear your heart skipped a beat at that moment. Blinking in the rawest surprise your body could internally gather, you stared at him and waited for him to say anything else. You were lost for words. How could he not believe you?

“I mean, you’re incredibly beautiful. And I know you have a few people interested in you.” When you raised an eyebrow at his latter words, he was quick to snap back at you. “I’ve noticed how that Ravenclaw boy looks at you.”

Even though there was an inconspicuous blush tainting your face due to his compliments, you waved his words off and laughed shyly. He probably was just acting nice towards you. That was a huge characteristic of the Weasley family – being raised by an amazing woman like Molly herself made such a thing come out naturally.

You remained quiet for a few moments, your heart beating fast in your chest and your eyes staring out the library windows. You still had a hard time believing you had just confessed your deepest secret to your love interest, but it was of no use crying over spilt milk. If he were one to keep his promises, one of your rare studying sessions with Fred Weasley would soon return to normal.

But what if he started pitying you for it? Or what if he stopped talking to you, once he concluded your universes did not collide? He surely was vastly experienced when it came down to kissing. Kissing Fred Weasley would probably be the biggest honor of your life.

Unconsciously, your eyes left the windows and roamed the surroundings until they reached his lips. It was almost as if the whole world had stopped.

Fred had thin lips, but they seemed to be astonishingly soft for someone who caused as much trouble as he did. His upper lip was subtly curved, and you were mesmerized by every single little detail you could visually grasp. That moment would haunt your thoughts for a long time, once it was pure cruelty how you had fallen out of love – the one you loved did not love you back.

But you were terribly wrong about that. Fred had been experiencing some shifts on his feelings towards you lately. He had watched you blossom into a charming young girl, and there was something about you hitting hard on his heart. And, frankly speaking, after he caught you looking at his lips, he would be in heaven if he ever got the chance to kiss you.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He helped you gather all of your belongings with a gentle smile hanging on his lips and, once more, you swore your heart was melting away over everything he did.

As you walked out of the library together, dipped in a somewhat agonizing silence, you felt his fingers brushing against yours, which caused you to instantly look at him. “Can I hold your hand while we walk?”

Holy moly, what did he just say? Your consciousness was again alarmed at the scenario taking place right in front of your eyes. Okay. Keep calm. Don’t freak out.

“Y-Yeah, I guess.”

He did not waste any time on ending the ridiculously small distance between your hands. However, he did not simply hold your hand in his; he intertwined your fingers together, and gave your hand a light squeeze. His eyes fell upon you, and his gorgeous smile grew wider. You could not help but smile along.

You continued on walking together in silence, the only tangible thing between you and Fred being the tiny circles his thumb drew on your skin. If it were possible to describe your feelings, one would choose the talk about fireworks, or waves violently crashing on rocks on a breathtaking beach.

He unquestionably would be the death of you.

He tugged on your hand once you stopped in a deserted hallway. There was something astounding about the fact that he was able to find a calm and quiet place on Hogwarts, but he had always been like a box full of surprises to you. And he was also really good at knowing all the best places in the castle.

You smiled at him, the riddle he was presenting filling your chest with amusement. “What are we doing here?” All of the terrors you felt earlier returned to you, and you felt like withdrawing. “Wait. We are not here so you can lecture me on kissing, right?! Because, if we are, I would very much like to lea-“

Fred abruptly shushed you, stepping closer to your body and gently pushing your back against a wall. His eyes darted up and down your face, and he grinned cunningly down at you. He was so much taller than you, and the sight of him towering over you was quite intimidating.

“I’m gonna be your kissing instructor.”

Bitch, said what?! Your eyes widened in shock, his fingers reached out to place a lock of hair behind your ear, and your biggest wish was to evaporate. With your head shaking vigorously, and your lips being pressed together in a disappearing line, you exclaimed you would never accept that.

You could never allow physical intimacy to destroy your friendship with Fred Weasley. It was better to have him as a friend than not having him at all.

He found your actions to be absolutely adorable, the desire to consume your innocence growing bigger and bigger each second. “I’m only trying to help you out, y’know. If that Ravenclaw boy is not willing to claim these luscious lips, I sure am.”

Your cheeks erupted in a dark red shade, and you looked away from him, unable to take it for any longer. He was now evidently playing with your feelings, and you did not know how to deal with his attitude.

You were torn apart between accepting his kiss and pushing him away. It could go two ways: you would either kiss him and dismiss all of your feelings and expectations, or you would fall even harder for him. You were not exactly leaning towards neither option.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now.” He murmured his confession as he briefly dodged his eyes from your face as well. It was unusual to see the great Fred Weasley embarrassed but, apparently, it was happening right in your face. “So, please, let me be your first kiss. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Your gaze moved back to him and he also had a light pink flush on his cheeks. He looked painfully handsome at that moment, with his freckles splattered all over his skin, and his lips trembling slightly. Your eyes met, and both of you smiled timidly. You were swooning.

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He repeated your monosyllabic answer and nodded a bit, mostly to himself, assuring he would finally feel his lips on his. “I’m gonna put my hands on your hips now.”

And he did. Both of his hands ghosted over your body until they reached your hips. He pulled you a little bit closer to his chest, and his scent tickled your nose. You felt like electrical waves were rushing through your entire body, and you wondered how you had managed not to faint.

“Look, do what I’m doing.” Fred parted his lips slightly and tilted his head to his left side a bit, his eyelashes fluttering until he finally closed his eyes. He looked heavenly, but you could never admit that and put yourself into an even more vulnerable position.

An almost inaudible snicker rang in his ears, and he soon opened his eyes and looked at you. You confessed he looked quite silly like that, but he ignored your comment and ordered you to mimic him again. His voice was low and his warm breath hit your face gently. You finally obeyed, feeling all jittery and anxious.

You looked captivating in his eyes, and he was ready to show you how amazing a tad of intimacy could be.

He leaned down, bringing your lips together in an extremely slow brush against each other. “Put your lips like this.” And, a second time, you did as he told you to, copying all of his actions.

It did not take long for him to finally involve your uneasy lips with his own. He started out by giving small pecks onto your skin, but his hunger got too big and he demanded more.

Your small silhouette was pressed even harder to his body, and he touched your lower lip with his tongue, asking for permission to feel more of you. Your attempts to continue moving according to him went on, and you thought it was a good sign he had not stopped you yet.

Once the velvet-feeling of his tongue came in touch with yours, he groaned against your lips, which caused you to use both of your hands to hold onto his robes tightly.

The kiss went on for a few more moments until you and Fred were breathless, and you had to break away to learn how to cope with oxygen again.

It was difficult to find words to talk about whatever had just happened, but you mumbled a shy ‘thank you’, which he replied to with ‘don’t mention it’.

Kissing was not as horrible as you thought it would be. 

And, after all, maybe going to the Yule Ball could be quite nice if you had enough luck to get Fred Weasley to be your date and kiss you again.

[jedifarmerr]

She’s Just Not That Into You   (Marcus Pike x F!Reader)

Hello everyone!! This is my first try at fan fiction, so please give feedback! This is somewhat based on He’s Just Not That Into You, Alex and Gigi relationship (which I do not own). I have the whole story laid out, and should be around 8 to 10 chapters (if there is interest)

I do not own the mentalist or the picture above (so credit to them)

Summary: After a failed marriage, and the world’s shortest engagement, Marcus is starting to give up on love. One late night, Marcus stumbles into a diner, and meets a young waitress, with whom he develops an unlikely friendship with. 

Warnings: Food, eating, mentions of heartbreak, some sadness, sad!Marcus, no use of Y/N! (If any more let me know)

Rating: M (just to be safe) 18+

Chapter 1: Diner Girl

Seeing Lisbon again had been a punch to Marcus’s gut. He thought it would give him closure, that he would feel better after seeing her. Maybe he hoped she would change her mind once she saw him. That she would be reminded of what they had. Instead, he was hit with the realization that it was really over. She had moved on, and was happy with Jane. He was just a pit stop to her final destination, it was always going to be Jane for her. He needed to accept that. He needed to move on. He just wondered what could Jane offer her that he couldn’t? When would it be his turn to finally have someone? 

Since his return to D.C., he had been in a trance. His thoughts consumed him, stuck in his own self-loathing. Matthew’s voice breaks him from his thoughts reminding him of the meeting starting in a few minutes. He rubs his face,  needing to pull himself together, focus on his job, he’s the leader of this department he needs to get it together. He catches his reflection on the black screen of his laptop, he examines himself noting that his eyes are tired, dark circles underneath them, and his beard really needs a trim. Marcus closes his laptop abruptly, and heads for the conference room. He just hopes this meeting is short so he can head home. 

Marcus’s luck was never great, the meeting ran long, and he was starving. He missed the diners in Austin, missed his regular breakfast places. In between his office and his apartment, there were three breakfast places. He had tried two of them so far, and had been gravely disappointed by both of them. The only one left was Lucy’s Diner, and he was just hoping it was better than the last place. He was scared, and didn’t know if he could face more disappointment. How does a breakfast place mess up pancakes?

Marcus entered the diner, the small bell above the door ringing. The diner was empty, he was guessing since most people aren’t in the mood for pancakes this late at night. He hears a voice from the back telling him to sit wherever he wants. While walking towards the bar top he gazes around the room taking in his surroundings. The diner had fluorescent lights that gave a yellow tint to the dining room, the booths and seats were covered with a teal sparkly leather covering, and a jukebox was in the corner playing Elvis Pressley. Really had the classic diner look down he thought. 

Marcus sits down and opens the menu, when suddenly he is hit with a memory of him with Lisbon on their first date. They had gone to a diner that had the best banana pancakes. He could remember how happy he felt that day, how she laughed at all his jokes, how beautiful she looked in that red leather booth. He could remember going home that night with the biggest smile on his face, and a feeling that she was his future.  A voice breaks him from his thoughts,  painfully reminded that he is here alone. 

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You were annoyed at the sound of the small ding. You needed to study for your upcoming test, you had stretched yourself a bit thin this week. Taking extra hours at the diner to help pay for school. You check yourself in the mirror, making sure you look presentable before heading out the swinging door. Before even fully entering the dining room you start on your spiel “Welcome to Lucy’s Diner! What can I get you?” The customer jolts back a bit, startled from his own thoughts. The man’s eyes quickly dart around, lingering for a second on your name tag, then your face. He then looks down to the menu and states his order. Once he finishes, his eyes meet yours for just a few seconds, and you see that his brown eyes are glassy and have dark circles under them. He must be also having a pretty stressful week you think. You give him a quick smile before heading back to get his order in. You start a fresh pot of decaf coffee, unable to give him the stale shit that has been sitting there for hours. He looks like he has had a bad enough day. 

After a few minutes you return to the man with his decaf coffee, “Freshly brewed, sir. Would you like any cream or sugar?” He shakes his head and gives you a quick thank you, while taking a sip of his coffee. The man didn’t seem in the mood to chat, so you leave him alone to sulk in his own thoughts. Not wanting to be a nuisance to the man. 

When in the back room, you can’t help but peek through the little window in the door to spy on him. He looks so sad, so lost in his own mind, he looks like he can hardly hold himself together. He looks like a child lost in a supermarket, and for some reason you want to comfort him. You wonder what he is going through, was it just a bad day at work? Or was it more?  Lenny breaks you from your reverie, letting you know that the order is up. When you pick it up, Lenny gives you a side glance, “I thought you had a test to study for, but seems you got something a little bit more interesting to look at then those books.” You roll your eyes at him, and turn to leave, the kitchen now full of laughter as you walk away. 

Once you set the food down in front of the man, he immediately digs in. He eats like he hasn’t seen food in days, and you are honestly worried for this man’s health. You don’t want to disturb him, but you break his focus anyway to ask how it is tasting and if you can get him anything else. His mouth is full, and he meets your eyes fully for the second time that night. It seems as if the taste of the food has boosted his mood. He smiles, a real smile for the first time that night and his eyes are not as glassy, and you swear you see a glow to them. He lightly chuckles, before replying “This is fantastic. Could I get a little more coffee when you have the chance?” 

You smile at him and motion to the room, “Yeah, I mean we are so busy, but I think I can do that for you.” He lets out a little giggle, while you go to get the pot from the back. You return only a minute later, and find that his plate is almost empty. 

“Wow! You must have really enjoyed those pancakes!” You slap yourself internally for not being able to think of anything better to say to the man. 

“These are the best pancakes I have had in a while, I have tried the other places around here” he says with a smile, “And they are nothing compared to this.”

You return his sweet smile, “I will let Lenny know you enjoyed them! I am glad you liked it.” 

After that, you are met with a bit of awkward silence that you decide to break “So, are you from around here or just visiting?” 

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He was trying to chew as fast as he could, this is the second time you have asked him a question mid-chew tonight. “Just moved here a few months ago actually, from Texas. Haven’t been able to explore too much, the new job is keeping me pretty busy.” He meets your eyes, placing one elbow on the table, giving you a small smirk “Do you have any suggestions for a newbie?” 

Your face lights up as you give him a few food suggestions, some hidden gems, and a low down on the days to visit certain monuments and when to avoid them. You continue to converse about local tips, and after a few minutes he checks his watch

 “I didn’t realize how late it was getting. Can I get the check? I am sure you are ready to close down.” 

He senses that you are a bit disappointed with him leaving, guessing you must be bored with the lack of patrons in the establishment. You hand him the check in which he quickly pays, leaving a very generous tip. 

Before reaching the door he hears your voice shout out “Hope to see you again soon!” 

He turns while opening the door giving you a quick smile  “I will definitely be back.”  

[aspoonofsugar]

Ironwood and Cinder: The Final Word

Cinder: And that’s… checkmate.

The Final Word of the volume is Cinder’s and it is meaningful she says it to Ironwood.

As a matter of fact Ironwood and Cinder are two sides of the same coin on many levels. This is conveyed also structurally.

Volume 7 is mostly about Ironwood’s tragic spiral. We are shown him struggle with his flaw throughout the whole volume, but in the end he loses to it and becomes just as dangerous as Salem:

Oscar: Then you're as dangerous as she is, James.

Not only does volume 8 close with Cinder instead, but it also opens with her:

And it even gives us her backstory:

Why does it happen? And why is Cinder’s final line so important when it comes to her foiling with Ironwood?

GRAVITY

It is not by chance that Watts calls both Ironwood and Cinder out before the climax of respectively volume 7 (Ironwood) and volume 8 (Cinder). This is because, as stated above, volume 7 is Ironwood’s volume, while volume 8 is Cinder’s. So they both are confronted with a truth about themselves and their reaction to it influences their stories in the Atlas arc.

In a sense, even if Watts is the one dangerously hanging over an abyss... it is actually Ironwood and Cinder who are on the brink. They are deciding Watts’s survival, but they are also deciding their own destiny.

They are choosing if to fall because of gravity or if to fly in the sky victorious.

At the same time, the two scenes with Watts show how Cinder and Ironwood are both similar and opposites.

AS ABOVE, SO BELOW

Ironwood and Cinder are nothing, but two products of Atlas’s society.

Ironwood was born at the very top:

Watts: You just stood atop it and called yourself a giant!

Cinder existed at the very bottom:

Watts: You think you're entitled to everything just because you've suffered, but suffering isn't enough! You can't just be strong, you have to be smart! You can't just be deserving, you have to be worthy! But all you have ever been, is a BLOODY MIGRAINE!

Watts is in the middle and he represents the worst traits of both.

He wants everything, just like Cinder:

Ironwood: I gave you everything you could have wanted!

But differently from Cinder it was no true he had nothing. He was successful, had food, clothes and respect. Still, he was never satisfied and ended up disgracing himself in the search of something more.

He also disregards feelings in favor of rationality, just like Ironwood:

Watts: Our tin soldier’s heart has cost him his mind.

And he sees people under him as inherently inferior:

Watts: Yes, yes, please keep your posse in check.

This is why his death is fitting:

Cinder: I merely added more flames to the fires of Atlas.

He burns with Atlas aka the city he wants to destroy, but also a symbol of who he is deep down.

What is more, his death happens specifically because he blindly follows his wishes:

Watts: Oh, believe me, this is everything I've ever wanted.

And because he is outsmarted and manipulated by Cinder:

Cinder: You deserve this, Arthur. We'll be back.

He is proud of his genius and rationality, but in the end he dies because of his feelings of pettiness.

In short, Watts, Cinder and Ironwood represent three social classes of Atlas and how the system corrupts people at every level. In general, all three want to be at the very top, but disreguard and mistreat the ones below.

-This is why Ironwood seeks control even in situations where he is not in charge, like the Vytal Festival. He also challenges Ozpin’s authority and leadership because he is not used not to be the one deciding. At the same time, he is shown ready to discard Mantle in multiple occasions.

-This is why Watts can call out Ironwood’s arrogance without seeing he is exactly the same as him.

-Finally, this is why Cinder lashes out at people she sees as Atlas elites (the Schnees, Ironwood, Watts), but treats those below her just like she was treated:

Emerald: We don't need him! Everything was going fine! (a slap is heard, and she cries out in pain)

Cinder: Do not mistake your place.

Mercury: Oh yeah? Tell that to--

Cinder: Quiet.

THE ENEMIES OF TRUST

Both Ironwood and Cinder’s left arms are artificial. Ironwood’s is mechanical, while Cinder’s is Grimm.

Their respective arms convey opposite approaches to things.

On a more general level, they are respectively linked to Creation (Ironwood’s mechanical arm) and to Destruction (Cinder’s Grimm arm). As a matter of fact a robotic arm is a human creation, while Grimms are nothing, but the symbol of destruction.

On a personal level, their arms hint at the two characters’ opposite personalities.

Ironwood’s arm can’t feel pain.

Cinder’s is instead linked to pain and feelings in different ways:

Raven: Aura can't protect your arm, it's Grimm.

Salem: You chose to disobey my specific instructions just to fail again.

Cinder: She’s back…

Cinder feels great pain whenever her Shadow Hand is cut because she can’t protect it with aura. At the same time, it is used by Salem to torture her. Finally, it links her to Salem to the point that she knows when her Master is back.

In other words, Cinder’s arm lets her feel more, while Ironwood’s lets him feel less.

This difference is mirrored by both the ways Ironwood and Cinder respectively attack Watts and by their semblances:

Ironwood’s Mettle lets Ironwood suppress his own feelings, so that he can pursue any objective, no matter how cruel or immoral it is. It makes him “superhuman”, but in a very negative sense.

Cinder’s Scorching Caress represents Cinder’s explosive emotions. It is a form of self-expression, which is both destructive and self-destructive.

Ironwood’s semblance is about repression, while Cinder’s is about lashing out.

Similarly, Ironwood goes after Watts at the cost of his arm and he ignores the pain he feels:

Watts: I wouldn't do that if I were you. I mean, unless you're hoping to add more metal to that body of yours.

Cinder instead goes after Watts to vent her anger:

Cinder: What do you mean, she'll destroy herself? How am I supposed to take her power if she's dead?!

Both are extremes and both are wrong, as Winter explains:

Winter: But yes Penny, we must still acknowledge our personal feelings, wrestle with them. It ensures us that we’re on the right path. It’s what makes us human.

Ironwood and Cinder should aknowledge their own feelings not to be consumed by them.  It is also the only way for them to truly be humans, not machines or monsters, but simply people.

Both characters almost succeed just before the climax of their respective volumes.

Ironwood tries to open up to others:

And Cinder shows vulnerability:

However, none of them is able to capitalize on this chance for development. This is ironically because of each other:

Cinder messes with Ironwood’s insecurities, while Ironwood’s ultimatum gives Cinder the perfect chance to ignore hers.

The result is that Ironwood goes back to control, while Cinder goes back to manipulation. Both do so because they are unable to trust.

Interestingly, they take after their respective mentors in this.

Ironwood takes after Ozpin:

Ironwood: Did you really think you were the only one who got to work on a new plan after Beacon? WIth Ozpin gone, I needed my own team of people I could trust.

Oscar: General? Earlier, you asked for my advice.

Ironwood: I wanted Ozpin's advice.

Oscar: And his advice probably would've been to keep your secrets.

Cinder takes after Salem:

Salem: When I chose you as my vessel for the Maidens, I put my trust in you. So, I trust that you wouldn’t possibly return to me empty-handed.

Ironwood’s whole struggle in volume 7 is his search for a “new approach”. He wants to be like Ozpin, but better. This is why he founds his own group, but wants to trust the world with the truth about Salem. However, he confuses trust with control.

Cinder instead wants to become just like Salem and suffers when she sees she is not. This is why she collects assets, just like her master. This is also why she does not trust anyone, but manipulates others.

That said, what is the difference between Ironwood’s control and Cinder’s manipulation? It has once again to do with feelings.

Ironwood’s attempt to manipulate others is about suppressing feelings. He uses Atlas’s military hierarchy and social structures to ask for his subordinates’ blind loyalty.

Cinder’s method to control people lies instead in making use of others’ feelings. She uses both wishes and fears to her advantage.

In short, control and manipulation are nothing, but the same inability to trust declined in opposite ways. They are both “enemies of trust”.

This is why both Ironwood and Cinder find a strong enemy and a foil in the character, who embodies friendship in these volumes:

Deep down, Ironwood and Cinder not trusting others is because they fear betrayal:

Cinder: I won’t have to run now.

Rhodes: That’s all you’ll ever do.

Ironwood: I've chased a lot of shadows over the years, always expecting betrayal. But never once did I think it would ever come from you.

However, Penny too is betrayed and mistreated by others:

Penny: I do not like it when friends fight.

Ruby: I know. Yang and I may not agree on how best to save Mantle but-

Penny: No. I mean Winter. The general. They were our friends. But then the Ace Ops attacked you. And the general, he said people were going to die, because of me.

 However, she does not give up on the ideal of a genuine bond:

Attached but not By strings

Still, if Penny is a positive foil to both Ironwood and Cinder, why does she die?

RISK

Weiss: Trust is a risk.  

Yang: Ruby, they’re not called sure things, they’re called risks.

These two lines taken together are why at the end of volume 8 Penny dies, our heroes fall and the manipulative Cinder wins.

