#and finds the conveniently on the ground ice cube

[disventure-rewrite-takes]

i think megamind should shoot riya with the dehydration gun

- 👽

(schaffrillas productions voice) it is the EASIEST FUCKING SOLUTION, JUST SHOOT HER WITH THE DEHYDRATION GUN !!!!!!!!

[atplblog]

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[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 10/4/22

tis the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness or whatever. all five categories are filled this week which is a fruitful occurrence in and of itself

listening Fresh Laundry by Allie X. this came up on shuffle and gave me pause, bc this is a album i had on loop very early in the video games job while still figuring out how everything worked. i remember the hope and the routine of quick-marching down to the pond down the road (not really down the road. it was like a good third of a mile) to stare at some water for a bit before hustling back home and eating some soup and staring at excel some more with this album on loop until it got shuffled out of rotation in favor of more instrumental stuff.

and now, more than a year later, i have this album on loop again as i start a new job where i stare at excel a lot and eat soup. hope this one works out better.

what a cool personal journey kay! what the fuck is this song tho!

indie verging on synthpop? i rarely listen to albums all the way through but this one flows together nicely without big jumps in mood. this isn't to say it's flat or predictable, but some Thought has been put into how songs begin and end and the order they come in, which i appreciate. she's a soprano with a range and a tonal quality that isn't icy or cold, but it feels ice-smooth. not the soda fountain ice or the ice cube trays in your fridge, but the very clear and almost bubble-less kind of ice.

I want to wake up (I want to wake up) To friends calling (friends calling) I think I've had enough (think I've had enough) Of hard mornings (hard mornings)

-

reading really waffled on whether to include this article my sister sent me or not bc the style and formatting are profoundly fucking irritating but realized it let me talk about my house so here we are

blackbird spyplane is partially cranky about the tsunami of bland round edged squarespace storefronts selling knockoff shit, making it much harder to find people who Are selling weird neat shit, and loosely comparing the rise of this neutered online space to the irl demise of the Un-Grammable Hang Zone. the thesis of the article may be found in the image below.

so this got me thinking, as articles sometimes do: uh-oh! do i do that?

i am noted for my power, my beauty, and the eclectic nature of the Items i dredge up out of estate sales. i do like a weird fuckin object. perhaps my home is grammable for a very specific audience.

however, my current version of the evil lair rejects a large part of the UGHZ thesis bc it is not a hangout zone at all. i am a chronically ill adult living alone and everything is precisely arranged for my personal maximum comfort and convenience. eg the plant shelves and the plants on the floor look like shit but are really easy to water. the water change buckets and sipon directly under the fishtank also look like shit but make remembering to do water changes really easy. the recycling bin on a chair in the kitchen looks stupid as hell but makes me actually take the recycling out bc i do not have to lean down and pick up a large heavy milk crate directly off the ground, which hurts.

the above is a touch more defensive than i usually write these things. partly bc i find the apartment therapy instagram feed irritating as fuck and the merest whiff of association makes me want to jump out a window, weird lamp in hand.

however, there is a world of difference between "a space tightly curated for your personal taste" and "a space intentionally designed to appeal to the broadest possible audience, diluting itself into nothing in the process". so i'm probably fine actually, but it did take up an entire hour's walk while i thought about it so it was worthy of the reading slot this week

-

watching Genius Party (2007, dir many people) and Genius Party Beyond (2008, also dir many people). these are compilations of shorts from japanese Studio 4°C. these are some fun side projects where some titans of the fuckin industry got to play around for a little bit.

i like anthologies and package films and compilations and collected short stories. i would much rather something exist in the world as a tantalizing snippet than it never exist at all or be stretched thin to feature or novel length. something something you're always going to find SOMETHING compelling in a huge lot of ideas in various styles thrown at you like that, something something rough sketches always look more pleasing than clean linework to me bc the eye picks which line it finds most pleasing and fills in a lot on its own.

i thought about writing another paragraph about how letterboxd has changed my habits bc i like Making The Number Go Up, so i am more likely to watch several ninety-minute films over a weekend rather than one epic, even though a lot of epics are films i would like to watch, but this post is already really long.

my favorite short out of the bunch: Watanabe (Cowboy Bebop, Samurai Champloo) directed Baby Blue about two friends who go to the beach and it made me cry my fuckin eyes out. you can watch all of Genius Party for free on tubi rn or (depending on your american library) kanopy. OR this 480p version on youtube

-

playing Dredge is an indie horror fishing RPG. it's got a hot mechanic that fixes your boat and that's all i really care about but i GUESS we can talk about the actual game mechanics or whatever

this is the body of a farming sim with the brain of an RPG. the daily cycle of go out and fish and investigate shit and scurry back to dock before dark/the Madness overtakes you is very familiar. so far, the slow-paced explore/economy/talking to people loop is filling the failbetter games' sunless sea shaped hole in my heart.

the demo itself only lets you putz around for about ten in-game days, which is a good choice bc it left me wanting much more. it's very polished, and the framework for a lot of the big upgrade mechanics is There but not in this demo (also a good choice). you can play it until uhhh the tenth as part of the NEXT fest demos. if you like it, add it to your fuckin wishlist. steam stats are a thing that can actually make or break a new game, bc u need a certain number of wishlists to bubble up through the algorithm and actually get presented to users in New & Noteworthy.

i really really like the fishing mechanic despite hating every fishing minigame i've ever come across, bc you will catch things without "winning" the minigame it'll just take longer. the minigame is a little bonus if you're impatient. generally this game is quite polished and has a lot of quality of life stuff one might expect from a farm sim.

something i am worried about, bc it's not really touched on in the first ten in-game days, is the occult/horror aspect. is this game going to subvert all the worst parts of lovecraft et al or will it sort of blindly embrace them? who could say. the team is very new, although at least two of them have worked in games before.

cautiously optimistic about this one lads

-

making leek and potato soup with bacon and green onions AND the chicken stock i made several weeks ago. i was too impatient to let it cook down as far as i wanted, so it's not as chunky and thick as i would like (also if i were making it again i think i would halve the amount of milk, even though i doubled the recipe).

other changes include: no chicken, bc i couldn't be bothered, and four small leeks bc if i did not use the whole bunch at once i would never have used them. didn't like the fennel seeds very much, not really sure what i would put in their place bc Wow is this thing bland. i feel like either you go whole hog with herbs de provence or you go more of a curry route with ginger/lemongrass/turmeric and friends.

no pics bc it is genuinely impossible to take good food pics in this kitchen and i cannot be bothered to go outside and like Stage a pic.

[backandimbamon]

Plzz write Bamon + their baby :)

i’ve never written about this!!! ty for the prompt this was so fun to think about (: <33 ask + u shall receive!!

….

Sometimes, Damon can’t believe it.

Life is a very funny thing, both haha funny and strange funny, and it’s moments like these where he sits and reflects on the doors that he’s opened, the doors he’s closed, the ones where he’s stayed a while, kicked off his shoes, grabbed some wine, and never ever left.

Bonnie is meeting him for movies and popcorn, their typical Sunday routine, only this is no ordinary Sunday because Friday, he broke up with Elena. Bonnie is supposedly emotional support though he keeps it to himself that he doesn’t need it. He will milk every ounce of affection he can out of his bestie if it means she’ll stay a while longer.

Just like that, everything that he fought hard for he decides to let go because despite the incredible sex and history Elena and Damon have… things still aren’t…right. With every obstacle out of the way, the house quieter, just the two in each other’s presence, it is loud that they will probably never mesh well.

Plus, even a few years after Stefan’s death, Damon notices the room in her heart for him shrinks in size and maybe it’s the fact that the only common ground they have now is Bonnie Bennett- everyone else is either dead or annoying enough that Damon refuses to discuss them, (Caroline, Matt, Jeremy,) they can’t talk about Stefan since his absence still hurts too much. And while Elena is a tad exhausted by only chatting about “his little witch,” Damon can go on and on for days.