It happens to show the main theme of the two Atlas volumes. Trust is not a “sure thing”. It is a risk and it does not always work. Still, it is necessary to trust as it is necessary to take risks:

Yang: You were being optimistic. Look, blind optimism isn’t great, but no optimism means we already lost. We need hope. We need to take risks.

Giving up on trust and risks means giving up on hope. It means to give in to fear.

Still, this does not mean your trust will always be paid back. And it does not mean that the risks you take will always work, even if you come up with a wonderful plan:

Cinder: I knew your plan would be bold, but I never could have predicted all of this...

Sometimes people will betray you:

Sometimes your risk will end up in a fall:

However, it is still worth to trust, even when you have no guarantee it will work:

And sometimes It is even worth to risk the fall because it may lead to people being saved:

This same idea is conveyed also through Penny’s final choice:

Penny: Trust me.

Winter: Thank you for trusting me with this.

Penny dies tragically, but she still manages to pass the Maiden’s power to a person she trusts.

This is especially meaningful because the Winter Maiden power, just like Penny herself, has been subjected to both control and manipulation.

Ironwood does all he can to make sure the power ends up to Winter. At the same time, he is the one most responsible for Penny feeling as nothing, but a robot:

Ironwood: As the official report stated, that footage was doctored. Penny is completely under my control.

Cinder tries to steal the power three times. She also manipulates Penny’s feelings towards her friends:

Cinder: I was hoping your friends would be here. But it looks like they left you to do all the work. You’re just a tool to be used!

In the end, Ironwood treating Penny as a machine (control) and Cinder using Penny’s love for her friends against her (manipulation) are among the psychological factors that lead Penny to be mortally wounded by Cinder.

Still, while dying Penny negates both Ironwood and Cinder and frees the power and herself from both control and manipulation.

The fact she chooses Winter works well to illustrate this.

Winter is the person Ironwood wants as the next Maiden. However, Winter becomes a Maiden not because of Ironwood’s control, but because of Penny’s trust:

Ironwood: So… the destiny I chose for you has arrived.

Winter: You chose nothing. This...was a gift.

Winter is a Schnee, so she represents both what Cinder hates and what she herself wants to be:

Cinder to Winter: You Atlas elites are all the same! You think hoarding power means you’ll have it forever, but it just makes the rest of us hungrier.

Winter is a symbol of Atlas and so she is a reminder to Cinder that Atlas is not really destroyed:

Robyn: What do you think a kingdom is? The people, or just the chunk of land they live on?

Just like Cinder’s past isn’t.

WORTHY

Cinder wants to be worthy. Ironwood wants to be a hero.

Deep down, Ironwood and Cinder want the same thing. They want to be above others. They want to be more than humans.

However, they go at it in opposite ways:

Ironwood: I have sacrificed everything!

Cinder: I want it all...

Ironwood thinks that victory lies in sacrificing everything, while Cinder sees it as taking it all.

These opposite viewpoints mirror their respective social stances.

Ironwood can say he wants to sacrifice everything because he has everything.

Cinder thinks happiness lies in everything because she has nothing:

Cinder: You’re right. Without you I am nothing. But because of you, I am everything.

In the end, Ironwood and Cinder are each other’s true enemies, but they fail to see it and lash out against the wrong people:

Ironwood and Cinder’s respective fight against Winter and Weiss is exactly this.

Ironwood fights a Maiden he sees as an enemy of Atlas, while another Maiden is attacking the people he swore to protect.

Cinder lashes out at Weiss because of her origins, while Weiss has decided to leave her status and money behind to make the right thing.

Still, Ironwood and Cinder are too hypocritical to see the truth. This is why they attack people, who could have helped them, if they were given the chance.

This is also why they receive a warning:

Winter: No, you have sacrificed everyone else!

Winter: You… are going to pay… for everything you’ve done!

Ironwood claims he is ready to sacrifice everything. However, he never sacrifices himself:

In the end, he is unable to sacrifice his life to fight Salem.

Let’s highlight he has nothing to lose by this point. He is falling with Atlas anyway. In his final moments, he is given the chance to prove true to his words:

I would die Without regret, I’d offer up my life With zero reservations I would fly Into the sun If that would keep our dream alive

Instead, he gives up. He has been shooting his allies until the very end, but freezes in front of his enemy.

Cinder thinks she is closer to her final victory, but in the end she has accomplished nothing of what she truly wants.

She wants to kill RWBY, but they are alive. She wants the Maiden powers, but she fails.

At the same time, Cinder is still far away from what she truly needs:

Cinder: You have everything you need?

Watts: Oh, believe me, this is everything I've ever wanted.

She is given a perfect mirror of herself in Watts. Still, instead of seeing it, Cinder uses his flaw, which is her same flaw, to kill him. Watts’ wants lead to his death and the same thing might happen to Cinder if she does not stop herself in time.

Finally, there is this:

Salem: This game is not yours to win, Cinder, it’s mine. Just because you’re more valuable to me than a pawn, does not make you a player. Everything is already in motion. All you need concern yourself with is your ability to act when I tell you to.

Ironwood and Cinder share a chess motif.

Ironwood thinks of himself as a player and specifically as Salem’s opponent.

Cinder is instead told she is no player.

However, in the end, Ironwood becomes a mere pawn to the point that all Watts has to do is to open his cell to be sure he is going to unwillingly aid in Cinder’s plan.

What is more, he is so fixated on Salem that he fails to aknowledge the people below him. This is why his true opponent is a slave that Atlas exploited.

Cinder frames herself as a player instead. She is the one who truly makes the first move against Ironwood and ultimately she is the one who defeats both him and our protagonists. Finally, she is the one who calls checkmate.

Still, is she really playing her own game?

In the end, the one who gets what she wants is not Cinder, but Salem:

And all she has to do to obtain it is one small move:

Salem: And I’ve realized, it’s all my fault. You’ve fought your whole life unwaveringly for what you want and here I am holding you back instead of lifting you up.

While Cinder is once again letting her talent be exploited by those above her. She is choosing to be Salem’s Queen instead than a player of her own life.

She is the Black Queen defeating the White King, but nothing more.

[viperbarnes]

The Long Last Summer

[B. Barnes] Oneshot

40s Post-War AU

Summary: With Steve off in America again, Bucky finds himself doing his own version of a USO tour through Italy, boosting morale and friendship, or so they tell him. However, a new stationing in the tiny town of Montecarra gives him more reason to want to stay, when he becomes quickly whisked away by wild, carefree and exuberant you.

Warnings: language, smut, mentions of the war, awful awful Italian probably. The reader has a name, but it's still written as a reader insert.

Note: The reader/character in this fic is a black woman. This fic was originally uploaded elsewhere, so if you're a part of the small audience who read it originally please don't panic, it isn't stolen lol. The story is almost entirely spoken in Italian, but doing italics for every conversation was annoying, so just assume that unless otherwise stated! Thank you for reading!

Words: 19.5k [This is very long.... Sorry...]

The hot Italian sun beats down on the town below, the occasional breeze carried overland from the nearby ocean to the west might have been a blessing if that too weren’t humid and warm. Bucky Barnes thinks it should be a sin for it to be so hot so early in the morning, but he’s long past complaining about it. Leaning against his car door, stopped on a hill overlooking the town of Montecarra, Bucky takes another drag of his cigarette before stomping it out. At least he hadn’t woken up in a filthy, sweltering trench, surrounded by hot bodies after another restless night of gunfire filled dreams. At least he was only required to wear his uniform during official ‘work’ hours.

Giving the town, his newest home, one last look, Bucky gets back in the car and makes his way down.

Being a core member of The Howling Commandos these past years, Bucky had earned himself a certain amount of celebrity, both in America and abroad. Especially in Italy. Given that Steve had returned to the States already, and Bucky had expressed some minor interest in staying in Europe a while longer, Colonel Phillips had happily assigned him as a ‘morale liaison’ while the US and other allies sorted out the peace treaties and demilitarisation of Europe.

It made as much sense to Bucky then as it did now. He had come to realise that ‘morale liaison’ was just jargon for ‘dancing, handshaking, smiling, posing monkey’, seeing as most of his time the past two years had been spent shaking hands while smiling and posing for various photos. Usually with politicians. Bucky hated politicians.

Luckily, his newest post, Montecarra, was far more what Bucky had thought he’d be doing when Phillips had given him his orders; helping people rebuild and reclaim their lives in a post-fascist Italy. As he drives through the small town, Bucky thinks briefly that the bulk of it seemed to be almost entirely untouched by the war, the classic Italian architecture and warm coloured buildings homey and welcoming, the cobbled stone streets and walkways looking every part the idyllic Tuscan town, but then he sees it.

Toward the edges of town, Bucky’s eyes catch on a shattered stone building, utterly destroyed. It’s a small ways from the town itself, a little field between it and the nearest houses, and he can’t help but already feel grateful for the fact it looked to be the only place that had been hit by the violence, though he doesn’t deny the unseen scars that no doubt linger on the people themselves.

He quickly looks away and continues on to his residence.

There was no army base or fortifications in Montecarra, the nearest being in Florence, but The people had kindly offered up a small, newly unowned cottage for the military to house any visiting soldiers in during their stay. When he finally gets to be shown around by the nearest neighbour, a friendly older woman, he’s glad that for the time being, he has it to himself.

He gets himself settled, partially unpacks his bags before getting bored and making his way out to the blooming garden, camera in hand. It had been a gift from Steve, sent for his birthday the previous year when the two had not been able to reunite, and although Bucky had much preferred putting pencil to paper before he’d owned his own camera, he’d found in recent months, as the cold receded and the sun came out, he’d picked up a knack for photography.

The fact that this model was an ‘instant’ model, making it so that after each photo he took, a little slip of paper would spit out and slowly develop the image, certainly aided his newfound love for the hobby. When he had been a kid, his Ma would take the family to have their pictures taken once a year, and the results always took days or weeks.

Lifting the camera to his eye, Bucky peeks through and aims it at a tall bushel of bougainvillea, the bright red against the butter-coloured walls of his cottage making him wish the photos weren’t just black and white.

He snaps a few more floral shots, wondering absently if he’ll be able to buy more photo paper in town. With the sun still high in the sky, he decides that he may as well take a short walk, if not to introduce himself to some of the locals, then to answer his question.

Honestly, the unendingly friendly reception he’d received everywhere he went never ceased to surprise him. Two years ago Italy had been the enemy or the soldiers and government at least. For the most part, the people caught in the crossfire had been weary and scared, but helpful where they could be to Allied soldiers. Still, the warmth they seemed to hold him, and other allied soldiers with was always a little startling at first.

By the time he makes it to the centre of town, he’d been kissed on his cheeks more times than he could count, but interestingly, the people of Montecarra weren’t as clingy as he’d found some other towns and cities… After greeting him, they’d happily left him alone, though with numerous and repeated offers to have him for dinner.

Once unable to stand doing nothing at all, and always on the go, the young man Bucky had once been, had evolved into a quieter, more solitary version of himself. He still liked to have fun, mind you, he’d learnt to take enjoyment and pleasure where he could in the army, but his sniper’s life had taught him contentedness with his own company. Bucky was fine being alone, without chatter or noise to distract him. He’d come to prefer it, actually.

Bucky finds that Montecarra’s central space was a large set of four courtyards, separated by various important municipal buildings and shops, and at the centre point, an old communal well that had been made into a fountain. Without thinking, Bucky lifts his camera to snap a shot of the fountain. He loved New York more than anything, and he couldn’t wait to return home, but damn if he hadn’t fallen hard for European architecture.

He’s still waving the little piece of photo paper back and forth to help it develop when loud laughter and the familiar noise of children playing reaches his ears. It startles him slightly, Montecarra wasn’t exactly sleepy, but it was quiet, and the residence all seemed to be of an older sort, he hadn’t seen many children yet, though a look at his watch tells him that might have been due to school.

A small gaggle of children of various ages come skipping into view across from the fountain, chatting loudly and seemingly unaware of the previous peace that had reigned in the town square. Unlike in New York, however, Bucky notices not a single patron of the nearby outdoor restaurant throws them dirty looks or hisses at them to quiet down, if anything, the people nearby pause to watch for a few seconds, not with disdain written on their faces, but soft, gentle smiles, before they return to their business.

A voice calling out from the back of the group, noticeable for its maturity in comparison to the children’s voices, catches Bucky’s attention and he lets his gaze skip over the scene until it lands on you, and suddenly, he’s breathless.

Bucky Barnes had seen a lot of beautiful women in his time, and had been lucky enough to know a number of them too, but you, you are something else entirely.

It’s your smile he notices first, plush rosy brown lips pulled wide in a joyful grin, so magnetising he finds himself unable to look away. Your hair is long, curly and dark, brushed into waves that the humidity and breeze seemed set on ruining, and with one hand you secure your wide brim sun hat as you chase the kids. Your white blouse is laced around the open collar and both it and the bright yellow of your skirt stand out against your syrupy brown skin, smooth and a little shiny from the sun.

“Here! Roberto, Norma, come sit here a moment! Look at the fountain!” You beckon the children, two strays in particular, over toward the fountain, and much like Bucky, the kids seem magnetised to you as well. You float right up to the water, sitting on the edge as the children all gather around, still chatting and playing loudly, though a little more orderly now.

Bucky watches you swipe a hand through the cool water, smiling and speaking animatedly with one of the children. He wonders if you were perhaps their teacher, but he’s snapped away from his thoughts a moment later.

“That man has a camera! Look!”

Bucky blinks, tearing his eyes from you, even as the children, and you, all now turn your attention to him in varying shades of wonderment. He’s still a small distance away, but it doesn’t matter as not even a second later, he’s being swamped by the pack of energetic youngsters.

“Are you a photographer?!”

“Can I see it?!”

“Will you take my picture!?”

The last request sets off a frenzy, the rest of the children all joining in to ask for their picture taken, and honestly, Bucky doesn’t even think he has enough paper for that.

“Hey! Mascalzoni! Leave the poor man alone!” You appear then, hands on your hips, not even two meters away and Bucky thinks he could faint.

“Oh, they’re—” He cuts himself off, switching to Italian.

“They’re fine, really… I just don’t think I have the photo paper for it…” He explains, trying his best to look you in the eye, but not quite making it. You cock your head in sympathy, and clap once, getting the children’s attention once more.

“Come on, stop it. Can’t you see you’ve scared him?!” You say playfully, though Bucky wants to correct that it isn’t them he’s scared of.

“How are we supposed to get more tourists to Montecarra if you’re all scaring them away, huh?!” You continue, crossing your arms and the kids seem to relent somewhat, whining a little as they back up from Bucky. You give him another, apologetic smile.

“Come along, you all better get home before your mothers’ tan your hides!” You say, making a shooing motion that makes Bucky second-guess his teacher theory. Before any of them can begin to move though, he takes half a step forward, holding up his camera.

“Wait, I can— I can take a photo of you all together…” He says, and watches as even your face lights up, though as the children all begin to excitedly gather in front of the fountain, you step away, to his side.

“You don’t want to be in it?” He asks, throwing you a sideways glance and yep, you’re still just as pretty as before. You smile and shake your head.

“No. Not this time.” he doesn’t know what you mean by that, but focuses back on the children, raising the camera and snapping a shot of the children, smiling brightly.

Chaos ensues once again when the paper pops out of the bottom, further exciting the group as Bucky attempts to hold the picture out of their reach while it develops, unable to stop himself from chuckling at how spirited they were. It had been a long time since he’d seen any kid so carefree. Perhaps that was why the townspeople were so unphased by their noise earlier.

After the picture is passed around for all to see, you clear your throat and jerk your head away again.

“Go on, clear out now.” Far more happily the children bid each other goodbye, a few moving in pairs or trios as they split off in separate directions.

Bucky is all too aware that you’re still standing near him, and he focuses on cleaning his camera lens with his sleeve.

“Thank you.” You say kindly, with a slight bow of your head, and he finds himself shrugging and shaking his head.

“It’s alright, really.” he pauses, and then;

“Are you their teacher?” He doesn’t expect the surprised laugh you let out, shaking your own head vigorously.

“Hell no. I don’t have the patience for that! We were just walking the same way.” Bucky blinks, not expecting your language, though he finds it endearing, a little more grounding. He laughs.

“I see.”

“You’re the soldier, yes? From America?” The subject change catches him out for a moment, but he’s nodding a moment later.

“Sergeant James Barnes, ma’am.” He almost salutes, doesn’t and then thinks better of it, giving you one anyway. You cock your head at him, an amused smile pulling at your lips.

“I thought soldiers wore uniforms?” You fold your hands in front of you, and Bucky blinks, down at his casual civilian clothes, and then back at you.

“Oh, I, well, I do, but only when I’m working, these days…” You laugh good-naturedly at his awkward delivery.

“I was only teasing. I’ve heard from Rome that soldiers spend just as much time out of their uniforms as in them.” You say it easily, with a playful chuckle, but the risque connotations don’t go over his head, his eyebrows lifting high in his surprise.

Were you… flirting…? Or was this just how you were?

“Well, Sergeant Barnes, it was lovely to meet you.” You’re stepping back, giving him another smile (were you always smiling? He wants to know, now), and a little wave before you begin to turn. Bucky flounders at your fast retreat and panics.

“Uh, wait!” You look back, and he swallows.

“What’s… what’s your name?” You chuckle and push your hair behind your shoulder.

“Cristina.” You tell him and he repeats it, trying to roll the ‘r’ like you do, which makes you laugh again.

“People usually just call me Nina.” You offer a moment later and Bucky nods, before giving you his own, more commonly used nickname.

“Bucky?” You repeat, almost unsure, but when he nods, mouth dry at hearing his name on your lips, you smile and nod.

“Bucky. I will see you around, Bucky.” And with that, he watches dumbly, awestruck in his place as you float out of the plaza.

—-

The warm breeze carries through the open windows of your house, sending the scents from the kitchen below wafting around the rooms. You’d already finished your work for the day, and the chores your mother assigned you, and with a slight pep in your step, you finish tying the scarf around your hair and grab your book.

“Mama? I’m going to read!” You call out, pausing for a moment to listen for her reply. You hear a faint humming above the radio and quickly take your leave, skipping down the front steps of your home and out of the walled front courtyard.

Montecarra is hot and warm, like it had been every other day this week, but you don’t mind. The streets you pass through on the way to your nook are quiet, with only the occasional Nonna in her garden, or returning from the markets. There had been more people here once, a long time ago, and in your childhood days you remember visitors, passing through and admiring your home on their way to other places. You missed that deeply, but push it from your mind, trying not to sour your day at the thought of your already sleepy town becoming sleepier.

You reach your normal place quickly, little plaza toward the outskirts of town, many of the houses here empty now. One of the homes, a double storied one like your own, has a tall garden wall that sits in the shade of the tall tree behind it. Midway through the wall, high enough to take some effort to climb, sit a series of three empty archways, glassless windows that give a view of the overgrown garden within, and from the other side of the little square beyond.

Nobody came to this part of town, not anymore, and in recent years, you’d found it the perfect place to sit unbothered. Tucking your book under your arm, you hitch your skirt up a little, and use one of the roots that climbs and decorates the wall with green ivy as a foothold. The archway isn’t high, but you certainly couldn’t get to it without a little help.

Once situated, you lean back against the pillar, bringing your feet up in front of you, and rest your book against your thighs and knees. You lose yourself quickly in the words, devouring the stories of far away places, detectives and mystery and murder. When the Nazi’s had been here, you hadn’t been allowed to freely enjoy such things. You’d been hidden away, scared everyday would be your last, but it had never come. They had left, and you had been safe again once more.

It was why you enjoyed sitting outside, in the sun and warm, basking in a world that was purely yours again.

Well, not just yours.

A quiet, but pointed cough makes you jump slightly, and you whip your head to find the source, shutting your book on instinct before your eyes find him, and you smile.

“Good Afternoon, Sergeant Barnes!” You greet, and the man returns your smile, lifting his hand briefly. You had known he was coming of course, your whole town did. He was helping the men rebuild the old schoolhouse, though he seemed to have finished that task for the day, as you had finished yours.

He was a handsome man, with dark hair and blue eyes, his pale skin lightly tanned on his face and arms from days in the Italian sun. He was young, though older than you, likely nearing his late twenties if you were correct. You hadn’t known who he was during the war, but afterwards, you’d had plenty of newspaper fodder to read. You think most of it must have been trash though, because the man the magazines and gossip columns had labelled as a charming, suave ladies man could not be the same one that stood before you now.

“Bucky. Bucky is fine, Senora Cristina.” He replies, his eyes dropping a little as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Well then you must call me Nina.” You reply, keeping up your smile for when he looks back at you. When he realises you haven’t looked away from him, he quickly averts his gaze again, but clears his throat and looks around the empty plaza, waving a hand.

“Quiet spot?” He asks, and you turn from where your back is pressed against the brick, swinging your legs over the side of the wall to face him properly. You nod.

“Yes. The people who lived in this part left. We don’t know if they’ll come back or…” You trail off, pursing your lips briefly, but shake your head. No. No time to dwell.

“It’s a good place to come to be alone.”

“Oh, I can— I can leave if you’d lik—” Bucky’s face falls into anxiety stricken concern as he gestures with his thumb toward the little road you think he must have come from, but you cut him off quickly, laughing.

“I was not attempting to chase you away!” You tell him, and he drops his hand back to his side. For a few seconds he just looks at you, like he’s unsure of what to say, and so you fill the silence the best you can.

“How do you like Montecarra?” Bucky nods quickly, his body language immediately relaxing somewhat. You wonder if you make him nervous because he’s unsure how to speak to women, or if it might be something else.

“It’s beautiful. I haven’t been able to stop looking, you know? We don’t have towns like this where I’m from.” You smile at his clear enthusiasm, and cock your head. You’d never been to America, you’d never even really been more than a few miles from your home, so you can’t imagine what towns must look like there.

“The people are friendly, I mean, everyone is friendly everywhere, but the people here are… they don’t seem to want to be around me twenty-four-seven.” He adds, and then clamps his mouth shut, as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to. You think maybe he hasn’t been around friends in a while. You shrug, and chortle.