Like word vomit, he’s all Bonnie this and Bonnie that in discussions to the point where he’s inwardly cringing at himself but he just can’t stop.

“You know she was my best friend first,” Elena says to him one day after he fusses about Bonnie not answering her phone within the first three rings. There’s a strange look in her expression that perturbs Damon- of course he knows that. Of course.

“Yeah, yeah, but I could’ve been dying over here. I could’ve already been dead. You know she doesn’t have anything to live for if I’m not around,” he jokes snidely.

Elena is folding clothes in the laundry room, she doesn’t laugh or look at him, just continues bending dried garments into a convenient, placeable stack.

Tough crowd.

….

“You ever thought about… I don’t know…? Dating?” Alaric says this, a glass of golden whiskey to his mouth before he knocks it back down his throat and the only thing that’s left is the large, sparkling ice cube. When he slaps the glass down, the ice klinks characteristically. It’s been perhaps a month or two since Damon and Elena’s split.

“Me and Judgey? Are you insane? That’s my-“

“Best friend. Yeah. Everyone’s aware.”

Damon’s brows knot up in confusion, and his eyes hold an expression of disbelief.

“It’s Bonnie,” He says, blue eyes twinkling with an almost believable mirth like he thinks it’s a joke that Alaric would even ask.

“It is.” He confirms.

A minute passes of Damon rubbing the back of his neck, Ric staring aimlessly at his empty glass before he speaks up again.

“So you haven’t… you know…”

“What?” Damon makes a hand gesture of the obviously forbidden word before shaking his head vehemently. “Of course not.”

“Oh, I know that. I was going to ask if you’ve ever…thought about it?”

Bonnie? With her legs wrapped around his waist as he makes every inch of his dick disappear into her hot and gushy anatomy? So deep inside her that their hips touch?

He clears his throat.

“Of course not.” Damon repeats.

….

It’s a momentary lapse of judgement-the kiss- and when she doesn’t reciprocate or move at all, really, the awkwardness is a brick that sinks in the bottom of his stomach.

Leaf green eyes and a beating heart too panicky to be calm but she just brushes it all away like eraser marks on a timed essay.

Damon never imagines rejection to be so simple that he can just pretend that it never happened. He takes the exit and sits back in friend zone where he’s always belonged.

Things are kinda sorta normal for a week.

….

“Truth or dare?” Bonnie suggests that they play it and on queue, Damon throws out sexual innuendo in an insert-line-here-fashion. She cringes, rolls her eyes, tries not to laugh.

Normal.

But then she dares him to kiss her again and things are so far from normal that somehow they end up in bed together, completely naked, and completely wild.

And God, Bonnie begs, pleads, when she’s under Damon but when she gets on top, it’s him that’s asking for permission.

“Fuck, Bon,” he mumbles before leaving a long stream of cursive inside of her.

Their eyes are crystallized, perhaps it’s the moonlight.

….

He shouldn’t feel this betrayed when he hears it, the second heartbeat, but something inside of him snaps.

“Found another best friend?” Damon asks, they haven’t had sex since that wonderful, miraculous night a little over one month ago but the sexual tension between them is as taut as a rubber-band.

She laughs, not noticing the pain in his tone. “With what time?”

It’s a solid question. He’s had Bonnie to himself practically every evening, her stuff is vicariously thrown around the house; she’s in all the rooms at once.

But there’s undeniably an extra heartbeat, he hears it with each pause, each breath she takes, the incessant thump.

“Um,” Damon’s tumbler slips out of his grasp and crashes to the floor.

Bonnie backs away from the mess.

“Um?”

….

Pregnant Bonnie is his favorite Bonnie, from her cravings, to her glow, to her new abundance of cleavage. The two of them can’t stop thinking how this could be, how their lives keep getting stranger and stranger, how nature keeps being redefined, and the rules keep bending and breaking.

Her new favorite things are chocolate chip cookies with salty chips baked in, chocolate-and honey-covered strawberries, spicy sausages, pickle juice.