“Oh, that’s just how we are. My Papa used to say that in the cities, nobody can leave each other alone because they don’t make real connections… but here and other small towns, we’re all we have, and after a while, you just get sick of each other.”

Bucky laughs, loudly and heartily, and you think it is a lovely sound. He says something in English, you think you hear ‘christ’, but he sobers, still smiling.

“I’d say that’s about right.”

“Though, you should be wary of signora Cavalli… she’s like a venus flytrap, you know?” You say seriously, but with a conspiratorial edge so that he knows you are only mostly joking. Bucky cocks his head in confusion, but chuckles.

“A what?!”

“A venus flytrap! You know! It’s a plant that looks all bright and colourful, but when bugs land on it it snaps shut!” You clap your hands together in demonstration.

“And then it eats them.”

“Are you… are you telling me signora Cavalli is going to eat me?” Bucky asks, eyebrows high and you take a moment to dramatically look him over.

“No. I don’t think you are her type. But she will start a conversation that will not end until either you or her dies, and trust me, she’s really old.” Bucky laughs again, hand on his belly this time, his head thrown back again, and you can’t help but break ‘character’ to laugh with him.

“Right. Avoid signora Cavalli. Gotcha.” He says as he calms, and again, he seems to have relaxed even more, the little pull that you had noticed between his brow yesterday, and earlier, even when he wasn’t frowning, had all but disappeared.

“Sounds like I need your guidance here. Clearly.” He continues, and you can’t help but feel excited by the prospect. You nod vigorously, and hop down from your ledge.

“Oh, definitely. I have lived here my whole life, I know all there is to know!” You tuck your book back under your arm and step nearer.

“I can show you around! There is more to Montecarra than there looks!” You pause and shrug.

“Well, a little more, at least.” Bucky appears torn for a moment, his face scrunching back into a polite concern as he holds his hands up.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, signora, I mean, Nina…” You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, signore, but there isn’t exactly anybody else my age around here… really you’d be doing me the favour…” He opens his mouth, but you quickly beckon him in a direction before he can argue, and you hear a faint sigh, and a few seconds later he’s matching your easy pace.

“I did notice that, actually…” He confirms, and you feel his gaze on the side of your face. His hands are back in his pockets, and he walks a respectable distance next to you.

“Well, there weren’t all that many to begin with but all the boys went off to fight, and the girls either got married and moved away, or left to study somewhere else.” You try to keep your voice light and airy, try not to betray your jealousy or sadness.

You had wanted to move to Paris and study, or London, anywhere, but the shadows of war had already begun, and it had been too uncertain. Looking back, you were reluctantly glad you had not been elsewhere. Your mother had needed you too much.

You come to another small courtyard, with a large tree at its center. It was one of the oldest in the town, and this part of the village had been built around it, as was obvious from the uneven and cracked stone ground, where the roots had grown large and disruptive.

You sling a hand around the trunk, slowly circling it in a careful swing, and Bucky oddly does the same, moving opposite you, so you are always on different sides. Oftentimes you were called childish or immature by others in Montecarra, though they never meant you harm by it. You were young at heart, and always would be. You know it was not proper for young women your age to be so restless, but you couldn’t sit still. Even just walking normally was a little boring after a while. You think it’s nice that this American man doesn’t ask you to stop or to stand still.

“You didn’t though?” Bucky asks, and then hurries to clarify.

“Get married or move away, I mean.” You chortle and lean a little further forward to see his face better as you both continually circle the tree.

“I was not good enough in school,” You lie.

“And no man would have me.” You laugh as you say it, not really meaning it. When there had been boys around Montecarra, you’d had no shortage of prospects, though how many of them would have actually married you was another question entirely.

Bucky scoffs, making an odd noise in his throat, and he fixes you with a look of disbelief.

“Well I know that can’t be right…” You smile, but look away at his kind words, before another thought hits you, and you stop moving, holding onto either side of the tree as you lean around it slightly.

“Montecarra must be exceptionally boring for you.”

Bucky stops moving too, and instead leans his side against the trunk, arms crossing over his chest as he looks down at you casually, eyebrow raised in question.

“To be in such a small town, with no women who aren’t married. Compared to Paris or Rome, I mean.”

You gasp suddenly then, and quickly switch sides, making Bucky have to turn too, and you can’t suppress your cheeky grin.

“Unless of course it’s married women who you’re after. No need to worry about commitment there.” You wiggle your eyebrows and Bucky’s face turns into a molten mess of amusement and bashfulness, sprinkled with pink cheeks.

He uncrosses his arms awkwardly and clears his throat uncomfortably, and you chortle, shaking your head. There was certainly part of him you could see being charming and suave, but for the most part, Sergeant James Barnes just seemed sweet. Eventually he just laughs too, also shaking his head, and he looks off for a moment, before he carefully turns to mirror your hold on the tree, leaning just slightly around it to look at you.

He still wears a coy look of meekness when he shrugs.

“You’re a woman who isn’t married, aren’t you?” He says softly, carefully, as if he’s not sure how you will respond, and does not wish to offend.

Offence is the last reaction in your mind though, instead you feel as if the world stops for a moment, and all that exists is you, this man, and the tree between you. Despite the carefulness of his words, his expression is a little harder, his gaze locked on yours more intense and you have to force yourself to look away, pulling back from the tree just to catch your breath and your rapidly beating heart.

Perhaps Sergeant James Barnes was sweet, but Bucky Barnes was a little more savoury than that. Suddenly, some of the things you’d read make more sense, and you find yourself reconsidering your interactions. Had he specifically sought you out? Or had he just been wandering and it was a happy coincidence. You lean toward the latter but perhaps he had hoped to see you again after your brief meeting yesterday?

You wipe these thoughts from your mind as Bucky too steps away from the tree, and fix him with an innocent smile and a shrug of your shoulder as you begin stepping backwards, ready to move along.

“I am.” You say simply, unsure of what else you even could say, but the moment seems to pass, and Bucky finally tears his eyes from you, watching his step as he makes to follow you again, down another narrow street.

You make light small talk with him as you move into busier parts of town, still a little shaken from his flirting (if that was what it was). He doesn’t seem to mind, and you realise you don’t need to fill the silence all of the time. He seems content to just look and watch, but when you do speak, to tell him something, or point out a particular shop, he listens carefully.

When you make it to one of the central courtyards of Montecarra, near the fountain where you had met him yesterday, you see that the afternoon sellers have set up at the market stalls where you’d been only this morning, helping sell. Jobs and money were hard to come by in your town, everything was so small and insular, and in the aftermath of the war, people had cared less about money to pay for goods and services, but rather taking care of each other in any way they could.

You were luckier than most towns, you’d been spared the massive damage of other places, but with resources still low, and many people still getting back on their feet, feeding each other had become a community job. Bakers would gladly accept trade for their bread, and doing chores or work for others had become a reliable way to not only give back but to earn too. The shops that had managed to remain open were supportive where they could be, and it made your heart swell several sizes to know that the war had not driven your people apart.

Bucky seems to take in the sights and smells of the markets with a dreamily like gaze, his eyes roaming over the leftover morning breads, some meats and vegetables that had not been bought or traded earlier in the week and where now for sale far cheaper.

Your stomach growls, reminding you that you have not yet eaten since your breakfast, and you groan. Usually you’d have set off home for lunch, or brought something with you, before returning to your nook, but being with Bucky had distracted you.

He looks down at you in response to your groan and you scrunch your nose.

“I would suggest we eat, but I left my purse at home.” You explain. Bucky blinks, and looks over at the food, then back at you.

“If you’re hungry, I can, I have my—” You tune him out accidentally as your mind conjures up a thought, and stop suddenly, reaching out and grabbing Bucky’s arm in excitement. He stops speaking and stares down at you.

“I have a better idea…!” You say, grinning widely, and he cocks his head, looking slightly hesitant.

You release his arm only to grab the rolled sleeve of his shirt, pulling him along after you down a sidetreet.

“What— Where are we going…?” He asks, and then continues.

“And why do I feel like it’s going to be trouble?” You laugh loudly, and throw him a look over your shoulder, releasing his sleeve at last when you’ve led him through a maze of tiny alleys and narrow streets and out to the edge of town, near the main road he’d driven in on.

“Trust me.” You say, drawing out the words long and sing-songy.

“Give me reason to…” He mutters, but when you look over at him again, you can see he’s only playing the part of exasperated, his lips pulled up in the corners, and his eyes amused.

He follows you as you lead him up a long road, well away from town and towards where the fields and fields of orchards and vineyards begin. When you veer off the side of the road, toward one of the wooden fences, he stops.

“What are you doing?” He asks, a little more nervous than before, and you turn to face him fully.

“We’re going into the orchard to pick some fruit.” He fixes you with a squinted stare.

“Something tells me that we’re not supposed to do that…” You roll your eyes.

“Nobody will know. Besides, we’ll only take a few.” You bat your eyelashes the best you can manage and watch his resolve crumble. When he sighs, hanging his head while shaking it, you know you’ve got him, so you smile widely and quickly return to making your way up the fence.

Bucky at first seems concerned with you climb, moving quickly over to attempt to lend you a hand, but you hardly need it, lifting your skirt and easily scaling the posts before you land on the other side. Bucky stares at you for a moment longer, before planting his hands on the top piece of wood, and in one large jump, vaults the thing entirely.

You laugh at the sight, and cock your head.

“They teach you that in the army?” You tease, leading him away from where you might be spotted by the road, and into the thick rows of trees.

“Brooklyn, actually.” He tells you, and you spy him repeatedly looking over his shoulder and around, as if suspecting some kind of ambush. You pause, nearly causing him to walk into you, and put your hand on his arm again.

“Nobody is out here. It gets too hot in the afternoons, so they do all their daily harvesting in the mornings.” Bucky stares down at you, the little crease between his brows returning, but he nods at your words anyway.

Turning away from him, you once more gather up part of your skirt, lifting it well above a decent length, to use as a basket of sorts as you start inspecting some of the goods on ‘offer’.

“The peaches are especially good this time of year.” You say over your shoulder, reaching out to gently squeeze a few hanging from the nearest tree.

“I— What…?” Bucky asks, and when you look back at him, you see the vague pinkness back in his cheeks and refrain from rolling your eyes. Instead, you plaster on an innocent smile and hold up one of the fruits you’d plucked from the branch.

“The peaches. They’re very ripe right now. Montecarra always has the juiciest peaches. You can’t eat them without getting your fingers and mouth all sticky.” You look away then, placing the peach into your skirt and fight yourself to keep from laughing. Bucky remains quiet behind you, until you hear him let out a slightly shaky breath.

“Jesus fucking christ…” He mumbles in English, and you wipe the grin from your face before he can see it, as he finally steps closer to join you.

You end up with a nice collection of peaches, apples and some figs. You don’t take much, just a few, and by the time you’re walking the road back into town, your grumbling stomach is sated. You spent a few hours walking along the rows of trees, just talking and eating.

Before you properly enter Montecarra, Bucky tosses your peach pits, and you watch them fly through the air and disappear into some of the empty fields beyond. He looks down at you with a rather cute, proud and expectant smile, and you nod, clapping just slightly.

“Perhaps they will grow and we will have our own orchard.” You tell him, and he sniffs in amusement.

“Or we’ll have to explain where we got the seeds from in the first place.”

“Or that.” You laugh, nudging his side.

You notice he’d stopped keeping quite as large a distance between you when you walked, though you don’t know if it was conscious or not. The late afternoon sun bathes Montecarra in orange and red and shadows, and by the time you’ve walked across town to where you live, the sunset is well and truly in motion.

Sensing your time has come to an end, Bucky slows slightly, stopping when you turn back to him, and point to your house.

“I live here.” You tell him, and he shoves his hands in his pockets with a nod.

“My mama will expect me to help with dinner.” You explain further, though you aren’t sure why. You didn’t need a reason to part with him, it was early evening now and you’d spent the better half of five hours walking and talking and stealing fruit together.

You see Bucky’s eyes drift behind you, past the open archway of the wall that held your home behind it, and then back to you.

“Thanks for showing me around today. You didn’t have to.” He says and you smile, but shrug.

“Of course.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer before he nods, pulling a hand from his pocket to give you a parting wave.

“Goodnight.” He says softly, and turns, beginning to make his way back.

You step forward without thinking too much and call out, making him pause and look back at you.

“I— I work in the mornings, but you can always find me at the same place, where I was reading today. From about midday on. I’m always there… if you ever want to see me again.” You try to play it off cooler than you feel, shrugging a bit and giving him a nonchalant grin, but he only watches you.

Just as you start to feel discomfort creep in her shifts, dipping his chin slightly and cocking his head.

“I would like to see you again.” He says at last, and it’s just like earlier, around the tree. You feel a thick tension form between you, and even though he’s several meters away from you now, you feel like he may as well have been directly in front of you.

All you can manage is a nervous chuckle, dropping your eyes to the floor and anxiously tucking some hair behind your ear.

“Okay.” You say, and he must take that as your approval, because he smiles softly, and gives you one last parting nod before he walks away.

You watch him go for longer than you’d like to admit, right up until he disappears and you hear your mama call you from the front door.

—-

You see Bucky most days. After you had finished with your daily workload, you would return as normal to your little archway, only pretending to read until Bucky arrived. Sometimes he would bring his own book, and sit beside you in one of the opposite arches, but most days you spent walking aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing.

He would tell you about New York city, describing the streets and the buildings and the people in such detail you could see it in your mind. He’d show you pictures of places he’d been, other cities and towns in Italy and France and you’d been unable to keep from fawning dramatically over each.

You’d been warned by a few of the older local ladies, that American soldiers were notorious for the dalliances with girls, they’d have them and leave them, moving on to the next place as if it were nothing. But Bucky is different, you think. You weren’t so naive to think a man set on simply chasing what he wanted would change for just you, but Bucky never showed intention to chase. Not really.

He was kind, and sweet, and he never spoke to impress you like you’d seen with some boys before. He listened to you, asked for your opinions on subjects you spoke about and never assumed that you weren’t informed. You had revealed your love for reading to him, and he’d not complained once when you’d ranted for far too long about the plot of your newest book.

He never even tried to hold your hand, which was beginning to trouble you. You had given him plenty of opportunity, walking accidentally too close, and brushing your hand by his just slightly. He’d always apologised or ignored it, and you were becoming frustrated. It was not as if his flirting had stopped, when the opportunity arose he’d coyly spout sweet things that made your stomach churn something awful.

You look up from the page you’d been staring at for the past ten minutes without really seeing it, and blink. Perhaps you were wrong and he was just this way all of the time… but then you remember the moments of intense eye contact when he’d look at you and it felt like nothing else in the world existed at all.

No. no, you decide that perhaps you will have to give him a little push.

“Has d’Artagnan won the heart of Lady Constance yet? Or is love dead?” The voice, his voice, startles you so much you squeak, whipping around to find where Bucky has situated himself against the same wall your archway sits in, leaning on one shoulder with his arms crossed over his chest.

Today he hadn’t changed from his morning’s work, and you have to simply give yourself a moment to take in his uniform. It wasn’t the dress greens you’d seen on men in the newspapers, instead he wears a greeny-brown colour, the material slightly thicker in appearance, rougher almost. In lieu of the long dress coat, he wears a jacket that ends just over where you imagine his belt might be, cinching in his form rather nicely. His shirt bears the same colour as his suit, but his tie is a familiar khaki. Pins and medals and ribbons adorn his chest and you want to inspect each one up close, but you refrain.

“Didn’t mean to scare ya, sweetheart.” He flashes a smile, letting you know he’d noticed your long, admiring stare. Sunglasses cover his own eyes, refusing you access to their cool colour, and you hope he takes them off. Your mouth feels dry but you force yourself to shift to face him, hanging your legs over the side of the wall once more.

“Startled is not scared.” You correct, and watch as he pushes off from the wall casually, making his way to where you sit. He’s tall enough that should he so wish, he could climb into your archway no problem, but he doesn’t, simply resting his folded arms on the ledge next to your legs, looking up at you. At this angle, you can see behind his glasses, to where his eyes fixate on your face.

“You didn’t answer my question?” He probes and you have to think back, unsure of what he’d even asked you.

“Has d’Artagnan won over Lady Constance yet?” He reminds you, reaching out to pluck your copy of The Three Musketeers from your lap and study the cover.

“No, I was going to read more last night but the power went out again and I don’t trust myself not to fall asleep with a candle burning.” You sigh, pushing some hair from your eyes. Bucky places the book gently back down and hums.

“Did you come straight from work?” You ask, switching the subject, and as if he doesn’t notice his clothing, he peeks down at himself briefly, before he cocks his head and gifts you another grin.

“What, can’t a guy wear his uniform around a gal to impress her?” He counters, clearly joking. You scoff anyway and lightly shove his arm.

“I think I’m sick of military uniforms…” You had meant it as a continuation of his joke, but you mean the words far too much to avoid the melancholy that seeps in.

You force yourself to look away, and take a few deep breaths.

Bucky had gotten around to asking you the obvious question of how you, with your brown skin and ‘ethnic’ features, had not suffered during the war. You told him the truth; that your neighbours had hidden you and your mother in attics and basements for nearly five years.

He’d been quiet and pensive on your answer, before telling you he understood why you spent so much time in the ridiculously hot sun. He’d made you laugh, something that you hadn’t ever thought you could do when speaking about your time during the war.

A hand gently, feather-light, curls over your own in your lap, and it takes everything in you not to jump. When you look back at him, his features are sad and serious and he gives your fingers a squeeze.

“Me too, darlin’.”

You want to say something, to maybe turn your hand over and feel his palm against yours, but before you can he removes it from yours, pushing back off the wall.

“I had an idea earlier, when we were clearing the rubble away.” He extends his arm to you, waiting patiently for you to make the short jump down from your perch. Linking your arm with his, he turns you to begin walking, but reaches out and plucks your book from you, tucking it into his jacket.

“An idea? I’m not helping with the mess…” You tease, and he gives you a sideways look.

“No. Riccardo said if I were truly suffering so much in the heat, I should go to the beach.” You perk immediately, gasping softly. You hadn’t been to the beach in so long.

“The beach!” You repeat, and Bucky grins, pride showing clearly through at his effort to delight you.

“I was thinking we could grab my camera, and head on down for the afternoon. I don’t think I have anything to swim in but even just dipping my toes…” You’re already nodding frantically, pulling away from his arm as you clap and do a little jump. You really couldn’t help it, you hadn’t been down to the water in many years.

“Yes! Though, did he tell you how long a walk it was? We should be careful of it getting too dark, my mama has already started—”

“—We can just drive.” Bucky shrugs, and you pause, blinking. Yes, you knew he had a car the army lent him, you’d seen it once or twice even but…

“I’ve…” You trail off and stop speaking entirely, shaking your head, and trying to plaster back on your previous excitement, but Bucky had already seen the slight fall to your face, and he frowns.

“What? What’s wrong?” He steps forward, toward you a little, his hand absently out as if to take your arm, though he drops it a moment later.

“It’s nothing. It’s silly.” You attempt to brush him off but he only moves closer still, right up to you now, and this time, the tension isn’t the same as it had been before.

His head bows down toward you, his frame nearly cocooning yours, if anybody were to be standing behind him, they likely would not be able to see you. His hand does touch your arm this time, comforting, concerned and all of it makes your heart flutter like a million happy butterflies.

“I… It’s just that… I’ve never been in a car before.” You admit, and it really is a silly thing to make such a fuss over. Bucky must breathe a sigh of relief that your dramatics hadn’t been about something more serious, but you don’t see his expression or body language change at all for a few seconds.

“... Ever…?” When he does speak, there’s no amusement in his voice, no awe at how backwards and small your growing up had been that you’d never been in a car. He just… asks.

You shrug.

“We don’t need them here…” His face does relax a little, and he must realise how much he’s been crowding you because he clears his throat and shuffles back slightly, letting his hand leave your arm.

“Well… I think you’ll like it. It’s fast.” He says, before frowning.

“Not— not too fast.” He adds, and you have to smile.

“Well… Why don’t I go put my book away, I’ll find some bread and fixings and you can go change, and I will meet you at your cottage?” You suggest. You didn’t want to go all the way down to the beach without some sort of food, even if he said the trip would be fast in his car. It would also give you a chance to change from your day dress into something that you wouldn’t mind getting a little wet or sandy.

Bucky nods.

“Yeah. Okay. You know where it is?” You roll your eyes.

“Of course.” He hangs his head a little, and lifts his hands in defeat.

“Small town, grew up here. Got it.” You laugh. He’d mentioned once how even though he’d spent his whole life in Brooklyn, knew the streets and the major locations like the back of his hand, there were still places he’d never know where to even start looking for.

You part ways then, and quickly hurry home, the excitement thrumming through your veins once again. Not only were you going to get to go to the beach, but you were going to ride in a car!

You toss your book onto your bed without a second thought, quickly undressing and slipping on a lighter, older dress. It’s faded pale blue told it’s age, but the fabric was thinner, meaning you would have no problem if it got wet. You decide not to bother with stockings, removing both them and your garter in favour of feeling the sand with your bare feet instead, and slip your shoes back on.

Before you leave your bedroom, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and pause. Turning your face from side to side, you inspect your features carefully. You never bothered with makeup, it was expensive and you’d only end up sweating it off, but your eyes do linger on your lips for a moment.

Creeping upstairs, you sneak into your mother’s bedroom. She was out for coffee at one of your neighbours, still, you feel nervousness take hold when you find the small golden tube in her drawer. Taking a deep breath, you uncap the lipstick and lean forwards for a better view, before carefully swiping the deep red colour across your lower lip. You follow suit with the upper, fixing it here and there, and swiping to try and neaten it up, but when you stand back to inspect yourself, you groan in frustration.

You didn’t want to look like you were trying too hard, and your painted lips and bareface didn’t communicate that at all. Grabbing a tissue, you quickly work to remove the makeup, rubbing at your lips until the bulk of the colour is off. However, when you stop to check again, you find the red has somewhat stained your skin. It only really adds a subtle flushed red over your usually brown lips, but it's still noticeable, and you panic, grabbing another tissue and trying again to no avail.