His hands find their new home in rubbing Bon’s baby bump until she drifts off into a nap.

When her breathing gets heavier indicating she’s in a deep sleep he says into her hair, “You should marry me.”

And he means it.

….

Luna Bennett-Salvatore arrives with soft brown skin and Heterochromia iridum: one ice blue eye and one leaf green one.

Damon nicknames her Bam since Bonnie decides to scrap his name suggestion altogether.

“Bamon! It’s our names combined,”

“No.”

“But what if-“

“No.”

And Luna aka Bam grows very fast. She smiles a lot. Babbles a lot. To Bonnie’s dismay, she says “dada” first.

“Look at Daddy’s Girl,” he says, holding his princess high in the air. “You know what, Bam, I better not say that too loud. Mommy was Daddy’s Girl before you.”

“Oh my God,” Bonnie mumbles, hiding her smile.

She likes to fall asleep with her little arms hugging Bonnie’s neck, the side of her face pressed against hers.

“Don’t be jealous,” Bonnie says when Damon crosses his arms.

“Jealous?” He tsks. “I can do that too,” He bundles Bonnie and Luna up in his arms. “you should marry me,” he says into her hair.

And he means it.

[svmproducts-blog]

Mini Fridge: I Love These Cool Coca Cola Mini Fridge

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Conclusion

If you enjoy the notion of a mini-fridge but don't have a lot of room, you may get one that looks like a regular-sized fridge. Well, these wacky little Coke refrigerators may be precisely what you're searching for! In addition to their stylish appearance, they also include convenient storage for beverages and snacks. Also, they're compact enough to bring along on the go, so you can always have access to your favorite drinks and snacks. If this is something you think you might use at home, go ahead and peruse the options now accessible on the internet.

[shreddedparchment]

A World of Our Own Pt.05

It’s Only a Spark

09/10/2020

Pairing: Bucky x Reader         Word Count: 5,114

Warnings: nudity, slight angst, pining, fluff

A/N: We’re back y’all! Awooo is back on. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get back to this story but it won’t be a super long one. We’re talking less than ten chapters. I really want to start working on my original fiction because I want to publish, probably self-publish on Amazon or something. Fanfiction is fun but I can’t really sell it since it’s not really mine and I really want writing to be my future. Anywho, I hope you enjoy this next chapter! It’s been a long time coming. xoxo If you reblog thanks for helping me spread my work!

Please DO NOT REPOST my stories. Reblogs are welcome!

Taglist is closed!

Early morning beach walks, heat-soaked sand warming the bottom of your feet as it shifts and hisses with each step you take along the shoreline, is one thing that you can honestly admit to loving.

Being stranded on an uncharted island is not exactly great. Apart from the lack of proper vitamins—though you and Bucky had been making it work and with the knowledge of boar now, there’s your protein—no ice cubes, and no air conditioning, there are some things that you enjoy here.

These walks are one.

You enjoyed last night.

It’s been two weeks since Ryan came to live with you and Bucky, and every night is spent waiting for Bucky to sneak into the fuselage to come and hold you while you sleep.

Well, last night had been a little different. You’d fallen asleep with his head buried against your neck, your arms around his impossibly wide shoulders. Last night he’d let you see more of that vulnerability in him. The inescapable truth that even though he’s making all this work for the two of you—now three—he wants off this island too.

As you come to a stop, you take in the sky. Along the horizon painted around the bearably bright white-orange orb that is the sun, is a glowing and stunning fire red that fades out into a burnt orange, a splash of burgundy and gray before it changes into the deep purple night sky.

It’s so beautiful. This sunrise, bringing with it a new day of promise. A new day of secret looks and lingering touches.

Your mind is flooded with them. Each one more precious than the last.

Bucky hands you your food pack and he holds his hand over yours, fingers overlapping, for two seconds too long. At lunch he sits close. Knees touching before he leans back on his hands and one is so conveniently placed behind you so that it’s almost like he’s got his arm around you.

So many tiny hints that you’ve carefully calculated and added together and realize that Bucky must feel like you do. There’s no other explanation for it.

Maybe, if he were just as touchy feely with Ryan then you might consider it a possibility that he’s just that outgoing. That affectionate. But he only does this with you. He comes to your bed at night—thank goodness.

Last night it had been very clear that he wanted you to hug him, face buried in your neck or pressed tentatively against your chest until he relaxes enough that you can ask him how he’s feeling.

You chew on your scratchy chapped lip, watching as the water changes from dark turquoise to crystal green.

What will Bucky think when he wakes up and you aren’t beside him?

Usually it’s the other way around. Bucky is always gone when you wake up. Last night you’d been woken up by painful memories turned dreams. A life previously lived before the world had fallen apart.

Somehow, you find yourself being grateful for it. All of it. Because it somehow brought you here. To Bucky.

But you’d needed air and that’s why you’re on this beach, earlier than you normally are.

You can’t be imagining things, right? Bucky seems like he likes you too. It’s a little unfair to him if you’re honest. Who else can he like here? Ryan?

Nothing you’ve seen has indicated that he’s gay. If he’s bi, then maybe Ryan but Bucky seems to bristle every time Ryan comes near the two of you when that special tension begins to build.

Are you reading into things too deeply?

Frustrated you slide your hand up into your hair, yanking on it in annoyance as you quickly sweep through it and begin to strip.

Just a quick swim.

 Bucky stirs, reaching for you, knowing he’ll have to hurry out of here in a minute to avoid the questions that Ryan will no doubt ask if he spots him coming out of the fuselage.

Several times, Bucky has nearly told him that he likes you. That you’re his. But he can’t. He hasn’t even told you that he likes you. What if he tells Ryan all of that and then you don’t feel the same?

Bucky thinks…he hopes you feel the same. It seems as if you do.

But in the busy hours of the day when he’s shaping clay and cooking bricks for the hut and you’re weaving the thatch for the roof, he looks up to find you smiling, laughing, or happily chatting with Ryan.

The two of you have hit it off so well and he cannot deny the chemistry that the two of you share. There’s a sparkle in both your eyes when he finds you talking. A spark. An option.

You’re the one that gets to make the choice here. You’re the one that has the right to tell either of them, or both of them, no.

So as Bucky reaches out for you, craving the soft caress of your body and hands as they stroke his hair sleepily, his heart gives a fearful lurch when his hands make no purchase in their search.

He sits up, a panic setting in as he looks around frantically.

Calm down, Bucky. She’s probably just outside.

Only you aren’t. As he emerges, he observes the long since dead cinders of the campfire. His eyes scan the area and he spots Ryan’s blanket rolled up and propped against the driftwood trunk he'd snuggled up to last night.

Where the fuck-? Bucky’s mind reels again. Calm down, Bucky. She’s probably just down by the beach.

Only you aren’t!

Where the hell is she?!

Bucky moves along the length of the spot he'd picked for the hut. Just at the edge of the dense jungle, sturdier ground to give the hut a fighting chance against any storms that may come around.

The sand is undisturbed. His empty clay trough has no water. The palm fronds you’d been tearing fibers from to weave the thatch roofing sits untouched.

There’s also no Ryan.

Suddenly he pick it up. His ears prickle at the sound of your laugh.

He launches himself to the left, ears straining to get it all more clearly.

Now he hears a more masculine tenor that mixes and blends with your own sweet sound.

His heart gives a wild clench as he takes several steps in your direction but stops and waits, eyes trained on the curve all the way down the southern shore.

It takes a few moments because you’re still far away. You’re both laughing, saying something he can’t make out then laughing again.

Bucky clenches his fists, metal screeching in protest.

They’re just walking. Keep it together.

He knows that he should keep his cool. You’d just spent all night sleeping in his arms. You’ve spent the past few months with him, depending on him. You’d declared how much you need him and-shit…

You and Ryan round the large rocks in the distance, just as he realizes that he hasn’t told you how much he needs you. How much you mean to him. He’d only just decided that he really likes you and needs to tell you but what if he’s too late?