Time ticks by and you check your watch, not wanting to make Bucky wait too long, and so you pocket the stained tissues and take a last look in the mirror. Your shoddy clean up job would have to do. At least the stains were on your lips and not around them.

In the kitchen you gather up a small selection of items in a basket, just some bread and butter and homemade jam, and tuck an old blanket over the top to secure it all, and so that you could sit on it later. Checking everything one last time, you slide the basket to the crook of your arm and close up your house behind you.

You have to stop yourself from skipping as you make your way through the streets, smiling and greeting those who pass you politely and not like a mad woman. By the time you make it to Bucky’s little cottage, you can already see him leaning back against the car, waiting. He straightens when he sees you, smiling as you slow down, feeling almost hesitant about approaching the car.

“Here, lemme take this…” You let him grab the basket from you and watch him open one of the back doors, placing it on the floor, behind a seat. When he shuts the door again with a click, he turns to look at you in a both expectant and patient manner.

“Shall we?” He gestures to the other side of the car, and you let him lead you around it, swallowing as he pulls open the front side door for you.

“There you go. You know, you’re lucky this is your first car ride. This is a nice car, apparently.” You let Bucky take your hand to help you in, and for the few seconds after he’s shut your door behind you, and you see him jog around to the driver’s seat, you feel an immense awkwardness settle over you.

When he’s climbed in beside you, he gestures to something above your head.

“Here, that’s your seat belt. I know a lotta people don’t bother with them, but… better safe than sorry, right?” You nod, and reach out to grab the little buckle, not realising that the sun had been baking the metal since it had come up.

You rip your fingers away from it with a hiss, cradling them to your chest. Bucky jerks and is immediately leaning over to help you.

“Shit! Sorry, I— I forgot to tell you to be careful of the— here, look, you gotta grab the plastic part…” Your slightly burnt fingers are all but forgotten when Bucky leans right over you, directly into your space as he pulls at the belt, drawing it down and across your body, to your hip.

You watch him click the buckle together and blink up at him when he leans back, face still pulled in a wince.

“You okay?”

“Yes… I just wasn’t expecting it… it didn’t really hurt that much…” He looks like he wants to say something more, his eyes darting down to where you lower your hand back to your lap, and your face, but he eventually settles with a nod.

“Okay. Okay.” He repeats, twisting to face frontwards in his seat again as he begins readying the car. You watch him fiddle with the keys, jumping slightly when the engine roars to life all around you, but you only chuckle at the look Bucky sends you. He lifts one hand from the wheel, to hold onto a tall gear stick in the center console, shifting it a few times before you feel the car begin to move.

Despite your nerves, you can’t help but feel the excitement in your bones, and as Bucky starts to slowly drive along the outer roads of the town, toward the western most side, you can’t stop yourself from staring out the window.

It wasn’t as if you’d never seen any of these places before, but it felt different now. You feel Bucky’s eyes flick over to you every so often, a low chuckle you can barely hear above the car reaching you, but you’re too enthralled to do more than return his smile briefly.

You settle down a bit as you hit the main road. It's still a very new experience to be moving so quickly down a road you’d only ever been along at a walk. Bucky seems content in the quiet, but about halfway through the trip, he changes his hand on the steering wheel, to reach down for something on the side of his door. You watch him fumble for a moment, before he behinds winding a little lever, and you turn your gaze to where the window now rolls down, filling the car with fresh air and the sound of light wind.

“You’ve got one too,” He briefly takes his eyes from the road to point your own window lever out to you, and excitedly, you rush to unwind it. You laugh then, like a child, and lean forward to get a better view, to feel the wind blow over your face. It doesn’t last long though, the second you feel your hair get thrown about, you yip, ducking away with another laugh, but attempting to smooth back your hair again.

Bucky grins over at you, and he shuffles, keeping one hand on the steering wheel, resting his elbow on the window frame casually. With his spare hand, he rests it on his thigh, fingers tapping.

“Lotta women wear a scarf, to keep their hair from getting wrecked…” He tells you, and you make a note for if you ever ride in the car again.

“You were right.” You tell him, finally sitting back in your seat and relaxing. Bucky cocks his head, briefly glancing at you, but mostly he keeps his eyes forward.

“Hmn?”

“I do like this.”

You arrive at the beach in no time at all, the lone western road leading right down to the water. Bucky brings the car to a stop away from the road, on a patch of grass that separates the rest of the land from the sand dunes. On your right, some ways away, the land lifts, creating a rocking cliffside that encloses this section of beach neatly. You knew from your childhood that there were some caves accessible, but you’d always been told to stay well away.

Bucky grabs the basket from the backseat, and you wait for him to catch up with you before you begin treading down onto the sand. The sand is hot and pale, and the smell of sea water calls you, but as much as you’d love to throw yourself toward it, you direct Bucky to a small cropping of rocks and boulders that rested near the dunes, far enough back that the incoming tide wouldn’t reach them, but near enough to the water to be sure your things would be kept safe.

Bucky follows your lead as you kick your shoes off, climbing to the top of the largest boulder easily, it's jagged surface perfect for climbing, as long as you didn’t step on a spike. The boulder stands almost up to Bucky’s chest, and was quite large from a top side view. You beckon him to give you your basket and he watches as you quickly lay out the blanket. When he can see you settling, he joins you, scaling the rock quickly, and taking a seat beside you, where you’ve now begun to pull the bread and spreads from the basket.

“This is a nice spot.” He says scanning the horizon critically. You see his gaze turn up towards the nearby cliffs, scrutinizing them thoroughly with slightly squinted eyes. His face is so intense, you can’t help but look too, wondering what it was he was seeing, but when you turn back to him, he snaps out of it, plastering an easy smile on his face.

You open your mouth to question what he’d been looking at when he grabs the jame, and turns it over in his hands.

“Homemade?” He asks, clearly excited by the prospect, and even though you still want to know what he’d just been thinking about, you let it go, recognising a subject change when you saw one.

“Yes. My mama is very good at cooking. She cooks a lot for other people.” You tell him, buttering a thick slice of bread before handing it to him.

“Do you?” He puts the jam down as he takes the bread and a butter knife from you, beginning to spread some of the sweet, jellied fruit. You scrunch your nose.

“I don’t cook a lot. Mama says I should do more.” You roll your eyes and Bucky snorts.

“Why?”

“So that when I get married my husband won’t be displayed… or something.” You bring one of your legs to a bent position, like you were crossing your legs but only chose to do one, and shift your center of balance to be more comfortable.

The blanket was a nice touch, but it didn’t make the rock you sat on any more homey.

“I don’t understand… why women have to do so much to keep a man. If they love you, shouldn’t they not care about how well you cook or how clean your house is?” You glance at him, genuinely asking. Bucky was, as you well knew, a man, he may have insight you did not. He frowns, mulling over his thoughts as he chews his mouthful.

“I think some guys want a housekeeper more than a partner. I don’t think a lot of mother’s help that, either.” It’s your turn to frown and you cock your head, gesturing he go on. He adjusts a little, and looks off as he speaks, only glancing back at you a few times as he explains.

“It’s a cycle, right? A lady gets married, she looks after her husband, they have kids, a boy and a girl,” He pauses, takes a small bite, chews, swallows and continues.

“Now, as the girl gets older, mother starts to prepare her for when she’ll get married, so she takes on some of the household chores. The son however, he gets looked after right up until he leaves the nest. His food is cooked for him, his room is cleaned, his clothes washed…” You start understanding what he means, and nod slowly.

“By the time he’s serious about looking for a girl, he thinks they should be how his ma and pa were. I’m sure there’s love and affection, but in his mind, if she’s not doing those same things he grew up with, then how much can she really love him?” He ends with a shrug, looking at you, and you have to admit you’re genuinely surprised by his honest point of view.

But he sits up a little straighter then, and points to himself with the bread still in his hand.

“My mother would never let me get away with that.” He tells you solemnly, and you chortle at his deeply serious, over the top expression.

“Oh?”

“No ma’am. When I was sixteen she showed me how to use the machines at the laundromat, and if my room wasn’t spick and span at the end of the week I’d get it.” You laugh at the thought of a woman with Bucky’s same eyes making him remake his bed.

“And cooking?” You press, and Bucky shrugs again.

“I grew up watching her cook, helping her in the kitchen… I ain’t sayin’g I’m good. But I wouldn’t starve.” You laugh again, his stories uplifting on your general view of how things were ‘Supposed To Be’.

“Anyway, the point is, the only thing that makes a good husband or wife is that you care about one another. Everything else is negotiable.” You grin, and nod, look out at the water as he words sink in, before you sharply side eye him.

“Everything except fidelity. I’d cut off my man’s—” You cut yourself off before you can say too much, but Bucky has already begun howling with laughter, leaning all the way back to rest on his elbows, he places a hand to his chest as he guffaws gleefully.

When he calms down, still snickering quietly he nods several times to himself and gives you a look.

“I don’t doubt you for a second, sweetheart.” Your chest flutters again at not just the pet name, he’d taken to using various ones, but the softness in his voice when he says it. It makes you nervous, it makes your stomach feel like the rolling waves of the ocean before you are happening simultaneously in there too.

“Right, well. Let's cool off, huh?”

Bucky rolls his pant legs up to just above his knees before he treads into the shallows, and you lift your skirt just a little as you join him. You wallow about in the water for some time, talking about nothing in particular. At one point, he realises he’d left his camera in the car, and races back up to get it, returning with a piece of photo paper already developing in his fingers.

“Took one from the dunes. It’s a nice view.” He explains as you lean over to peer at the little print. You can make out your figure, distant in the photo.

Bucky takes several more pictures, of the cliffs, of the long expanse of shoreline on the other side… You let him be for a while, moving back up to the rock and the blanket, perching yourself on the edge as you just take in the cool sea breeze and watch Bucky move about, deeply focused.

It was sweet really, though you don’t know how many of the shots look the same.

The warm sun and your general relaxed mood lull you to lie back, fixating your gaze on the blue skies and clouds above. Your skin grows warm and a little moist under such direct sunlight, but it feels nice. You aren’t sure how long you lie there for, you even doze off for a little bit, but some time later, you hear Bucky approaching.

“Can I take your picture?” He asks as you sit up, shielding your eyes for a moment as you do.

“Me?”

“Yeah.” You want to protest that he shouldn’t waste his photo paper on you, but he’s already stepping back and bringing the camera up to check if he’s too close or far.

“Wait, let me move.” You tell him, shifting to sit side on, with your feet on the rock and your knees bent up, like you would sit in your reading nook. Bucky waits for you like you ask, adjusting a little notch on his camera before he lifts it back to his eye, peering through. You expect him to take the photo right away but instead you see his lips part and his tongue swipe out to wet them as he swallows and draws the device away again.

“Uh, your— your skirt sweetheart, it's…” He trails off and gestures at his own thigh, prompting you to glance down at yourself.

Oh.

With your legs up like this, and perhaps with the help of a little sea breeze, your dress had shifted far up the length of your leg, far more than what was proper or should be photographed, and yet, your mind begins to whir.

You cock your head innocently, and hook your finger under the hem, drawing it back even further, until almost the whole side of your leg was on display. As you do, you pop your shoulder forward and rest your chin on it, grinning widely, invitingly.

Bucky just stares for several moments, and you see him swallow again. He seems to fumble with bringing the camera back to his face, and you see his mouth in what you’re certain is English cussing. It only makes your grin that much wider.

He takes the picture, lowering the camera immediately to catch the photo it spits out, though, he keeps glancing back up at you. You only flutter your eyelashes as best you can and make sure to fix your skirt somewhat. You sit forward again, and rest your hands either side of your legs, leaning toward where Bucky still stands.

“May I see?” You ask, and he jerks, starting toward you right away.

“Y--yeah. Of course…” You note with a quiet snicker how he stands at least two feet away from you when he holds out the photograph, and you take it from him, inspecting it.

“This is a good one.” You tell him.

“Yep. Yeah. It is.” He’s aware you’re teasing him now, and you give him a smile over the top of the picture.

“You won’t throw it away?”

“Why… why the hell would I throw it away?” You shrug and hold it out to give back.

“I don’t know…”

Bucky reaches out for it, but just before he can take it from you, you pull it back.

“On second thoughts, I don’t know if you can be trusted with this.” His face resembles a rain cloud, his frown confused and deep.

“What?”

“I think it might end up in the bottom of a box somewhere… I should keep it.” Your lip quirks, and he can see the cogs turning as he realises you’re only playing. He rolls his eyes and goes to grab it from you again, but you pull it away again.

Before he can corner you where you sit, you jump off the rock, ducking to the side as he lunges, making you squeal.

“Come on, sweetheart, let me have it…” You keep moving backwards, even as you turn to face him, the photo clutched to your chest. Bucky has turned to pursue you, though he’s only walking, hands on his hips.

“You’ll have to catch me!” You take off running, unable to keep from laughing as you do, Bucky’s own chortling reaching you as he gives chase.

You duck and weave out of his reach, and even though he’s far bigger and fitter than you, you were smaller, and the drag of the sand didn’t affect you as much. He almost gets you twice, his fingers grazing your dress, and when he does finally catch you, it’s with his arms around your middle, seizing you mid stride and pulling you back.

The momentum sends you both tumbling to the sand, your back hitting it lightly. Bucky falls over you, though he catches himself before he can crush you proper. All you can do is laugh, breathless from the chase and from the fall, and most certainly from the fact Bucky now lays atop you.

He’s laughing too, his face close and his breathe warm. He shifts to lift one hand and pluck the photo from your fingers, still held to your chest, trapped their by his own body. He’s still smiling when he makes a show of placing the photo in his top pocket, and buttoning it close, and then he drops his hand, resting it back in the sand by your head.

“I caught you.” He says simply, and all you can do is nod dumbly. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you suddenly remember the lipstick debacle. You’re about to make an excuse, or explain what had happened, when he leans in, dropping his lips to your own softly. You don’t mean to, but you gasp quietly, heat pooling in your face when you feel Bucky smile, and hear his light chuckle.

He doesn’t stop though, and you gladly return the kiss at last, lifting your chin so he could reach you easier or have more of you, you don’t know. Bucky shifts over you, his knee digging into the sand as he lifts some of his weight off of you, but before you can complain, he’s holding your face, tilting your head and deepening the kiss.

When you part, reluctantly, you’re all too aware of how heavy you’re breathing, your chest rising and falling rapidly. Bucky’s eyes drop to watch for a moment, and you feel goosebumps crawl over your skin, but he looks away, moving to get off of you.

“Uhm… that okay?” He asks, scratching the back of his head a little awkwardly. You’re still just lying in the sand, watching him and trying to catch your breath.

He stands, and leans down to offer you a hand that you accept. You let him pull you to your feet, and by that time you’ve gotten at least a semblance of your sanity back. He’s looking at you cautiously, concerned maybe, but you intend to rectify that.

He hardly has time to catch you as you jump for him, legs wrapped around his middle, your arms around his neck, Bucky lets out a loud, hearty laugh as he makes to secure his hold on you. You lean in and kiss him again, heated at first, but then softer, until you’re only peppering little pecks to his lips.

“I’m gonna go with that being okay, then.” He confirms to himself. You giggle, like a schoolgirl with a crush, and realise he’d been walking the whole time he’d been carrying you. He sets you down atop the rock, hands gliding under where he’d been holding your legs, before quickly removing them, like he didn’t want to overstep.

“You had better not lose that picture.” You warn, making him chuckle, and pat his pocket.

“Oh, trust me darlin’. It’s not going anywhere.”

The sun had already begun to set, and so you make quick work of packing up the small amount of belongings you brought. As you walk back to the car, Bucky carries the basket in one arm, and with the other, he reaches out to take your hand, firmly and securely, interlocking your fingers, and you feel your whole being ascend.

He doesn’t let go of your hand in the car either, reaching out to hold it there too, your intertwined hands resting on your thigh. It’s all too short however, and far too soon he’s parking the vehicle and helping you out.

“I’ll walk you back.” He tells you and you frown.

“What? No, you’re already home, I can—”

“—I’ll walk you back.” He says again, firmer, but with a playfulness that stops you from arguing further.

You wait for him to get your basket from the backseat, and when he does join you around at the rear of the car, his face lights up in realisation.

“Oh! Wait. Hold this for a sec…” He gently thrusts the basket into your hands and you blink, watching him jog into the cottage.

He reappears a few minutes later, carrying something long and cylindrical in his hand, and as he approaches you again, he flips it, catching it smoothly.

“Flashlight. For… for if your power goes out again…” He drops it in your basket before he takes it from you again, and you’re so genuinely touched by the gesture you’re frozen for a few seconds.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky frowns, cocking his head, but you snap out of it, leaning in to wrap your arms around his neck, only a hug this time. His free arms wraps around you instantly, and you aren’t sure you’ll ever get over how nice it feels to be held.

“Thank you. That’s very kind…” You say when you pull back. He just smiles at you, before offering you his arm, and walking you home.

—-

He takes you on a picnic.

It’s such a quaint idea that when he mentions it to you one afternoon, after kissing you goodbye on your doorstep, you can’t help but feel your eyes light up like two cartoonish hearts.

Bucky had assured you he would source the meal and perhaps some wine, but he’d need your basket once more, and the next day you find yourself lounging lazily under the shade of a tree, in the empty fields outside of town.

He’d brought bread, fruit and a bottle of red wine that you’d be very excited by right up until you’d had your first taste.

Bucky burst out in laughter at your expression, nose scrunched and brow furrowed, and he gracefully takes your glass from your hand.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, it's an acquired taste…” He chortles, and you gladly let him pour what's left of your drink into his own, but you notice he doesn’t really touch it throughout lunch.

You talk for hours, clearing up the blanket so you can lie down next to one another and gaze at the cloudy blue sky. You ask Bucky to tell you once more about New York City, and as he speaks you gaze at him, gesturing wildly with his hands and smiling back at you every so often.

He was so pretty, for a boy, his eyes so blue, hair dark and lovely and smooth looking. Even his stubbly chin and cheeks, where you could clearly see he’d shaved just this morning look nice, and without really thinking, you reach out and brush the backs of your fingers over his jaw.

Bucky stops speaking, turning his head slightly to regard you softly, but you don’t stop. From the way he spoke about the war and missing his home, you think maybe it has been a while since he’d felt such gentle touches.

“See somethin’ you like, darlin’?” His smirk is barely a smirk, it's far too soft for that, but there’s still a hint of cheekiness in his gaze that draws you in. Laughing quietly, you rise to your elbow, leaning into his side where he’d previously been lying a respectable distance from you and press your lips to his jaw, then his cheek, and at last his lips.

Bucky kisses you back immediately, like he always did, lips moving softly against your own, carefully cupping the side of your face and pulling you down against him even further. Your heart races when he sits up without breaking apart from you, pushing you back so your positions are reversed. Out here you were practically alone, and even if somebody did come driving down the main road, with the tall grass nobody would be able to see you.

You wrap your hands up behind his head, tugging him down more, until he’s leaning against you fully, his forearms encasing either side of your head, a knee slipping between your own as your tongue slips between his lips. Your nearly come apart thena nd there when he moans, muffled by your kiss, but erotic all the same, and he seems to move more feverishly, kissing your quicker, bearing down against you harder.

You resist the urge to wrap a leg around him, but instead let your fingers scratch gently at the back of his neck, feeling yourself sink further and further into bliss with each tiny stroke of his tongue against yours, and each press of his clearly hardening length between your thighs.

You almost unhook your hands from his neck to lift your dress when he pulls back. At first he simply lays his forehead against your own, his eyes shut tight, and you watch him with rising disappointment and heavy breathing as he gently shifts his weight off of you, and dips his lips to kiss the tip of your nose, and then chastley at your lips.

“I uh… this probably isn’t a good idea…” You deflate, but push it aside. If he did not wish to go further, you wouldn’t pressure him. Still, the gentle ache between your thighs resists, begging for friction, for satisfaction. Bucky looks down at you, lips kissed raw and pupils dilated and it takes everything in you not to go for his pants then and there. He smooths down what he can of your hair, tucking some wilder pieces behind your ear before he kisses your nose again, and lays back down beside you.

On the walk back, the both of you are oddly silent, and although it isn’t uncomfortable, you still don’t like the awkwardness. You always felt like you could be truthful with Bucky, and you didn’t want to change that now, so tugging on his hand a little you slow your pace.

“I would have had sex with you, you know?” You squint at him and he blinks rapidly, face blushing quickly as he checks around to make sure there was nobody else present.

“Wha— I wasn’t—”

“—I’m not a virgin. I know what I’m doing.” You further assert, and he only continues to cough awkwardly, trying to reign in his clear embarrassment.

“Men aren’t the only ones who like sex. You always think us women are so eager to wait and ‘save ourselves’.” You roll your eyes then, and walk past him.

You don’t look back, but soon enough he’s hurrying to fall in beside you once more, taking your hand again even as he swallows.

“I never said you were, I just… I guess I’m not used to ladies talkin’ about it so… well, at all…” You side-eye him wryly and shrug.

“Look around, Bucky. In a town this small, there isn’t much else to do except each other. But all the boys have left now…” You shrug again, and this time Bucky laughs, letting out a slow puff of air.

“I guess.” He wears a look on his face like he wants to say something else, but he stays quiet. You slow down as you approach your home, and you’re about to ask when he stops just short of the steps leading into your front courtyard, and takes both your hands.

“I guess I wouldn’t want to take advantage. I’d want you to be sure.”

You purse your lips and roll your eyes again.

“I’m not a naive little girl.”

He laughs again and draws you near, quickly checking about to make sure no neighbour would spy the kiss he presses to your lips.

“And I’m not a boy.” The words send a thrill up your spine, and now more than ever you wish he hadn’t pulled away earlier. You swallow as he looks down at you, eyes intense and fiery and this time it’s your turn to swallow.

“I— I know…” You manage, and for a moment you can’t stop staring at one another.

Eventually, Bucky squeezes your hands and nods his head toward your home.

“You’d better—”

“—Oh! Yes… Goodnight…”

Bucky watches you as you make your way to your door and tips his hat when you look back at him before you close it.

“Goodnight.”

—-

Bucky can’t sleep.

It's late, he really should have been asleep hours ago, but he can’t stop thinking about you and what you’d said. As much as he curses himself for not seeking out the moment when he’d had you under him in the field, he’s also glad. You deserved more than a quick rut on a picnic blanket, and yet his mind wanders to Parisian nights, except all the women in his memories are replaced with you.

Would you be loud? Quiet? Would you say his name, drawn out and breathy? He decides he wants to find out.

It takes him no time at all to walk to your house, and when he’s climbed the side wall of the enclosed courtyard into the back garden, he sneaks on around to the open window on the first floor.

Surprisingly, you were either far from asleep yourself, or you had been suspecting his visit. You sit up in bed right away, but smile and hold a finger to your lips as you creep across to the window. Bucky leans against it comfortably, holding your hand when you half climb through to sit on the sill, legs dangling out beside him.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, though your demeanour seems to be far more girlish, far more pleased-but-scandalised than you had been earlier, talking so frankly about sex. Bucky gives you his best smile and shrugs.

“Wanted to see you. What’re you doing awake?” He nods to your bed, the book and torch clearly lying amidst your sheets.

“I was reading.”

“I can go if you’d—”

“—No!” You whisper, socking him lightly in the shoulder, as if it were a ridiculous thought to even suggest he leave. In the moonlight he thinks you look lovelier than ever, and he scoots closer, until he’s resting his arms across your thighs and gazing up at you softly.

“We have to talk quietly though, my mother’s room is above mine and her window is also open…” You point, and Bucky looks, see’s the curtains billowing slightly out, and he nods.

“I’d let you in, but I think you might dissolve into a blush.” You tease him, and Bucky immediately perks, eyes lighting up at the challenge. He pulls his arms off of your lap and cocks his head.

“Well I’m here, aren’t I?” He asks slowly, letting a hand gently curve up your calf. Your nightdress covers you from the knee up, but he ignores it, reaching underneath to massage softly at your thigh.

You don’t take your eyes off of him, even when he lowers his gaze to carefully push your knees apart. If anything you seem to lean back on your palms, watching him intently. Bucky meets your eye again when he snakes his hand further, forgoing your leg entirely to press the pads of his fingers against your core, eliciting a sharp inhale from the both of you.

“You don’t wear underwear to bed?” He can’t help but ask, pants suddenly restrictively tight and you breathe out slowly, clearly trying to remain quiet as he lets his fingers simply glide through you slick.

“Only when I’m expecting company.” You tell him, and he chortles, stepping closer and pressing his lips to yours.

Your head angles back for him, letting him set the pace of the kiss and gently, Bucky presses one finger inside. You almost gasp, but he kisses you harder, pulling back again just slightly, so your lips brush when he speaks.

“Gotta be quiet, remember?” You nod vigorously, eyes not even opening to meet his, and Bucky leans back further, content to watch your head lull back and mouth part in the softest breathiest moans he’s ever heard as he slowly pumps his one finger in and out of you.

He’s laser focused on the task at hand, even despite his rock hard cock, and soon he’s adding another finger, slowly letting them sink deep into your velvety wet heat, his pride stoked when you further part your legs for him. He uses his free hand to push your nightdress up around your hips, and he nearly groans at the sight. Licking his lips he sets his eyes back on you, leaning in to nip and kiss at your neck, finally letting his thumb press down against your clit, massaging in circles as slow as his strokes, and he feels your muscles flutter.

A third finger joins the others and this time you seem to reactively grip his wrist, your other hand flying to slap over your mouth as your brow furrows deeply. Bucky knows he’s breathing hard, and after adjusting himself briefly in his pants, he pulls at the thin straps of your nightdress, getting it only half down one shoulder, but it’s enough.

He wraps his lips around your exposed nipple, swirling his tongue and nipping experimentally, feeling your hand wrap around the back of his head in approval. He stares up at you, desperately wanting to see your face when he finally pulls you apart and he’s rewarded only a few minutes later, his fingers fucking you far quicker, his thumb working faster.

When you finish, your cunt squeezes his digits relentlessly in waves of pleasure, and you make strained, soft little mewls as you attempt to remain quiet. Your hips shift and twitch and he doesn’t draw away from your breast until you’re blinking back down at him, gently pulling his hand away from your clit with bashful little laughs.

“At least… at least I won’t have to change any bedsheets…” You pant, and Bucky chuckles, leaning forward to kiss your lips properly, feeling your naked chest heave against his when he does. Your eyes seem dazed, and your face warm, but when he pulls away again you swallow and gesture to his own clearly bulging pants.

“I can—”

“—Not tonight…” And he means it.

“I just wanted… I just wanted to see you.” He says, and your gaze shifts from purely lustful to something softer, and you smile, dipping your eyes away for a second.

Bucky takes the moment to enjoy his view, your dress pulled up to your hips, your pussy still clearly on display, and your sleeves hanging well down to your elbows, breasts bare, nipples hardened and exquisite. He fights the urge to reach out and start all over again, maybe get his mouth on you this time…

“S’alright?” He rests his head in his palm and you chortle quietly, nodding.

“Yes. Yes, better than… than anything with other boys before…” He gets the feeling you aren’t just saying that to stroke his ego, the blissed out look on your face and the oddly bashful demeanour you’ve taken on requiring him to believe that he really had just properly blown your mind. He grins triumphantly, and leans in again, kissing your lower lip.

“I told you I wasn’t a boy.” He kisses you full again, loving the feel of your hand reaching up to hold the back of his head to you.

“I know.” You say when he forces himself back. You watch him as he carefully pulls up the sleeves of your shirt, covering you up again, and then fixes the skirt too, until you’re mostly modest.

“You should get some sleep, sweetheart.” He tells you, and you hum, reluctantly climbing back through your window and standing on the other side. He kisses the back of your hand, but when he goes to pull away, you don’t release your hold on him, tugging him back slightly, and he blinks at you curiously.

Your eyes have taken on that same lustful expression from before and you cock your head.

“Will you think of me?” You ask, and at first, it doesn’t quite click.

“When you wrap your hand around your cock when you get home, will you think of me?” Bucky nearly chokes, nearly climbs right through your window and ends all the tension there and then, but he manages to hold strong, realising you were still somewhat teasing him.

“Darlin’ I will think of nothing but you, soaking wet and waiting for me…” He squeezes your fingers slightly, noting the approval in your eyes even before you nod.

“Okay.”

“Goodnight.”

“It has been, yes.” You finally let him go, watching as he clambers quietly back over your side wall.

And Bucky does think of you when he gets home, he strokes himself to the thought of your mouth and your cunt, and your tits bouncing in his face while he has you on his lap. It’s honestly the filthiest his mind has been since Paris nights drowned in alcohol and women he didn’t bother to get the names of. He knows your name though, sighs it again and again as he thinks of you.

He falls asleep hard and wakes up in the morning the same way, unable to stop thinking about you.

—-

In the days following Bucky’s midnight visit, you feel a giddy sort of happiness thrum constantly through your veins. Even now, as you sit up in your archway, trying to focus your mind on the letter you write to your distant aunt (you think you’ve met her all of once, but she’d written to you and your mother regarding your health and wellbeing in the aftermath of the war, so you felt obliged to reply). You find yourself able to write only several lines before you’d look up, searching, hoping perhaps Bucky would show, but even you know it’s too early… he’d still be working.

Part of you debates going to watch, the idea of seeing him labouring away in the hot sun, hopefully with his shirt removed, leaving him in only a singlet top… your stomach stirs at the thought, but you shake your head, and concentrate harder on your letter.

You manage to succeed too, losing yourself in describing Montecarra to your relative who’d never once left England, as she’d explained. It isn’t until some time later that movement catches at the corner of your eye, and you barely refrain from looking up as Bucky finally ambles into the courtyard. He must sense your buys-ness, because he doesn’t greet you as he nears, he just stops for a moment, before he continues forward.

At first you think he may approach you to wait, but instead he swiftly climbs into the open archway behind you. You take the time to pause in your own actions to peek at what he’s doing, only to find him sitting in mirror of you, his back to the same pillar yours is. After he settles he twists back and nudges your arm.

“Got any spare paper, darlin’?”

You try to pretend you hadn’t been watching him, but his grin says you’ve been caught out. Gathering a few pages from under your small stack, you hand them back to him, his fingers over your far too suspect for you to think it is anything other than purposeful. Still, you can’t help but smile, even as you settle back to finish off your letter, hearing him uncap a pen.

You find yourself referring back to your aunt’s letter to answer and reply to all of her questions and queries, and once again you almost forgot Bucky is there, until tugging on your sleeve draws you out of your reverie. You turn to look, expecting to be greeted with his lovely face, but instead, all you see is his hand, holding a page folded into a little rectangle.

Your chest flutters at the thought he’d been sitting writing something for you, and so your letter is quickly abandoned in favour of taking the little note. Bucky seems to remain as if he were oblivious to his own actions, humming quietly to himself as you unfold the paper and gaze down at the words.

‘Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?’

Again, your heart stutters, and you can’t hide your smile as you put pen to paper, drawing up your response. You refold it and hand it back the same way he’d offered it to you; tugging on his sleeve and holding it out. The page is plucked from your fingers quickly, and you try to distract yourself by turning back to your true task, only to be pulled from this once more when his hand reaches back, searching. You watch for a moment before he wiggles his fingers expectantly and you snicker, adjusting your hold on your paper, so that you can place your hand in his own.

You sit there like that for the rest of the afternoon, Bucky humming happily, your hands interlocked at an almost awkward angle, and you try your hardest to finish writing your damned letter.

He picks you up from your home later that evening, finds you waiting for him out the front. You hadn’t dressed up in a long time, and so when his gait slows and his eyes roam over you as he approaches, you can’t help but feel self-conscious.

You’d worn a simple red dress, but it was the nicest one you owned, the only one appropriate for dinner out. This time you’d committed to the lipstick, painted your lips red and done your best not to talk yourself out of it. You’d left your hair down, let it fall in loosely styled waves, and all together you felt part-movie star, part-fool.

Bucky whistles lowly, just quietly as he nears, and you have to scoff and roll your eyes, hiding your embarrassment as he draws you in, hugging you just quickly before he pulls back, hands on your waist still, to inspect you closer.

“You look beautiful.” He tells you, voice soft and sweet and you know he isn’t pontificating, or trying to woo you.

“Thank you.” You reach out to smooth over his collar and finally force yourself to meet his eye.

“You look lovely, too.”

You feel lost in a slight high as you walk to the only real restaurant in town, in the main square. In the early evening the streets are quiet, only the occasional passerby, but the cafe remains open, seeing to a few quiet patrons, plus yourselves out on the terrace.

Bucky helps you with your chair and takes your order for you, pours you your drink… it's so normal and yet you’d never really experienced an evening like it. When your food is long gone, he scoots his chair around to sit closer to you and holds your hand softly in his while you talk aimlessly. You aren’t at all worried about being seen or judged, in fact the few moments in which you catch a passing couple take a look at you, you see kind eyes and sweet smiles, only making you feel dizzier.

“You enjoyed your meals, I see?” The owner, an older man named Matteo who you’d known to live in Montecarra for as long as you can remember, stops by to clear up your plates, and you nod enthusiastically.

“Wonderful, we’ll have to come back.” Bucky says, squeezing your fingers as Matteo smiles widely and agrees.

“Maybe next time I will have figured out how to work this named record player, then you will have music as well!” You and Bucky both seem to perk as Matteo throws a thumb over his shoulder, and Bucky straightens in his chair slightly.

“I can give it a look, if you’d like?” He offers, eyes already glued to the record player sitting atop the counter only a few meters away. The older man gives him a shrug and a gesture that clearly reads as ‘go for it’, as he finishes collecting the plates and patters back off to the kitchen.

You watch Bucky move over to the counter, fiddling with the player, though you can’t really see what he does. You know he’s fixed it however, when he throws a grin back at you, and plucks a record from beside the machine, pulling it from it’s sleeve and carefully placing it down on the turntable.

Music immediately begins wafting through the air, an upbeat tune you think you’d heard on the radio before, and Bucky comes speeding back over to you, hands held out even as he pulls you from your seat.

“Dance with me?” He asks, though he’s already wrapping his arm around your waist, and you move yours to his shoulder and hand respectively. There isn’t much room between the tables on the sidewalk, and although the song is happy, it’s not a rousing jazz tune, so you find yourselves simply swaying in each others embrace as the French lyrics begin to join the band.

You end up close, so close you forget anything else exists around you, Bucky’s forehead pressed against your own, your chests similarly compressed, as if neither of you could exist apart.

You have to laugh, thoroughly intrigued and enthralled when he begins softly singing the words to the song. It’s so different to hear him speak in a language that wasn’t Italian or English and it makes your chest ache for a reason you don’t know.

“I wish I could speak French.” You say quietly, Bucky’s lips quirk up but you shake your head.

“You must be so amused by how quaint I am… never been in a car, never left my town… never learnt any languages…” You don’t mean to sound so melancholy, but it hits you then, the ache in your heart stems from just how wonderful Bucky is, and how plain you are in comparison. But he’s frowning as you finish, shaking his head and adjusting his grip on you, wrapping you up even further.

“Never. I think you’re worldy in other ways…”

Your purse your lips, but as he opens his mouth to continue you cut him off, changing the subject.

“Can you tell me about New York again?”

Bucky’s expression falters, then lifts into a sweet smile, and you know his mind has wafted away to distant city streets.

“Of course…” He talks for ages about all the shops and stores available, about all the tiny apartment buildings and the decor, and his home block in Brooklyn. He tells you about the parks and the weather, and a place called Coney Island.

“... I think you’d like it.” He finishes, and you hum, having closed your eyes now, head to his shoulder as you attempt to imagine all that he describes. You feel him open his mouth to say something, to continue, but he doesn’t, hesitating and then remaining quiet, though he holds you firmer again, and you relish in the warmth of it.

Eventually, you have to let Matteo close up, and you bid the old man thank you and goodbye as you walk away hand-in-hand. Before you can get too far however, you stop, tugging on Bucky’s hand so you have his attention, the warm Montecarran breeze blowing your hair about.

“My mama doesn’t expect me home until morning.” You tell him, seeing instantly how his eyes change.

“Why’s that?” He manages to ask, stepping close again and you smile, shrugging.

“I told her I was watching some children in town overnight.”

Bucky hums at your reply, frowns as if in thought.

“Sounds as if you may need somewhere to stay, in that case.”

Bucky takes you back to his cottage, all quiet laughs and lingering touches as he leads you inside, placing his coat and keys down on the table, but any pretence is lost as soon as you kiss him. Clothes scatter around the small space, a gingerbread trail leading to his bedroom where he lays you down and peels the last of your underwear off.

Oddly, you feel less nervous about him seeing you naked than you had in your dress, maybe because he’d already seen you mostly this way, or maybe because at least naked it was real and you couldn’t pretend or hide, it was more honest.

You itch to touch him, but you don’t get the chance right away, his kisses leaving your lips quickly to travel down and soon you’re gasping, hands clutched tightly in his hair as he buries his face between your thighs, hands holding your legs apart as his tongue and lips work quickly over you, bringing you over the edge faster than you even thought possible. By the time he’s kissing you again, your mind is a haze of filth and desire and you guide him into you quickly.

Bucky is an excellent lover, his pace and angle perfect, his weight above you welcome as he thrusts into your warmth, desperate and wanting. He isn’t boring either, doesn’t end the night quickly, instead nearing his pleasure and stopping each time, drawing it out. He instructs you in various positions, making your belly spark with his knowledge of the female body, nearly sending you into a fritz when he takes you from behind, leaves you scrambling to hold on to something as you cry out into his sheets, his cock relentless as he fucks you through your orgasm, finally finishing with you, his hands curled around to pinch at your nipples, making your cunt bear down on him even more as you fall into a sweaty, moaning and panting heap.

He fetches you water, helps you fix back your hair in your still slightly dazed state, and pulls you near again, skin to skin as you drift off to sleep, lips pressed to one another even as your mind begins to wander.

In the morning you wake him with your mouth around his length, swallow him back as much as you can as he’s drawn from slumber by the pleasure, his hand reaching down to messily clutch at your hair. You watch him come apart for you, eyes fixed on his tilted head, creased brow and open mouth as he jerks into the back of your throat, hot warmth spilling forth that you swallow with ease.

He swears and curses as he rubs his eyes and you crawl up to lay beside him once again, finding his eyes looking at you as if to make sure you were real.

“Good morning, Sargeant.” You tease, only to have him cuss more, his chest heavily quickly up and down. You chitter and brush the slightly damp hair back from his head, a kiss to his cheek as you withdraw from the bed.

“Where’re you goin’?” He asks, blinking himself properly awake and you throw him a glance as you hunt for all your belongings.

“I have to go home, my mother does expect me at some point…” You explain, and he rubs a hand over his face once more, seeming to deflate a little.

“Right. Of course.”

You’re fully dressed when he manages to pull himself to sit on the edge of the bed, still naked, still just as fine as the evening previous. He looks up at you as you step nearer, braiding back your hair before you place both hands on his shoulders.

“Thank you.” You say simply, leaning down to peck his lips chastley. He hums against you, kissing you back and quickly you’re no longer pecking his lips, your hands roaming down over his shoulders appreciatively, his hands reach up the back of your skirt, pulling your underwear to the side and—

You gasp, giggling as you pull out of his reach, shaking your head and wagging a finger at him like a naughty child.

“No! No, I have to go home!” You tell him, even as he sighs, falling back to lie on the bed again. You can clearly see his hardening length and you fight yourself to just climb atop him once more.

“I will see you later!” You say pointedly, tossing a shirt onto his lap, to hide him from you, and you see him grin, chortling even as his hand travels lower, removing the shirt and wrapping around— you turn your back, flustered and tempted, but you leave his little cottage, determined to get home before your mama woke, so you could wash and change.

—-

Somewhere in the back of Bucky’s mind, he knew it wouldn’t last forever, but the end comes sooner than he’d expected.

He stares at the small pile of pages in front of him, their words all making sense in his brain, he understands what they all say, what they’re telling him, but at the same time, he comprehends absolutely nothing after the words ‘The United States Armed Forces herby discharges you with honourable service records…’

He was going home. They were sending him home.

At last he’d be able to hug his mother, see his sister, Steve, all the other fellas… he’d get to go home and really start his life post-war. He’d been waiting on this letter for months, a year even, more perhaps. At one time, it had been all he’d wanted. And yet, all that fills him now is a sense of dread, muddled with a bit of guilt, because he knows he really does miss his family, but…

When he sees you later that afternoon, sitting up in your nook like always, he can hardly bring himself to return your smile, sparkling and bright as always, for him. You pick up on his mood immediately, even if you poke fun. He knows he can’t delay, they expected him on his flight home from Rome tomorrow. The army loved their damn punctuality.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, face falling a little when he only half-heartedly chuckles at your joke, his eyes downturned, afraid to meet your own. He swallows, and shoves his hands in his pockets, squints into the distance.

“They’re sending me home.”

A beat passes.

When he finally looks back at you, he catches the tail end of devastation leaving your features, replaced instead with a hopeful, sincere grin.

You grab his hand, pulling them from his trousers.

“Bucky! That’s wonderful news!” You say excitedly, but he can only purse his lips.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that! You don’t want to spend your whole life here, do you!?” You snort a little as you knock him in the shoulder, and he smiles thinly.

No, he didn’t want to live the rest of his life in Tuscany, but he’d been getting used to having a little slice of it around lately.

Your over-excitement fades, and you lean in to him cupping his cheek.

“You’ll get to see your mother, and your city… I know you miss them all…” He can’t help but frown at a spot on your dress, avoiding your eyes like a pouting child.

“I’ll miss you, too, though.” He mumbles, and you smile, scrunch your nose and shake your head.

“In no time at all this will all be a happy memory.”

Bucky wants to protest, lifts his gaze to argue with you, but the sharp, almost panicked look you give him as you shake your head again stops him.

“No, Bucky… Don’t. Please don’t make this sad… you’ve made me…” Your voice is cut off as you sniff, the shininess to your eyes spilling over just slightly, even though you smile softly.

“You’ve made me very happy, for quite some time. Let us leave with that.” You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding your face away and Bucky sighs, pulling you closer too, and resting his head atop your own.

He glares, frowns aimlessly at a nearby wall, barely even seeing it, focusing all his energy on swaying gently with you.

“Alright.” He says, voice a little rough. You sniff into the collar of his shirt, and he smooths his hands down over your back.

“Alright.”

—-

“We rented out your room to a shoemaker. You’re gonna have to sleep on the couch until we can convince him to leave.” Becca says flatly, half her words muffled as she’s drawn into Bucky’s chest. He holds her there tightly for several seconds before pulling back.

“Oh yeah?” He rubs at his chin.

“Don’t think the shoemaker will sleep heads to toes with me?” He wonders, and Becca scrunches her nose, laughing at the image.

Winnie Barnes shakes her head and lightly taps her daughter.

“Becca don’t cause trouble. Bucky, we left everything exactly the way it was.” His mother tells him, before hugging him for the sixth time since he’d landed. He just grins, and hugs her back each time. He’d missed her. So much.

They eat dinner together, Steve and Peggy come too, and afterward, the blond makes Bucky pull out his camera. After quickly pulling some choice images out of the pile, he lets Becca and his mother rifle through, telling them about each photo as he remembers it, the act rather therapeutic. He really had been gone for so long.

“Oh… who's this?!” Becca coos, half reading, half awed, and Bucky absently leans over to get a look.

His heart stops for a moment when he lays eyes on you, your smile wide and full of glee, the wind blowing your hair wildly about, your hand lifted to hold your hat on your head. Maybe he takes too long staring, maybe it’s just something about a sisters’ intuition, but Becca whistles, then gasps as she plucks another photo from the pile now tipped on the floor.

“Here she is again! And here too!” Even his mother gives him a sideways glance, but he can’t bring himself to feel too bashful.

He clasps his hands under his knees where he sits on the carpet and hums.