What if you think you’ve been a burden?

He hasn’t always been nice.

Fuck.

He's taken care of you. He’s made sure that you’ve wanted for nothing, at least in the way of safety and food—though you’ve done that for him too.

Being nice however, he could have done better. He can do better.

You and Ryan get closer and he can see your skin glistening in the morning sun.

You’ve gone for your swim and Bucky’s suddenly full of fearful rage as he considers what must have happened to have you two walking back together.

He can almost picture you swimming in the sparkling turquoise water. Your naked body is silhouetted against the rising sun but he can imagine that every curve of your body had stood in sharp contrast to the bright rays.

Even in his memories—fond memories that he will never admit to thinking about as much as he does—he can see the peaks of your bare breasts. He can see the curves of your hips, your butt, your neck exposed as you throw your head back when you resurface.

His neck feels hot all of a sudden and he burns hotter when his mind is filled with the image of Ryan coming upon such an exquisite sight.

He would have stood on the beach, probably watching you for much longer than you’ll probably ever realize. Ryan probably cleared his throat when he had his fill and you would have turned maybe expecting Bucky?

Bucky hopes.

Then you’d have ducked under the surface when you realized it wasn’t Bucky but with the way he knows you and Ryan are, that innocent lilt in your voice. The meaningless flirting…

You would have come out of the water after having asked Ryan to turn his back and Ryan would have stolen a peek of your perfect form when you’d turned your back to him as you pulled on your underwear and then slipped back into that summer floral dress you’d been wearing when the plane went down.

The colors have faded a little and the bottom is just as torn as ever. You’ve taken to wearing shorts underneath as it seems to keep getting shorter and shorter the more work you do in it, but it keeps you cool so it’s a favorite of yours.

Your hair is still damp, Ryan’s shoulder bumping yours as the two of you casually walk his way.

Ryan leans closer towards you and says something that Bucky can’t hear but he can see the way it flusters you and you reach over to push him away. Ryan is sent sideways, his feet walking into the shoreline where he splashes only a little before he hurries back towards you and nudges your shoulder again but then reaches around to grab both of your arms to steady you.

He drops them right away, responding to the way you curl in on yourself at his touch, but it’s enough of an embrace that Bucky’s heart gives an ache.

What’s wrong with me? Bucky wonders, knowing that he’s completely in love with you but unable to understand how it happened.

His eyes are glue to your pretty face, the stunning smile that stretches your lips as you and Ryan exchange pleasant conversation, but Bucky can’t care enough to hear what the two of you are saying.

Your skin is glowing in the morning sun as it bounces off the layer of tiny seawater droplets.

If he could have thought up the image of perfection, he knows that he could not have dreamt you up. Yet, he knows that you are it. You’re the epitome of his desires and not just physically. Of course, that part of himself has awoken with you always so close and so exposed in the literal sense.

He’s seen more of your body than he has of any other woman’s in his life, ever maybe.

Sure, there’d been a dalliance here and there in the back of a powder blue Cadillac, but those girls hadn’t undressed. Bunch of dresses pushed up around their waists as the fluffy scratchy fabrics underneath had scratched at his neck and face.

Yes, he has enjoyed the sight of you, but it goes beyond that now.

His attachment, his need comes from your own. In your eyes he can see you search for him, needing him just as he does. You’ve become the other half of his heart. The part that had lost all purpose when Hydra had twisted him mind into the Soldier.

Hearts were for beating. Staying alive. Nothing more.

Until you.

Then it began to hurt and pine and want again. It began to soften with affection at every corny joke, every lingering touch, every sweet chuckle.

You’ve wormed your way under his skin and there’s no way he can keep pretending that he doesn’t already think of you as his. Just as he’s already yours.

“…bucky?...Bucky…?” You sound far away but you’re in front of him, walking closer, your mouth moving but he almost doesn’t hear you.