“Nina. I met her in a little town called Montecarra.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“She is.” he confirms, as Becca continues to find photos with your face peppered throughout. He should be embarrassed about the amount of pictures he took of you, even ones where you aren’t doing anything but reading, but he really doesn’t.

“She your girlfriend?”

“Becca!” Winnie scolds, glaring at her daughter, but Bucky only laughs.

“I wasn’t lucky enough for that.” He shrugs, and his mother fusses.

“James Barnes, any woman worth her salt—”

“It’s not like that Ma… it’s just…” He trails off. He doesn’t want to say something to suggest he didn’t want to be here with them, because he desperately did. But he missed you.

“Well… I came home.” He shrugs, and his mother’s eyes fill with understanding. She purses her lips but frowns thinly, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

Becca frowns too, but she recovers quickly, pulling out a new photo and asking him about the features in it.

She pulls out the ones of your face, but she doesn’t mention them again.

Bucky settles in. He truly comes home. He stops feeling like he’s living out of a suitcase. He finds a job, granted it isn’t hard, with the SSR setting up an office in the city, he barely had to ask for a job. On Fridays he went dancing with Becca, acting more like a chaperone than a participant, and on Sunday’s he went to church with his mother, holding her hand through the service and making nice with the old ladies after.

He settles in. He’s home.

And then, there’s a knock on the door.

It’s well after any kind of appropriate hours for visitors, but not late enough into the night that anybody was in bed. Winnie sits by the radio in the living room, listening to her stories while Becca scrawls out a letter. Bucky had been reading when the knock came, and he waves a hand towards the women when he stands.

“I’ll get it.”

“Who on earth calls at this time?” He hears his mother wonder aloud as he makes his way down the hall to the front door.

Swinging it open, Bucky feels ready to send off whoever it is, but he stops dead in his tracks. All sense leaves him, aside from sight. He’s only able to stare slack-mouthed as you blink back up at him.

He’s never seen you in so many layers before. It was winter in New York, but Montecarra seemed to be perpetually hot, so the most he’d seen you in was a light jacket… standing before him now, on his front steps, you have a coat, a scarf, gloves, a hat and he thinks those might even be earmuffs around your neck.

“I… Hello…” You begin, your voice heavily accented when you speak English, and even though Bucky shakes himself out of his stupor, he’s still dumbfounded.

“Hi…”

“I… I’m new to the city, and I thought perhaps you will… show me around?” You seem to be thinking hard about your words, speaking slowly to articulate them. You scrunch your nose when you finish, clearly unhappy with the outcome.

Bucky can’t even bring himself to respond. He’s down the two steps separating you in seconds, hands cupping both your cheeks as he kisses you, again and again, in quick succession until you’re laughing against his lips.

“What— how— what are you doing here?!” He stops and starts, but eventually gets some version of his thoughts out. He speaks to you in Italian, not wanting you to feel limited, and you shrug, gloved fingers splayed across his chest.

“My Aunt… the one from England… she offered for me to join her in America, for better opportunities…” You trail off, and Bucky decides you could tell him any reason and he’d have been satisfied.

“I’ve been learning English.” You say, and he nods, thumb stroking over your cheek. He can’t stop looking at you, he can’t believe you’re here.

“I can see that.” He replies, in English, and watches as you slowly understand.

“Buck? Who's at the door— oh! I- I’m sorry, I—” Winnie, with Becca just behind her, stops in her tracks at the door, cheeks tinged red at catching such an intimate moment, but Bucky can’t bring himself to pull away. He see’s Becca’s eyes flash with recognition, her face lighting up.

He forces himself to pull back slightly, guiding you forward.

“Mama, Becca, this is Nina… from Montecarra.”

——

“I thought you said you’d worked in all the kinks!?” You whine, only slightly impatiently, though Bucky can understand why.

“Worked out all the kinks, baby. ‘Out’.” You roll your eyes and mutter in Italian.

“I’m going to work you out in a moment…” You say louder, and Bucky relents, holding up his hands as he finishes fiddling at last.

“Okay, okay. I’m coming! Get ready!” He tells you, quickly rushing around from one side of the camera he’d set up on a pile of books, the little wired control he holds in his hand flashing red.

“Come bambino, please smile for Mr Camera!” You bounce the tiny baby boy on your lap, earning a bout of giggles, just as Bucky slides in next to you on the stairs, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, and placing his free hand on his son’s back.

“Ready?”

“Five minutes ago…”

“Say ‘Montecarra’!”

He presses the button, and the camera flashes.

Thank You Very Much For Reading!

[heliads]

The Hearts of the Hopeless

You are utterly in love with Pietro Maximoff, but he’s an Avenger, and way out of your league. Pietro is utterly in love with Y/N L/N, but she’s an effortlessly cool S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and completely beyond him. However, they may reveal certain truths after one jealousy-filled night at a local bar.

masterlist

If you glance over to your right ever so slightly, eyes narrowed to see through the halfway opened door, you can just manage to see him. He’s leaning against a wall, watching the last couple of minutes of a S.H.I.E.L.D. debriefing. You’re not surprised that he isn’t seated- you don’t think the guy could ever stay still for longer than a couple of seconds. Those happen to be the downsides of moving faster than anyone else around you- you tend to get bored fairly quickly.

Of course you’re thinking about Pietro Maximoff, and of course your eye just happens to fall on him when you’re supposed to be running through some paperwork. But there’s a veritable mountain of forms in front of you, and the man is just a few feet away, so how were you ever supposed to focus? You’re not sure when your little crush developed, but you are sure that it is absolutely, wholly, one hundred percent going to ruin your life. How could it not? Pietro Maximoff is an Avenger, an enhanced speed demon, a smooth-talking flirt who manages to turn your world upside down with just a flash of a smile. You are a perfectly normal S.H.I.E.L.D. officer whose only talent is finding ways to get distracted from doing her paperwork.

You can still remember when you first met him. You had been the leader of a squad of S.H.I.E.L.D. reinforcements sent to help the Avengers out of a situation that had gone south. You had thrown yourself into the thick of the fighting as required, and made eye contact with him for the first time after taking a few shots at retreating enemy agents. Your heart had done a little flip in your chest, and you’d hurried to adjust your gun as an excuse for why you had suddenly stopped dead in your tracks, unable to divert your attention back to the literal battle raging around you.

You weren’t sure what Pietro thought of you other than that you were just another agent. He certainly saw dozens of them per day as an Avenger, yet you had a slight advantage over the other lovesick interns because of your friendship with the Avengers. You’d been close friends with Natasha Romanoff ever since the two of you were stuck on a tough assignment that everyone else was too scared to even attempt. Despite all the dangers, you two had fought together and had each other's backs more times than you could count. After that, it was practically impossible to not see her as a friend. Just like it was practically impossible to not find your eyes catching on Pietro whenever you were spending time over at Avengers Tower, or even now, when you should be focusing on your forms.

You sigh to yourself. Hopeless. You’re so completely, utterly hopeless.

Pietro should be focusing on the debriefing. He should be nodding in understanding with the other agents, he should be scanning the data files for the appropriate information, and he should definitely not be smiling to himself over the fact that he can just make out the form of S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Y/N L/N through a door that had been thankfully left ajar by some blessed intern.

She’s sitting at her desk, fingers tapping slightly in concentration as she studies a set of forms corresponding to her latest assignment. They share the same habit, actually, of always needing to be doing something. Except whenever Y/N does it she seems like a confident, action-oriented secret agent, and when Pietro does it, he seems like an easily bored sprinter. If he had even a fraction of her cool, he could practically take over the world.

Pietro can still remember the first time he saw her. It was at some battle with the Avengers, when they were outnumbered ten to one. Pietro is used to impossible odds, but that one fight had been too stacked against them so Cap had called in the S.H.I.E.L.D. reinforcements. At first, Pietro had been annoyed. Why ask S.H.I.E.L.D. for help? He knew there would be some greasy nobody in charge, who’d bristle at taking Stark’s orders and just be a hindrance.

But then the doors to the quinjet had burst open, and a young woman had strode purposefully down the landing, gun already raised and taking aim. Every move seemed orchestrated, every step and attack a work of art. She hadn’t actually noticed him until they’d been fighting side by side, and then she’d looked up at him and it was like time stopped moving entirely. She had the most beautiful eyes, and when they’d met his gaze Pietro felt like he couldn’t move a muscle, even at normal speed.

She, apparently, had been just fine, and casually readjusted her weapon before continuing on with the fight. Pietro was left with a stupid little smile on his face until a bullet had come screaming his way, and then he was jolted back to reality in time to dodge the projectile. Still, he couldn’t help sneaking glances her way during the entire fight. She was just so effortless, so amazing. Y/N claims to be human, but Pietro is fairly sure that her secret superpower is pure and utter perfection. How else would she manage to be that amazing?

Pietro looks up as people start filing out of the room, and he realizes that the debriefing has concluded. He lingers for a moment longer, wanting to catch one last glimpse of Y/N, but the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are blocking the door. Pietro reaches to the table in front of him to collect his things, and when he looks up again, his sister is standing in front of him, a triumphant smirk on her face. “You know, I’m fairly sure we were supposed to be focusing on the mission reports, not the pretty agent next door.”

Pietro rolls his eyes. “You know, I appreciate you wanting to have twin quality time, but I was assuming the first thing you said wasn’t going to be making fun of me.” Wanda laughs. “You’re hopeless. What else can I talk about? You’re practically obsessed with her.” Pietro gives her a look. “You can’t tease me about that. Aren’t you the one who’s in love with a robot? You could swap him out for one of Stark’s suits and it would pretty much be the same.” Wanda frowns, but can’t keep her grin back for longer than a couple of seconds. “Are you trying to say I’ve gone crazy for falling in love with an android?” Pietro grins. “Honestly, you might have already.” Wanda huffs out an irritated breath. “At least I can focus on a debriefing when he’s in the same room as me. I mean, what would it take for you to pay attention? For her to be the one addressing everyone?”

Pietro holds up his hands in defense. “Alright, alright. I get it. I’m in love with Y/N. Have you made your point clear, or do you want to keep going?” Wanda smirks. “I’m here to offer advice. I heard Natasha’s going to ask around and see if anyone’s up to get drinks. That includes you, but most importantly, it includes Y/N. This is your shot.” Pietro glances back towards that open door, where he can still see Y/N sitting at her desk, a slight frown on her face as she considers the document in front of her. “I’ll ask her. You don’t have to worry about that.”

It’s not like he could do anything differently. Wanda is right- Pietro is absolutely hopeless.

You’ve just managed to finish off your work when Natasha appears in your doorway. She knocks once on the open door frame and you smile at her. “What’s new with you?” Natasha walks in, grinning at you from across your desk. “Actually, you should ask what’s new with us. Specifically, the fact that we are both going to that one bar that opened up recently. It’s just a couple of blocks down- the Amber Cup or something?  Anyways, we’re going to go and we’re going to have a great time.”

You laugh quietly. “You know, when people try to make plans with me they usually ask first. Do I have a choice in this?” “Absolutely not. We’re going.” Nat says, and you stand up, stretching your legs. “Sounds good. I’ll be there.” There’s another knock at your door, and you look over to see Pietro standing there, leaning casually against the doorframe. You smile and wave him in, doing your best to keep your heart rate under control.

Pietro walks over to you, eyes brightening when he realizes that you were leaving your desk. “Have you finished your work? Good. I wanted to see if you might be interested in joining me and other friends at that new bar later tonight. I’d love to see you there.” Natasha rolls her eyes. “I already asked, but good try. She’s going.” Pietro tosses a mock frown her way. “Do you always have to ruin my attempts to ask people out?” Natasha grins, making her way towards the door. “Only when they’re my best friends.”

At times like this, you’re not sure whether or not you’re happy that Natasha made it here first. If Pietro had asked you when you were alone, you’re not sure you could have pulled yourself together long enough to give a seemingly unconcerned response.

Pietro feels like he’s about to kill Natasha. He was minutes away from asking Y/N out. Seconds, even. He’s never been slow for anything but yet on the most important event of his life, Nat managed to beat him to Y/N’s office. He can’t stand it.

The bar itself is modern and somewhat large. Pietro and his friends arrive later at night, grateful for the rush of people already crammed together on the dance floor. Large crowds make it easier to go out undetected, and being noticed for your Avenger status tends to draw either enemies or crazed followers. Neither is really what Pietro’s going for right now.

Pietro’s just mulling over a drink when someone slides into the space next to him on the bar. He turns with a start when he realizes it’s Y/N. He promised himself that he wasn’t going to stare, but Y/N looks absolutely gorgeous. Maybe it’s the drink already in his hand, alcohol already lighting fire to the back of his throat, but Pietro is certain that Y/N could outshine every single girl in this club. Maybe even all of New York.

They talk for a little while, and then Y/N disappears to go find Natasha. Pietro tries not to feel disappointed at her sudden absence, and allows himself to get distracted by the blonde woman in the too-short dress who quickly takes Y/N’s spot. However, his gaze keeps flickering back to one agent in particular, no matter what he does. Pietro’s heart seems to clench when he realizes she’s taken to the dance floor, paired up with some man with dark hair gelled back slightly in a more modern look. 

As he watches, the man’s hands drift to her hips. Pietro has no right to feel angry or anything, he knows that, but there’s a definite bitter taste in his mouth that wasn’t there before. He should turn away and go back to the half-empty glass in front of him, but Pietro’s already had more than enough to drink. Instead, he can’t seem to let go of the sight in front of him.

Pietro has a feeling that he’s about to do something he shouldn’t, that his feelings are finally going to get the best of him. He isn’t sure that he minds.

You spend more time than you should on your hair and makeup and outfit, checking and double checking to make sure the heels match the dress and the accessories. You don’t get to go out and have fun that often due to your busy schedule, so you intend to take full advantage of tonight. Besides, if Pietro is there it won’t exactly hurt to look good. You know you’re just fooling yourself into thinking he’ll notice you, but what if he does? He did show up to ask you to the bar, didn’t he?

You end up arriving a little later than the rest of the group due to traffic, but your eye instantly catches on Pietro. He’s talking and laughing with friends, and turns aside to order a drink from a bartender. You take advantage of his break from conversation to slip into the place beside him. He greets you casually, and you order a drink for yourself before heading over to find Natasha. He was just in the middle of talking to people, right? He probably doesn’t want you to stay for that long.

This seems to be true- you’ve barely been next to Natasha for a couple of minutes when you see that someone else has taken your place next to Pietro. It’s some beautiful blonde woman, who makes Pietro laugh with just a few brief words. You can’t help but feel an overwhelming wave of sadness wash over you at the sight. How could you think you were enough for him, especially compared to her?

You must still be feeling the aftereffects of a couple of drinks and that sight, because you head to the center of the room, intending to dance your worries away and at least attempt to have a good time. You’re joined by a dark-haired man soon after, and you pretend not to notice when his hands wrap around your hips, dipping lower by the second. Why bother? At least now you can try to move on from Pietro, to act like he can be replaced by another man in a blink of an eye. It’s not true, but at least the pounding music distracts you from him.

Suddenly, your partner is ripped away from you. You’re left standing on the dance floor, blinking in confusion at the sudden empty space in front of you. When you look up, your brow furrows to find Pietro, still standing in between you and the dark-haired man from where he’d pushed your partner away. The man glares at Pietro. “Hey, what was that for?” Pietro returns his gaze coolly. “Don’t touch her like that. She deserves some respect.”

Then he turns back to you, and a thousand emotions seem to flicker through his eyes before he walks away, headed towards an exit out back. Your confusion is quickly replaced by anger. Why does he think he can just walk up and control you like that? You mutter a brief apology to your dance partner before storming after Pietro. Eventually, you find him outside, taking in the crisp air of the outside street. He looks up when you open the door, but he seems confused by your angry expression. You don’t give him time to ask what is wrong.

“What was that?” You ask, gesturing loosely towards the bar behind you. Pietro looks away from you, back at the crowded streets. “He shouldn’t have been putting his hands on you like that. He was a creep.” You laugh bitterly. “That wasn’t your call to make. Can’t I have this one night, this one hour to myself? I mean, you rub it in my face practically every day. Did you really have to take this one dance away from me?”

Pietro frowns at you. “What are you talking about?” You look at him in disbelief. “Are you really pretending you don’t know? I see you around the building all the time, flirting with any girl that crosses your path. I don’t know why I thought I was different, but I figured I deserved at least a little respect. I mean, first you don’t talk to me unless you have to, then you pull some stunt like pretending to ask me out to the bar. You want to play with my heart? Fine, but at least let me have this one night.”

Your hand flies to your mouth. Did you really just say all that? You must have drunk more than you’d thought. Pietro is just staring at you, shocked, and you start to back away. “I didn’t mean- I didn’t-” Then he’s standing in front of you, one hand pressed against the small of your back as he kisses you. He leans back, looking at you with something almost like disbelief. “I’m not trying to play with your heart, Y/N. I’m trying to avoid breaking mine.”

Your eyes widen. “You-” He nods. “I love you. I just assumed that you wouldn’t want anything to do with me, so I tried to play it off like it didn’t matter.” You shake your head slowly. “Why wouldn’t I want anything to do with you? You’re the Avenger, I’m the agent. I thought you didn’t even have the time to talk to me.” Pietro laughs quietly. “Ever since the moment I saw you, I thought you were the most amazing person on the planet. Everything you did seemed flawless, and every impossible task seemed easy. And who was I to you, some guy whose only skill was running fast?”

You feel an incredulous smile slipping across your face. “You were incredible. That’s who you were to me. I was hopelessly in love with you. Still am, and I don’t think I can do anything about that.” “Don’t. I like the idea of you loving me.” Pietro says, and he leans forward to kiss you one more time.

Maybe things have a way of working out after all.

[mrspettyferr]

Reason 1035235 Book 5 is Elriel and Book 6 is Vucien

With the way these books are being written, one stand alone after another with an overarching plot, then ACOSF would need to not only center on a romance, but set up the next one. They need to show progress in some form. And if we go back, the whole point of ACOFAS was to give a little fluff, but also to set up the next few books. (SJM herself said seeds were planted in ACOFAS for the spinoffs.)

Now, I actually want to dive into Lucien's romantic setup. So we're going to look at Lucien and Elain, and Lucien and Vassa.

FYI, this post will be very long, because I wanted to highlight most if not all of their the scenes.

For reference: Lucien and Elain, Lucien and Vassa

ACOFAS

Lucien and Elain

He hadn’t mentioned Elain, or his proximity to her. Elain had not asked him to stay, or to go. And whether she cared about the bruises on his face, she certainly hadn’t let on.

- -

Elain, at least, would be too polite to send Lucien away when he wanted to help. She was too polite to send him away on a normal day. She just ignored him or barely spoke to him until he got the hint and left. As far as I knew, he hadn’t come within touching distance since the aftermath of that final battle. No, she tended to her gardens here, silently mourning her lost human life. Mourning Graysen.

How Lucien withstood it, I didn’t know. Not that he’d shown any interest in bridging that gap between them.

- -

“You’re welcome to stay for the night,” I said, since Elain certainly wasn’t going to.

Lucien lowered his hands into his lap and leaned back in the armchair. “Thank you, but I have other plans.”

I prayed he didn’t catch the slightly relieved glimmer on Elain’s face.

- -

“She wants nothing to do with me.”

“Would you, if your positions were reversed?”

He didn’t answer.

- -

“Spend time with her.”

“I don’t think she’ll tolerate two minutes alone with me, so forget about two weeks.”

- -

“I can’t stand to be in the same room as her for more than two minutes."

- -

“He brought you a present.”

Those doe-brown eyes turned toward me. Sharper than I’d ever seen them. “And that entitles him to my time, my affections?”

“No.” I blinked. “But he is a good male.” Despite our harsh words. Despite this Band of Exiles bullshit. “He cares for you.”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“You don’t give him the chance to even try to do so.”

Her mouth tightened, the only sign of anger in her graceful countenance. “I don’t want a mate. I don’t want a male.”

- -

I handed Elain the small box with her name on it. Her smile faded as she opened it.

“Enchanted gloves,” she read from the card. “That won’t tear or become too sweaty while gardening.” She set aside the box without looking at it for longer than a moment. And I wondered if she preferred to have torn and sweaty hands, if the dirt and cuts were proof of her labor. Her joy.

Lucien and Vassa

But Vassa’s freedom would end. Lucien had said as much months ago, and still visited her often enough that I knew nothing in that regard had improved.

- -

“I’ve been at the Spring Court every now and then. But if I’m not here in Velaris, I’ve mostly been staying with Jurian. And Vassa.”

- -

"I think he’d have been crowned king by now if it wasn’t for Vassa.” A twitch of the lips, a spark in that russet eye. “She’s doing well enough. Savoring every second of her temporary freedom.”

- -

“You’d be surprised to see how the three of us get along.”

Friends, I realized. They had somehow become his friends.

“So you’d rather stay with them?”

“I’m not staying with them. The manor is ours.”

- -

“That’s what we call ourselves. The Band of Exiles.”

- -

From these scenes, we essentially know Elain and Lucien have not progressed AT ALL. Elain still mourns Graysen, she wants nothing to do with Lucien, avoids him and is obviously uncomfortable around him.

Lucien on the flip side, isn't really trying to bridge that gap, but he's still hanging on and has some mate instincts regarding Graysen. He's not lost hope for her, but he's not really trying to push too hard either. (IMO out of respect, but also because of lack of interest beyond the bond.)

Conclusion: They're not being set up at this point. They haven't progressed, and his feelings technically aren't really genuine because it's not ELAIN he's interested in. It's his MATE. (Note, not his fault. Not blaming him for this. Just pointing out this is a more superficial "relationship" because its not based on an actual relationship, but a bond that neither chose for themselves.)

Lucien and Vassa on the other hand have made progress. They started off allies in war and are now friends. He's spent a lot of time with her, he's now living with her (and Jurian), and they have a name for themselves. He feels comfortable in the human lands with her and Jurian, unlike in the Night Court. (This is very important for Lucien's journey and I'll talk more about it in a second.)

Conclusion: Lucien and Vassa's relationship HAS progressed. It's moving forward, whereas Elain and Lucien are still stagnant. Friendship is a stepping stone in all of SJM's romances, so we can expect whoever Lucien ends up with, it will start with friendship. And at this point, Vassa is his friend, not Elain.