“Is he alright?” Ryan asks, his voice distant too.

“I don’t know.” You frown, concern turning the corners of your lips down. “Bucky?”

“Ya alright, mate?” Ryan reaches over and gives Bucky’s right shoulder a soft slap, but the gesture doesn’t even move his massive body.

Bucky’s gaze is pull to him and Bucky sees red.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your heart is pounding with fear as you watch the glare that Bucky fixes on Ryan.

Ryan shrinks back a step, still looking a bit concerned by Bucky’s strange stoic stare. However, with Bucky’s sudden flare of rage, you’re almost certain that he’s going to deck him. Bucky is going to punch Ryan, right in the mouth. You just know it.

Instead, Bucky marches between the two of you, separating you with his large body.

As he passes he takes hold of your hand, the metal cool compared to the sun soaked warmth of your skin, and pulls you along down the beach.

“Bucky!” You gasp.

“Where ya going?” Ryan asks, turning to watch the two of you go with his arms thrown out to the sides as his confusion grows.

“I’m not-Can you get the bottles of water from camp?” You call back to him, tripping over your feet a little as you try to match Bucky’s pace.

Reaching out, you wrap your free hand around his metal bicep to get more balance.

“Ya, alright.” Ryan calls back.

“Bucky where are we going?” You demand.

“To check the fish nets.” He explains shortly.

“I already did that.” Ryan retorts, raising his voice so that you can both hear him as Bucky pulls you along further and further.

“To get some fruit then.” Bucky counters.

You realize now that he wants to get you alone, so you turn to follow him without resistance.

Bucky doesn’t speak until you’re both far away from the beach by the hut. He turns you into the small break in the trees where you normally come to pick bananas and mangoes.

Dropping your hand he immediately stoops down and begins to rifle through the fallen mangoes, squeezing them gently to see if they are ripe or spoiled.

“Bucky?” You sigh, watching him ignore you for a bit before you sigh and move to help with the fruit.

You’re not sure how he expects you to carry more than two or three with no basket. Minutes pass. Five, ten, fifteen minutes of sifting through fallen fruit before your arms are full and with a sigh you drop them and reach down to rip more of your dress to wrap them up and carry them more easily.

You’re not very careful with your tearing or as precise as Bucky when he did it that first time all those months ago, so you tear too much and the rip on one side runs all the way up your side exposing your skin.

“What are you doing?!” Bucky gasps, dropping the fruits in his arms as he rushes for you.

The plop, thud, plop of the fruits draws your eyes before his massive form is beside you pushing your hands away from your dress. The shorts underneath are more visible now and tattered like all of your clothes. They’re more durable made of jeans, but you use them to do everything so they’re your most worn piece of clothing.

Your arms fall limply at your sides as your patience wears thin. You chew on your lip hard, urging your voice to be even as you look at him, your eyes searching his furrowed brow, those frantic blue steel eyes.

He’s got something on his mind but he’s not sharing and it’s really starting to piss you off!

As he holds your dress closed, he meets your eyes, hesitating to keep hold of your gaze.

“What’s going on?” You wonder.

“Nothing.” Bucky shrugs. “Don’t rip your dress anymore. Don’t you like this one?”

“Bucky…” You sigh again, urging yourself to have patience.

There’s a sudden shift in his expression, an anger that flashes behind his eyes and it only spurs your own on.

Why would he be angry with you?!

“Just, stop showing the pilot skin.” He lets your dress go and moves back to his abandoned pile of fruit.

“Are you joking?! What does that even mean, Bucky?” Your blood is boiling.

“He likes you.” Bucky declares, throwing the words over his shoulder as if you’re stupid not to have noticed.

“I-” You stutter, trying to wrap your mind around his words, what he means, why it matters, what his anger could indicate. “So what?”

Bucky’s shoulders tense.

“It doesn’t matter if he likes me or not. In case you haven’t noticed, I am the only woman on this island, so he really doesn’t have much of a selection. If we were back on the mainland, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t spare me a glance.”