Now let's move onto ACOSF, because this is where SJM could turn things around, right? This is where she has to really start steering the ships in the right direction because the next books will focus on these relationships.

ACOSF

Lucien and Elain

There had been some tightness in Elain’s face as she’d said it. Normally when she made such excuses, Lucien was around, but the male remained in the human lands with Jurian and Vassa.

- -

“Why are you here?” Cassian asked, unable to help the sharpness. “Where’s Elain?”

“I am not always in this city to see my mate.” The last two words dripped with discomfort.

- -

Her brown eyes were wary. Usually, that look was reserved for Lucien.

- -

Elain, the wretch, had taken the seat between Feyre and Varian, about as far from Lucien as she could get.

- -

He and Lucien did not exchange gifts, though the male had brought a gift for Feyre and one for his mate, who barely thanked him after opening the pearl earrings.

Cassian’s heart strained at the pain etching deep into Lucien’s face as he tried to hide his disappointment and longing. Elain only shrank further into herself, no trace of that newfound boldness to be seen.

Lucien and Vassa

“Lucien can’t be entirely trusted anymore.”

Cassian started. “What?”

“Even with Elain here, he’s become close with Jurian and Vassa. He’s voluntarily living with them these days, and not just as an emissary. As their friend.”

- -

"So Lucien can’t be unbiased in reporting to us on Vassa.”

- -

Mor winnowed Cassian after sundown directly to the manor that had become home and headquarters to Jurian, Vassa, and—apparently—Lucien.

- -

Vassa rolled her eyes, then looked to Lucien, who sank onto the sofa beside Jurian. Like the Fae male had settled similar arguments between them.

- -

Both Jurian and Lucien stared at her, the former’s face utterly unreadable, and the latter’s pained.

- -

Vassa nodded. “It is all I have gleaned from my time enslaved to him.”

Lucien stared out the window—as if he could see the lake across a sea and a continent. As if he were setting his target.

- -

“And Jurian and Vassa?”

“At each other’s throats, as they like to be,” he said, a tad sharply. She wondered what that was about—and for the life of her couldn’t read it.

- -

Elain and Lucien have still remained stagnant. Elain is even more uncomfortable--she sits as far away as she can, unlike in ACOFAS where she at least sat within talking distance--and she literally shrinks inward and loses her newfound boldness around him.

While Lucien showed disappointment and longing on Solstice, he's now showing actual discomfort, just like Elain. He's spending most of his time away, with Jurian and Vassa, and still isn't doing much to bridge the gap.

These two have, imo, sank further. They didn't just remain stagnant, they kinda backtracked even more. Why? Because at this point, we know Elain has seemingly gotten over Graysen and developed feelings for Azriel, and I think Lucien is developing them for Vassa.

We see a potential spark of jealousy regarding Jurian and Vassa. The manor isn't just theirs now--it's home for Lucien. (Something he was struggling with in ACOFAS, feeling like he had nowhere to go, no place to call home. Again, this is progress in their relationship but also in Lucien's journey. Remember, that's important.) It's pointed out that not only is Lucien voluntarily living with her, but he's so close with her that the Night Court doesn't think they can fully trust him to be unbiased on Vassa. Like he can't do his actual job because of her, and his relationship with her.

All of this is more progress on their relationship, emphasizing they've grown closer, he now has a home (with her and Jurian), and he's setting his target on Koschei, knowing she will have to return to him - THAT is all set up for his romance.

In conclusion, without even needing to dive into Azriel and Elain's progress over the series and obvious setup, we can see Lucien's journey has progressed with Vassa - his romantic setup is with Vassa. Not Elain.

And I didn't even go into the Swan Lake/Koschei parallels. But I'll just leave the post with this:

A bird of flame...and a lord of fire. I wondered if they’d found each other yet.

[nugnthopkns]

it all pours out after dark

word count: 5.8k

warnings: insinuated!fem reader, cursing, mentions of alcohol (but no consumption), expressions of self doubt

recommended listening: the knife | maggie rogers

series masterpost: here

a/n: first installment of hiiapl!! very excited about what’s to come. here is some bffs/roommates to lovers with petey :))

Elias’s friendship was a welcome surprise.

You hadn’t expected much when you met the Swede – after all, you were serving at the annual Canucks charity gala and he was the rookie poised to win the Calder trophy. There were a million other things you would have rather done than spend a Saturday evening walking around in sky high stilettos and passing out flutes of champagne, but the catering company paid generously, and you needed to come up with the funds for your next tuition installment. Vancouver may be beautiful, but it’s incredibly expensive.

So you spent the night with a kilowatt smile plastered on your face, staying silent in the background and making sure no one’s glasses were ever empty. You were barely legal to handle alcohol, freshly nineteen and waiting for an opportunity to experience the city’s nightlife for yourself. There was no way you should be regulating the alcohol consumption of adults but you were doing it anyways. The tips were very generous, more than you should have probably been receiving, but you accepted them with a smile because the athletes making millions could certainly afford it.

No one paid you any attention, but you didn’t mind. The night was beginning to wear on you and the event didn’t plan on stopping for another couple of hours. You debated on what to do with your tray while you tried to work out the knots that were forming in feet from standing for so long.

“Let me hold that for you,” a gentle voice sounded from behind you.

When you turned around you were face to face with Elias Pettersson. “That won’t be necessary,” you stated, tone kind but firm. If your supervisor caught you, you would have been fired immediately.

He didn’t take no for an answer. “Please,” he urged, thick accent ringing out in the space between you. “Your feet are going to cramp. Take your shoes off for two minutes.” The English was broken, but you appreciated the sentiment. He really wanted to help.

After a little more insisting from the blonde you agreed, and he diligently stood watch to ensure you wouldn’t get in trouble. It was a relief to be out of the torturous constraint of your shoes for a few moments, and you thanked him profusely.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, a small smile on his face. Shouting erupted from some other players then, looking for him.

“You better get back before they miss you too much.” You nodded in the direction of the voices, to which he begrudgingly agreed. Elias handed you back the tray of champagne flutes before taking one for himself.

He was about to fade into the crowd when he turned to face you again. “I never caught your name,” he stated.

“It’s Y/N.”

“Elias.”

With that he disappeared into the throng of people. You never expected to hear from him again, chalking it up to a kind interaction with a stranger, but a day later he had messaged you on Instagram after searching through the countless profiles that shared your name and were located in the general Vancouver area. Conversation flowed easily between the two of you, and you became fast friends.

☼☼☼☼

That first meeting was nearly four years ago, and countless memories had been made since then. You treasure your friendship with Elias, and truthfully it’s the one you hold closest to your heart. This could be because over the years you’ve developed a small crush on the lanky blonde, but it’s a secret you’ll take to the grave. No one knows of your true feelings for Elias, and no one ever will.

“E? I’m home,” you shout into the quiet apartment, wondering if he’s home from morning skate yet.

After you completed your undergraduate degree and your lease ended, Elias insisted you move into his spare bedroom. The offer was too tempting to resist – you got to live with your best friend and continue your education in a city you adore. Moving your stuff had been a bit of a pain, but your life fit seamlessly into Elias’s. The two of you worked well as roommates, and over the past few months the space began to reflect not just Elias, but you as well. Hair ties were randomly thrown on counters and the bookshelves began to fill.

You’re setting the few groceries you picked up from the local market on the counter when he comes down the hall.

“Hi sunshine,” Elias says softly, voice riddled with sleep. He must have returned home earlier than you thought and had a quick nap.

You smile at the nickname. Elias had gifted it to you early in your friendship when you were in a terrible mood. He had meant it sarcastically at first, but it stuck. Now he hardly calls you by your name.

“How was practice?”

“Really tough,” he admits, moving behind you to place the apples in the fridge. “Coach is being hard on us because we aren’t performing well.”

You frown but hold your tongue. Your degree in sports psychology tells you that isn’t the way to improve players’ morale, but Elias doesn’t like it when you lecture him on what the Canucks staff are doing wrong. He knows things aren’t perfect within the organization and hopes desperately the situation will improve when they start winning again.

The two of you put the rest of the food away in comfortable silence and then unwind by watching numerous episodes of House. You had recently decided to give the medical drama a rewatch, and Elias’s interest was piqued by the snarky physician who always saves the day. It’s become your favourite way to relax and it seems that both of you need it today.

“How does Wilson do it?”

You’re perplexed. “Do what?”

“Put up with House,” Elias sighs. “He’s an asshole.”

Laughter tumbles from your lips. “The same way I deal with you, grumpy.”

“No,” he scoffs, tossing a pillow in your general direction. “You’re House and I’m Wilson, sunshine. Being an asshole is how you got that nickname in the first place.”

You couldn’t argue with Elias’s point – he was right. Between the two of you, you’re the one most likely to be snarky with your anger and he’s more likely to shut himself off from the rest of the world. “Fuck off,” you giggle. 

When Elias crawls on top of you and drops his weight you don’t flinch. You’ve become accustomed to his casual yet spontaneous displays of physical touch, and by now the two of you can frequently be found with your limbs tangled together. 

The rest of your afternoon passes in the blink of an eye. You fall asleep a few episodes in, and you assume Elias did as well because when you wake up his body is still pressed against yours. Once your eyes adjust to being awake, you notice it’s well into the evening. Your stomach rumbles and you decide you have to get up. 

“E,” you say softly, not wanting to completely disrupt his rest. The season is off to a rougher start than everyone hoped for, and he hasn’t been sleeping well. 

There’s no response from the boy on top of you so you try again, voice a decibel or two louder. “Elias, please let me up. I’ve gotta start dinner.”

“Mhmm,” Elias murmurs, not opening his eyes. “Or you could just stay here. You’re so warm.”

You roll your eyes. “Dude, we’ve got to eat. Come on.”

He doesn’t move. In fact, he presses more weight on you, effectively trapping you on the couch. “We can just order food in a bit,” Elias suggests. “Please just stay and nap a bit longer.”

That’s all it takes to convince you, and you let your eyes flutter shut again. In the comfort of your best friend sleep comes easy, and neither of you move far from the couch for the rest of the night. 

The next few days are incredibly busy, and you don’t see Elias much. School is heating up and you’re struggling to stay afloat. In an effort to get the team to put up a few wins, the Canucks organization is holding extra practices and development workshops in between games, so Elias is barely home. When he is he’s exhausted and spends most of his free time in his room, chatting with friends at home or playing video games. 

You do your best to not let the distance bother you, but not being able to have a conversation that lasts more than fifteen minutes before one of you is running out the door is wearing you down. You miss your best friend. 

Elias is set to go out with some of the younger guys on the team this evening, and though he invited you, you’re in a graduate student society meeting until well after they’re supposed to be leaving. He deserves the time to unwind, but a part of you is jealous he actually gets it. Both of you have been running around like chickens with your heads cut off and it seems like Elias can finally slow down. You on the other hand cannot. 

Approximately twelve million things go wrong throughout the course of the day. First, you left your lunch and wallet at home, leaving you unable to eat. Then your advisor was late to your meeting and insisted it was your fault. To top everything off, the graduate student society dismissed your proposal for more funding into public outreach programs. You really, really wanted to be at home.

The door to the apartment is unlocked upon your arrival home, which you find strange. Elias isn’t one to forget to lock it on his way out the door. Brock was terrible about remembering that sort of thing, so you assume he was the last one out. You open it with a sigh and kick off your sneakers. It has been a long day, and you’re looking forward to opening the bottle of wine you picked up with groceries last week.

It doesn’t dawn on you that Elias’s shoes are still by the door or that the living room light is on. You’re so preoccupied with getting comfortable you don’t realize you aren’t alone until you hear a voice from down the hall. 

“Rough day sunshine?”

Elias is standing at the end of the hallway, staring at you intently. It’s as if he can sense the tension rolling off your shoulders. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “I thought you were going out with the guys?”

He just shrugs. “Didn’t really feel like it. Besides, I knew you were having an off day because you didn’t text me on your lunch break so I wanted to be here for you.”

You nearly tear up from his words. Elias is a lot of things, and kindhearted is certainly one of them. “Go have a shower,” he insists, “And I’ll start dinner.”

“Thanks E.”

A hand comes up to ruffle your hair on his way by. “Don’t mention it.”

The two of you spend the night tucked against each other, eating pasta and telling stories. You never make it to the fridge to get that bottle of wine, but you don’t mind because during your shower Elias made hot chocolate for you both. Conversation flows into the early morning, and by the time you head to bed you can’t remember why you were upset in the first place. 

☼☼☼☼

The season drags on. The Canucks still aren’t playing well, and it’s beginning to wear on Elias. He’s spending more time in his room, reviewing tape and tweaking his workout regime to achieve maximum results. You worry he’s beginning to isolate himself and that it won’t be good for his mental health. 

“Do you want to go hiking tomorrow?” you ask him at dinner. The team has a rare day off, and the coaching staff want them to decompress before leaving on a long road trip. 

Elias shrugs, not looking up at you as he continues to cut his vegetables. “Not really sunshine. I have some clips I need to watch.”

You sigh loud enough to make him feel bad, and his eyes meet yours. “E, you need a break. Let’s go to that trail you like and just relax for a while. I’ll pack a lunch and we can just go slow.”

Whether or not he’s just appeasing you or genuinely wants to go you aren’t sure, but Elias agrees. He places a hand on your shoulder in silent thanks before loading his plate into the dishwasher and retreating to his bedroom. You take it as a victory, however small, and are glad he didn’t completely shut down the idea. The rest of the night is quiet, with you finishing a book and falling asleep on the couch. 

Neither of you are quick to rise in the morning but it doesn’t matter. There’s no timeline for your upcoming adventure so long as you’re back before dark. You make it to the kitchen before Elias and take it upon yourself to make breakfast for the two of you. It’s nothing fancy, just oatmeal, but your best friend appreciates it when he finally makes an appearance. Elias looks like he slept for a maximum of three hours, and you have half a mind to tell him you’ll take a rain cheque, but you know he needs a change of pace. 

The two of you chat idly throughout the meal but it isn’t tense or awkward. Neither of you are completely awake, and both like time to reflect in the morning. It’s nearly an hour later when you meet Elias at the door. You grab your keys, much to his surprise. 

“What?” you shrug.

Elias cocks a brow in your direction. “You hate driving on the highway.”

He’s right – you have no issues navigating the traffic riddled streets of Vancouver, but as soon as you get out of the city and onto the freeway you freeze up. 

“Gotta get over my fear at some point. Come on superstar.”

There’s no complaint from Elias, and you suspect he’s secretly relieved. Driving isn’t his strong suit either but you know he does it so you don’t have to. The ride is quiet, and once you hit the city limits the car feels lighter, as though Elias left all his stress behind. Some lo-fi playlist trickles through the speakers as you get closer to your destination. It isn’t your kind of music, or Elias’s for that matter, and you’re pretty sure Brock gave him the link. The parking lot is empty when you arrive, and you back into a spot with ease. 

Usually Elias would comment on your driving quirk, teasing you because ‘no one under the age of sixty-five backs into a parking space’, but he’s quiet. You wonder if he even noticed. Nerves about the possibility of a far-away look in Elias’s eyes subside when he scrambles to get out of the car. 

“First one to the top wins,” he shouts, metres ahead of you as you double check to make sure the car is locked. You let out a full laugh but don’t try to catch up – he’s going to win anyway so you might as well enjoy yourself. 

The hike does wonder for Elias. Just being outside, in the fresh air that doesn’t hold any expectation of who he should be, is enough to lighten his mood considerably. You trail behind him the entire time, allowing yourself to marvel at his beauty from afar. The longer you live with Elias, the harder it’s becoming to mask your feelings. A couple of times he pauses to wait for you to catch up, and once at the top of the small summit he lifts you into the air in triumph.

“Alright E, put me down,” you giggle, squirming out of his grip. He obliges and places you back onto the rocky surface as though his previous act was the easiest thing in the world. 

The two of you marvel at the view from the top of the mountain for a bit longer before making the trek back down to the car. Halfway down the trail you fall behind significantly, exhausted from not only hiking up a mountain, but worrying about Elias and stressing over some school deadlines that are rapidly approaching. Elias slows his steps so you can catch up, and insists you jump up to piggy-back the rest of the way. You try to protest but he isn’t having it. Eventually you give in and doze off with your face tucked into the crook of his neck. 

You let Elias drive home, too worn out to think about the traffic you’ll inevitably hit. When you get home you allow him to tuck you into bed, and don’t tease him when presses a kiss to the crown of your head. 

The road trip both flies by and drags on. At home, you're busy with school, work, and taking care of Brock’s dogs. Coolie and Milo have become a welcome responsibility, and truthfully you love having them around. They make the absence of Elias less apparent. Each night you curl up on the couch, a dog on either side, and watch the game intently. The Canucks seem to be on the up, winning the first three games with ease. It’s like something has clicked between them and on-ice communication is no longer a problem. However, that changes quickly, and they lose the entire back half of the trip. 

You do your best to comfort Elias from afar – sending him periodic text messages of encouragement, random memes you find on instagram, and calling after every game. The streak of misfortune is getting to him, and it’s beginning to affect his play. He adds only one point the entire trip, an assist that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things since they were blown out of the water. When you talk to him it’s easy to hear how upset he is, and you imagine he’s hearing a lot worse than what you’re telling him from the coaching staff. It makes your blood boil – how they’re treating him – but you’re helpless. Nothing you can say will undo the potential damage. 

The Canucks get back late, and you’re tucked into bed with the dogs, nearly asleep. You’ll return Brock’ pets in the morning. If you hadn’t had a disastrous meeting with your advisor you would’ve met them at the airport, seeing as it’s Friday and you often don’t go to bed until well into the morning, but your body is thoroughly exhausted. 

You don’t hear the door open and are only alerted to a new presence because the dogs perk their ears. Footsteps echo through the silent apartment, and you think you can hear Elias grumbling in Swedish. He makes no attempt to find you so you assume he thinks you’re sleeping. You should be. Up until three minutes ago you were on the verge of sleep, but now you wait with baited breath to see if you can hear any indicators to Elias’s mood. 

A door closes and seconds later the shower turns on, so you assume he’s feeling alright. Most certainly not great, but well enough to maintain his normal routine. You don’t try to move, knowing you’ll talk to him in the morning, and finally allow yourself to commit to sleep. There’s a few minutes of bliss where you’re almost unconscious, but your slumber is disrupted by a quiet knock at your door.

“Sunshine?”

Elias’s voice sounds like a different type of exhaustion that you’ve never heard, and you know right then that you won’t deny him entry to your room.

“I’m awake E,” you mumble, praying he can hear you because you spoke so softly. The door creaks open and you can just make out his facial features in the dark.

Standing tentatively in the doorway, Elias looks at you with tear-rimmed eyes. “Y/N, I think I’m going to get benched.”

☼☼☼☼

His suspicions were, unfortunately, right. The decision to bench Elias had apparently been made on the plane ride home, but he wasn’t informed until the team meeting after practice the next morning. You knew something bad had happened because when he came home there was no conversation. He slipped through the door like a ghost and disappeared into his room. You knew better than to go after him right away – Elias is the type of person who needs to process his emotions alone before sharing them with others.

You busy yourself with editing the chunk of your thesis proposal that has occupied your brain for the past few weeks. It’s getting closer to the end of your first year of graduate school, and you need to get approval for your topic soon. You hope to research the effects of locker room speech on athletes’ mental health. The focus group will be the Vancouver Whitecaps, and you’re excited to work with them. Your advisor has some personal connections and pulled a few strings to get you the gig and you’re extremely thankful.

An hour or two passes before Elias pads his way into the main living area. Wordlessly he flops onto the couch and holds his arms up in the air. You can read Elias like a book – you know he wants you to stop working and lie on top of him. The action brings him comfort, which he desperately needs in this moment, so you don’t have an issue with it. On your way over you grab a banana from the fruit bowl and offer it to him. He takes it, but sets it gently on the coffee table.

Once you’re settled, Elias wraps his arms around your body, holding you to him like he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers otherwise. You absentmindedly trace patterns on his forearms for a while, letting the silence soothe him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s a shot in the dark, you know, but you try anyway. Elias doesn’t answer, instead asking you what you did while he was gone. You indulge him, knowing it’s the only way to take his mind off the heartache, and narrate the menial chores you did in painstaking detail. It seems to help, and eventually Elias brings his own anecdotes into the conversation, telling you something dumb Brock had whispered in his ear at practice.

Eventually Elias has to get ready to go to the rink. Though he isn’t playing he’s expected to be there, dressed sharply and watching from the press box. You help him as best you can – ironing his favourite tie and filling his lucky mug with just the right amount of coffee.

He gives you a short hug in thanks before bending down to tie his dress shoes.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” you ask. “I can easily get a press pass and we could sit together.”

Elias shakes his head. “You have work to get done. I’ll be fine sunshine,” he says, doing his best to convince himself along with you that everything will be alright.

You watch him open the door and gingerly blow him a kiss as he turns to wave goodbye. It’s a silly ritual the two of you started a few years ago, before you’d moved in with Elias. He insisted you spend time with him before each home game, which meant you wound up cooking dinner and making sure he drank enough water. To annoy him you started blowing him kisses as he left, and the tradition continued once his place became yours. Elias catches it with his left hand and blows one back.

Not much work gets done while Elias is gone. You’re too worried about him to focus on your proposal and end up with your eyes glued to the television as you watch the game. The Canucks desperately need a win, something you hope they can get so your best friend can be put back into the lineup. Your eyes zero on Elias every time the camera pans to him sitting in the rafters, and your heart breaks each time you see the defeated look in his eyes. It seems to have worsened since he left home.

The game does not go well for the Canucks. It’s as if the team isn’t communicating with one another on the ice, and a lot of passes don’t connect. Shots aren’t on goal either – you know Elias is fuming from within the press box. He feels responsible for the team’s deterioration even though he isn’t playing. You watch the rest of the game with furrowed brows and think of ways you could support Elias. 

After sharing a space with him for almost an entire trip around the sun, you know Elias doesn’t like ‘grand’ gestures. He’ll hate if you draw him a bath, and besides, that’s not something roommates or best friends do for each other. That’s strictly reserved for romantic partners – something you’re sure you will never be to Elias. Ordering food is out of the question because he refuses to eat after nine-thirty, and sure it’ll be past ten before he walks through the door. You settle on warming up his favourite blanket in the dryer and making the both of you a cup of tea. If he wants to take them into his room to spend time alone and decompress that will be okay with you. 

Your phone chimes from its resting place on the kitchen counter. Wondering if it’s a friend wanting an explanation to Elias’s absence from the game, you grumble on your way to the device. The notification is from Elias himself, and you open it with baited breath. You know he’s devastated and pray he’s only letting you know he’s on his way home, not sharing bad news. 

Heading out now. Probably going to get stuck in traffic, got any sad song recommendations?

The message makes your heart break, but you respond with a playlist link that features your favourite songs to cry to. A short message is tacked on to the end to let him know you’re always ready to support him. 

Hopefully this fits the mood. I’m here for you. 

Elias’s response fills you with a small bit of hope. 

I know.

You set your plan into motion, and finish pouring the boiling tea into your favourite mugs as the door opens. 

“Hey,” you say tentatively, not sure what Elias’s mood will be like now that he doesn’t have to have his guard up. “I made you a cup of tea and there’s a blanket in the dryer that should still be pretty warm.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles, but it doesn’t make his words any less sincere. You can tell Elias is drained in every sense of the word by looking at him, and you decide you aren’t going to push him to talk tonight. The communication can come a bit later. 

The blonde trudges down the hallway to the small room where you keep the laundry and reappears moments later wrapped in the plush navy blanket you had prepared for him. Elias doesn’t even bother to change, too exhausted to get out of his suit. You blow some of the steam away from his mug before picking it up and padding over to where he’s sitting on the couch. Elias takes the mug gratefully, and tries to smile at you in thanks. It comes out more like a grimace. 

It’s silent as the two of you sit side by side, staring out the large window at Vancouver’s skyline. The absence of noise isn’t as unsettling as you feared but it still puts you on edge. You can tell Elias’s emotions are beginning to boil over, and you aren’t sure what to do about it. 

“It’s my fault,” he says, voice small and fragile. 

When you turn your head to see him, you’re met with two ice blue eyes brimming with tears. Your heart breaks for what feels like the hundredth time that night. “Elias, listen to me,” you urge, grasping his hands in yours. “The game wasn’t your fault. You not being on the ice did not cause the team to lose.”

Elias scoffs and rolls his eyes. For a split-second, hurt seeps into your bones, but you dispel it because you know he’s upset and didn’t mean to be so abrasive. 

“Not the game!” he shouts, anger clearly winning the mental battle of what emotion to present. “The entire fucking season. We’ve played like shit all year and it’s my fucking fault.”

“Elias,” you say as calmly as possible, knowing it’s important for one of you to be rational. “You’ve consistently put up points all season, and you’re only going through a short dry spell. You pick up the slack where needed and try your hardest to succeed. You’re a damn good teammate and the best hockey player I know. Please don’t be so hard on yourself.”

It’s then he breaks, collapsing into your wide open arms and sobbing. You hold him close to your chest, afraid that if you let him go he’ll disappear in front of your eyes. The sounds of his ragged breathing and your gentle encouragement bounce off the walls until all you can focus on is his heart rate returning to something in the ballpark of normal. Elias cries for an unknown amount of time and you don’t even bother to calculate it. He needed to let everything go – hopefully he can now turn the page on the past couple of months. 

When he seems like he’ll respond again, you speak. “I know they put a lot of pressure on you, and I know that you’re a professional athlete, but what they’re doing to you isn’t right. E, you don’t deserve to feel like this, regardless of how you’re playing or where the team is in the standings.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” Elias hiccups. “Everything has become a lot lately, and it keeps piling up. It’s affecting my play, and I just want the team to be successful. I want to be successful.”

You wrap your arms around him tighter and card your hands through his hair. “You are successful, and don’t you dare let anyone tell you otherwise. I’m always available to talk, but if you’d like I can book you an appointment at the clinic and you can talk to someone who’s actually qualified.”

“You’re so close to being fully qualified,” he encourages, always wanting to make sure you matter too. “But that would be really nice. Thank you.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

That phrase had first confused Elias when you first directed it towards him, but he now understands it’s your way of saying ‘Of course. I’d do anything for you’. You rarely use the phrase with anyone else, and it makes him feel special inside. 

Eventually you untangle your limbs from Elias’s, getting up to refill your mugs and insisting he change into clothing that’s more comfortable. He’s gone a lot longer from the couch than you are, and you begin to worry he won’t be reappearing. The creaking of a hinge wrangles you free from your thoughts. Elias pads back into the living room, dressed in a pair of ridiculously patterned pyjamas you had bought him two Christmases ago. 

“Hey,” he practically whispers. “Can I tell you something?”

You do your best to keep the alarm you feel from appearing on your face. After the conversation you just had, his mind could be going in a million different directions. “Always,” you reply, volume matching his. 

“If it weren’t for you, I don’t know if I’d still be playing hockey.” You make a sound of protest, but Elias doesn’t let you form it into a thought. “I’m dead serious. The night we met? I was a wreck. Sure, I was in the middle of a rookie season most players dream of, but I was so miserable. I cried every night on the way home from the rink and felt completely alone. You were the first person in Vancouver that didn’t expect anything of me, that still doesn’t. I’m so fucking thankful for you. I love you.”

Tears flow freely from your eyes and you raise the sleeve of your sweater to wipe them away. Elias isn’t one for heartfelt confessions – that’s much more your style. He shows his appreciation through random acts of kindness, so you deeply treasure his words. 

“I love you too E.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he insists. “I really love you. I don’t mean it platonically, and I never have.”

You’re sufficiently shocked. “Don’t say something you don’t mean,” you mumble, pushing off the couch to go hide in your room. 

It’s Elias’s turn to grab your hand. His grip is gentle but still firm enough to let you know he isn’t going to drop the conversation. 

“Why wouldn’t I mean it?”

“Because,” you sigh, “You’re Elias fucking Pettersson. You’re the star centre of an NHL team and there’s a million other people better suited for you than me! Sure, I might be head over heels for you but we aren’t on the same level. I’m your best friend E, and that’s okay. I can live with that. What I can’t live with is you letting emotion get the better of you and confessing something that isn’t true. You’re grateful for my support, and I think we should just leave it at that.”

He shakes his head fervently. “This isn’t a spur of the moment decision Y/N,” Elias says. “I’ve been debating telling you for months, but the season kind of derailed my plans and got in the way. I love you.”

Before you can process the gravity of his words, Elias is pressing his lips to yours in an effort to show just how sincere he is. You falter for a split-second, shocked that this isn’t a dream – your best friend, who you’ve had a crush on for years, is in love with you and you’re in the process of kissing him – but you recover quickly. Kissing Elias feels like a long awaited homecoming. It’s as though you’ve found true peace, and nothing will ever be as good as your lips connecting. You lose yourself in him quite easily, and only focus to your surroundings when he pulls away to look in your eyes.

“So,” Elias sheepishly tucks a misplaced strand of hair behind your ear. “Think I could take you out, like on an actual date?”

You beam at him, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss to his lips. “That can most certainly be arranged.”

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @jamiedrysdales @kiedhara @tortito @boqvistsbabe @iwantahockeyhimbo​ if you want to be added just shoot me an ask :)

[heartslobbf]

let’s talk about perfuma. imo, she’s one of the best characters in the show despite being underdeveloped, and i wanna explain why. she could’ve been extremely average, just some lanky flower girl that doesn’t believe in violence and loves everyone, but she is so much more than that (and it pisses me off that y’all reduce her to that).

in her introductory episode, perfuma is clearly in denial about the horde almost destroying plumeria. she doesn’t want to acknowledge the problem, wants someone else to take care of it for her. she’s scared of change, and that is because change makes you vulnerable. if things always stay the same, there’s a whole lot less danger and uncertainty, and therefore you’re safe. secure. perfuma’s kingdom is dying and she can’t bear to accept it because it is unknown to her. it’s putting her in a position where she is no longer secure. this fear of vulnerability can also be seen at the beginning of 1x10 when the princess alliance falls apart and she literally says ‘being together makes us vulnerable.’

the thing is, perfuma isn’t wrong. look at her choice of words. she says that being together makes them vulnerable, not weak. here, she kind of has the words mixed up, but we see that by s5 she has come to understand the difference. that’s what’s so great about perfuma, her motivation to do better, her hunger for self-improvement. it’s why she’s such an important part of catra’s redemption, actually, because she embodies the kind person catra is or wants to be.

let me explain: perfuma is an angry, impatient, short-tempered character. we are shown this again and again with her passive aggression to others and how easily mermista can annoy her with trivial things (sitting in her seat in the war room, for example). catra is also an angry, impatient character, but perfuma works every day to manage those emotions. she knows she needs them, she uses them as a tool (calling catra out, for example, is a time they were practically pivotal for getting her point across) but she also acknowledges they can hurt the people she loves. we know she does a meditation ritual each morning and we see in 4x02 how quickly she can unravel without it. she wants to be better. she puts the work in. that is such a valuable lesson for a character like catra who has always felt she’s just not good enough, she’s always going to be this angry and unlovable and no one can do anything about it.

so, 4x02. it’s a brilliant episode for perfuma’s character, really, and the first proper development we’ve had since 1x04. we see her anger, her impatience, but we also see her self-doubt. her belief that she’s inadequate, ‘just a flower girl.’ this is also when we get introduced to her little mantra that becomes a bit of a motif later on, ‘i can do this.’ we know perfuma doesn’t wholeheartedly believe this, but she says it anyway because she wants to. perfuma wants to be better. she will do whatever she can to be her best self, whether that be actually conquering her gripes with cacti or realising there’s a loophole with the roots (love that conflict resolution by the way, another good deconstruction of hero bs by spop).

this episode is also significant because it comes back to perfuma’s fear of change, of vulnerability. she’s thrown into a situation she doesn’t want to be in, one she feels miserably unprepared for, and she hasn’t done the one thing that puts her at her best beforehand, but she pulls through in the end because she is surrounded by people that support her, that listened to her and consoled her when she was vulnerable. 4x02 teaches perfuma the power of self-worth and the power of true, mutual, unconditional love, which can only come with vulnerability.

and this is where her character gets really interesting, in my humble opinion. ngl, one of the reasons i love perfuma so much is because she’s a pisces and i am too. i’m not gonna go astrology hoe on you rn, i’m just using this to demonstrate the part of her character that teaches others. pisces, if you don’t know, love to play therapist. we like to help the people around us with whatever strifes they may have because we think we’re fucking great at it. perfuma actually is.

you know how i said perfuma learns the importance of self-belief and vulnerability? yeah, she teaches both of those lessons to other characters in s5. like i said, perfuma is a character who values self-betterment and also happens to be a pisces, so when she sees scorpia, riddled with so much self-doubt and such low self-esteem, her immediate response is just i’m gonna teach that bitch how to love herself. and she does!

i’ve seen some people say they don’t like scorfuma because it seemed as though the writers just decided to ‘fix’ all of scorpia’s problems by giving her a girlfriend. that’s very dumb, first of all because they aren’t even together by the end of the show, they’re just interested in one another. second, the whole point of she-ra is that we’re stronger together. scorpia doesn’t go through growth in s5 because a girl likes her, she goes through growth because someone is showing her support and love for the first time in her life and that empowers her. you know, the worth that scorpia finds in herself doesn’t hinge on perfuma, like it did with catra. it’s about her as an individual, and perfuma so clearly makes it about that when her big lesson revolves around singing. scorpia loves singing. perfuma tells her she should do it because she enjoys it, a sentiment you’d never hear in the horde, and when scorpia does sing, she is actively rejecting the people who did make all her self-worth hinge on them catra. she’s doing something for herself, because she enjoys it, because it makes her happy, because she can.

it’s that same mantra: i can do this, i can do this. i really love how this was brought back from 4x02, how perfuma repurposed something that taught her such a valuable lesson for someone else. perfuma and scorpia are great foil characters actually, both constantly underestimated and thought of as weak by their groups, but some of the strongest characters in the show due to their deep value of love and self. i can do this, and i know i can because you believe in me, because i believe in myself. it’s brought back again in 5x10, when the last thing perfuma says before scorpia breaks the beam is ‘i know you can [pull through]’. she tells catra she believes in scorpia. it’s that belief, that support from other people that empowers the self to believe it too. we are stronger together, you know??

anyways, onto vulnerability. return to the fright zone is in my top ten episodes of the whole fucking show and you might think that’s a bit weird but i don’t. 5x10 encompasses so many important themes of spop so well and tells them with scorfuma and spinnetossa, our two side lesbian couples. this is significant since perfuma literally draws a parallel between her and catra at the end of the episode, and catradora and spinnetossa have always been significant to one another. i’m gonna say it, perfuma is the reason catra is finally able to confess to adora in 5x13. i’ve already talked about how important perfuma is to catra’s motivation to improve, but she literally makes catra rethink everything about strength and vulnerability, two words catra has a lot of feelings about.

catra fears vulnerability. we know this. she has such a deep love for those important to her but is never able to articulate it because she worries she’ll be taken advantage of, shot down, laughed at, whatever. all of this stems from the abuse she suffered at shadow weaver’s hands and her attachment issues, and it’s also why catra pretends to hate scorpia’s very open displays of affection and love: she sees it as weak because she has been taught to, but it’s all she ever really wanted to be.

we also know perfuma used to fear vulnerability. she doesn’t any more. the entirety of the episode leading up to her and catra’s heart-to-heart is her being vulnerable, putting herself in a position where she’s in danger but believing it’s worth it. and it is. despite what everyone said to her, perfuma is right: it was worth it. she got through to scorpia, even if it was only for a moment. she literally spells it out to us and catra with one of the best lines in the whole show: it’s hard, keeping your heart open. it makes you vulnerable, but it doesn’t make you weak, and i have to believe it’s worth it.

back in 1x10, perfuma was right: being together makes you vulnerable. horde prime tries to use people’s relationships against them, that’s literally the plot of save the cat, the point of pitting catra and adora against one another. he sees them as weak, just like shadow weaver deems adora’s feelings for catra ‘confusing’, just like light hope insisted adora was a danger to her friends as long as she was around them. they were all wrong. yes, they’re vulnerable. perfuma acknowledges that vulnerability puts you in danger, that it’s difficult to do that, but she knows it doesn’t make you weak. weakness vs strength is a big conflict in 5x10 literally introduced to us with netossa’s theories on everyone’s weaknesses in the first few minutes.

like perfuma says, friendship isn’t a weakness. it’s her greatest strength. her belief in love is literally what saves her and adora’s lives, it’s what saves everyone who got chipped, glimmer, bow. belief in love, both of others and yourself, is what saves adora in her dying moments. perfuma summarises she-ra’s entire fucking message to us repeatedly in 5x10 and she tells it to catra because catra is the one who will do the most with it. that glance at adora, it’s obvious what it means. perfuma is telling catra she should be open with adora about her feelings because you have to believe it’s worth it.

you won’t get anywhere waiting for other people to make the move. she-ra couldn’t heal plumeria’s lands, so plumeria had to fight their own battle alongside her no matter how much they felt unable to. the rebellion couldn’t move mara’s ship, so perfuma had to despite thinking she wasn’t strong enough. the reason they always win in the end is because they have each other, they have love and support and people motivating them to do better. just like perfuma motivates herself to do better.

it’s the mantra. i can do this. i can be vulnerable and still win, because i have love. and it’s hard, it’s so fucking hard to be vulnerable when you’ve feared it all your life and you’re so angry, so hurt, but you have to believe it’s worth it. and it is. it is, it is, it is, love is stronger than anything and being vulnerable for the people you love is the only way you can ever get what you want from them. perfuma as a character embodies that, having learnt it herself, and teaches the lesson to one of the characters who needs it the most.

adora is dying, and catra loves her, and she knows she does, and she just has to believe. adora is dying, and she loves catra, and she knows she does, but she doesn’t believe. not until catra teaches her too, in that moment, to realise they were all wrong, light hope, shadow weaver, horde prime. adora doesn’t need to let go, she needs to hold on and believe she will be pulled back up by the girl she loves. she needs to believe she deserves it. that it’s worth it.

and it is.

[owo-shenanigans]

Hajime, Korekiyo and Ibuki with a fem reader who’s the ultimate love interest? Basically is really good at being the perfect soulmate both platonically and romantically? I feel like these three would be interesting!!!!

This is so interesting????? Wtf man. Gender ambiguous reader, though I did write this from the perspective of the perfect female love interest at times. It might come across as me dissing your idea and I promise I don't mean it in that way- I just took it in the most interesting way that I could. I loved writing these so, so much- I wouldn’t be opposed to writing more, honestly. If anyone needs a CW or TW on this, let me know please.

Hajime, Korekiyo, and Ibuki with an Ultimate Love Interest S/O

HAJIME HINATA

You were scouted because one of the board members saw you and thought you were the cutest little thing he’d ever seen, and after the board investigated, they saw how everyone you meet can’t help but at least like you as a friend.

When you were told this, you were terrified. These creeps stalked you? For some stupid talent that no one can even quantify?! You were only 15, for god’s sake!

You… Don’t like practicing your ultimate. You try to stay away from the other ultimates, too. You don’t want to brainwash people! Or force them to be your friend!

Hajime came across you hiding in the library from the teacher attempting to make you go to your Talent Development class. He helped you keep a lookout, and, well, your relationship evolved from there.

Contrary to belief, Hajime doesn’t hate ultimates- he hates how the school feels like it only cares about the ultimates and not the reserve course students.

Your relationship develops slowly, and you only tell him your talent after a few months of friendship. How do they even tell you’re the Ultimate Love Interest? So many people have such different standards for their crush… 

You probably confess your feelings to him when they try to take him away for the Kamakura project. You just saw red- first they force you into a little box and pick at any part that isn’t pretty and lovable, and now they want to take one of your only friends away?! Absolutely not. Thankfully (or not), your talent was able to save him from the project- this had the potential to gather more data about your talent, after all, if you have a partner.

Hajime probably helps you study at online school, after you confided that the main course barely taught anything actually useful. What could the Ultimate Love Interest do after high school with no new knowledge and a worthless scrap of paper? The Ultimate Mechanic could open a shop, the Ultimate Nurse work in a hospital- what could you do, write blog posts advocating for deeper characters in dating sims?

You make him reevaluate his perspective on Hope’s Peak, for sure.

KOREKIYO SHINGUJI

You were a lab grown specimen- the brain baby senior project by a whole group of ultimates, directed by the school directors. Could they create a person who holds the ultimate talent of something so subjective as Love? The students were directed to make an artificial intelligence that could make anyone love it. They were directed to make a body that would make no one unhappy. They were directed to make a creature that no one could hate.

You were born.

From the moment you opened your softly colored eyes, you were consuming data from dozens of the top dating sims, romance novels, online websites- carefully vetted by your parents so as not to corrupt you. You downloaded the latest fashion trends and taught how to make everyone happy without being wishy washy. You were perfect.

Your parents graduated, and weren’t allowed to take you with them. You were dressed in a cute school uniform and directed to act as human as possible- if you were revealed as an AI, the directors would pull you from your classes.

You joined the 79th class, and made fast friends with every one of them. Kokichi liked you because you liked his jokes, Miu liked you because you never made fun of her, Himiko liked you because you defended her lazy personality… Everyone liked you.

A month into the school year, your classmate Korekiyo tapped you on the shoulder and asked to interview you.

He asked you dozens of questions about your talent, how it worked, why you were chosen and why others weren’t. It was stressful. But it was the first time anyone had cared about you, yourself, as a person, and not what you did for them. You were hooked.

You spoke to him every day, unable to help yourself. Korekiyo, for his part, was happy to talk to you. Your classmates grew jealous as you spent less time with them and more with Korekiyo. The directors were confused- had they programmed in the ability to love? Or the emotion of curiosity?

They held off taking you in to examine you- if worst came to worst and you weren’t gathering enough data, they could always pull you out and wipe your memories of him.

IBUKI MIODA

You were human, yes, but sometimes you didn’t feel as if you were.

You were blessed with a beautiful, flawless face, and your body was one in a million. You were scouted to be an actor at the tender age of 12, and your life evolved into one of constant watch, constant judgement, constant etiquette classes and diets and everything to make you the darling of the media. You were quickly dubbed the cutest kid in film, which evolved into the Ultimate Love Interest before you hit the age of 14. Your life wasn’t your own. You weren’t allowed to consume anything that hadn’t been vetted for bad influences, you were severely punished for any words that weren’t kind and sweet.

You were a sweet dream living a nightmare. When the invitation to Hope’s Peak came in, you almost weren’t allowed to go- Hope’s Peak was notorious for not allowing outside influences in unless under strict supervision. What if you were corrupted?! You only managed to go because the paparazzi had seen the Hope’s Peak crest on your mail and raised a media storm about it, crying how the Ultimate Love Interest was attending the esteemed Hope’s Peak Academy.

Your manager was forced to let you go. But not without piling up the lessons even more, to make sure you wouldn’t be ruined.

Your first day at Hope’s Peak, you had a breakdown in your bedroom. Your schedule only had 4 things on the agenda- what were you supposed to do? Your purity would be ruined if you did anything wrong.

That was when Ibuki knocked softly on your door. You had never heard of her- you weren’t allowed to know of uncultured things such as rock music. She had heard you crying and offered to help if she could.

Ibuki became your emotional rock, and she helped you organize a schedule for yourself. Her peppy cheeriness was a stark contrast to your deep neuroticism. The rest of your class didn’t know your issues, but Ibuki helped you slowly look out from the walls that your media assigned talent had built around you.

When the photo of you laughing and smiling with Ibuki broke to the media, she helped you weather the storm that your fans sent, and barricaded your room from your manager when they stormed Hope’s Peak to get you out.

After a year at Hope’s Peak, you lost your talent of Ultimate Love Interest. And with it, you lost the cage that had trapped you within your own mind ever since you were 12.