“Is that really what matters here?” Bucky seethes, but you still can’t guess as to why he’s so bothered by it.

Unless…

“He didn’t see anything, alright? He had his back turned when I got out of the water.” You assure him.

“Oh, like that ass wouldn’t peek? You’re very naïve.” Bucky mutters.

“Excuse you?” You gasp, all attempts at bottling up your anger abandoned.

“He wants you!” Bucky insists, rising and turning to look at you, closing the distance with two steps to stand close but not too close. Just close enough that you’re both able to shout in each other’s faces. “Can’t you see that? The way he looks at you, he even asked me if you were taken. He was all happy when I told him you didn’t have anyone waiting for you back home.”

Your heart falls, a sudden realization hitting you as you think about all the sweet ways Ryan has indeed been flirting with you. If you were taken…

“So…so what you’re saying is that he asked you if I was taken and you told him I wasn’t, right?” You swallow hard, fighting the lump in your throat as you see that Bucky—as stupid as it is to think it in this way—hadn’t claimed you.

It goes in the face of what you’ve always believed, that women are not objects to be owned by men, and yet here on this island with two of them here alone with you for who knows how long—possibly forever—for Bucky not to stand and tell Ryan that you’re his…but you aren’t, are you?

Hurt and anger flow through you, making your hands tremble.

Bucky doesn’t answer. You shake your head, unable to accept that he doesn’t want you enough to tell Ryan that you’re off limits. That you’re his.

What has all this been over the past three months then? Have you been so stupid and so delusional that you saw things in his behavior that aren’t really there?

“I need space.” You tell him and without hesitation you turn and walk away, into the jungle to be as far away from this emotional blow as you can.

Only, you get two steps before metal is wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back towards him swiftly and easily as if you’re made of nothing more than feathers.

He pulls you against his chest, metal hand extended back behind him as he does. When you crash against him, he wraps it around your waist while his other hand reaches up behind your head to hold you in place as he dips and kisses you hard.

His arms are vices around you, pulling you tight as if he can’t feel you unless you’re right up against him.

After a few moments of contact, his lips soften, melding with yours gently and tenderly.

You’re breathless as you let him lead, relishing in the feel of his kiss as his lips part and the tip of his tongue coaxes your own open.

You gasp but meet him eagerly, letting your body fall against his. Slipping your arms underneath his, you feel the thick, hard planes of his back until you reach his shoulders and pull him towards you as the kiss consumes you both.

Your body is humming. You can feel every shift of his skin against yours like tingling fire. A burning touch that electrifies you as it shifts in meaning.

This is Bucky claiming you. This is his declaration.

He pulls back, a small smack to his lips as he breaks the kiss. Your eyes are hazy and fogged as you open them, searching his face with only half your mind working while the other still lingers on the intensity of his kiss.

You’re breathless too, and you forget so when you breath it’s a rush of air that makes you lightheaded and you cling to him harder so that you won’t fall.

Bucky smiles, adjusting his grip to hold you steady.

He brings his hand up to caress your temple and then your cheek, sliding a tickling thumb along the still tingling skin.

“Be my girl?” He says, voice deep but low and quiet so that only you can hear. It dives into your chest and warms it further, making your legs weak with not only their meaning but tone and the smooth velvet of its flow.

You swallow hard, looking for more breath where there doesn’t seem to be any. It all feels so unreal. Like your daydream as you’d watched him mix clay and chop wood and every muscle of his torso had rippled and flexed for you and you’d wished he would hold you, just like this and kiss you, just like now.

Somehow, you find strength and oxygen enough to speak. “I thought I already was.”

This confession makes his expression soften; it draws his brow down once again as he devours your face before leaning down to claim your lips once more.

You whimper, so please and so relieved that you haven’t been alone in this. You’ve wanted him and he also has been wanting you.

You break his kiss to gasp for air, “Never let me go.”

Bucky sighs, pulling you tighter—as if that’s even possible—against his chest. His hug is crushing and you know that he’s holding you as close as he can but you want it to be even closer.

“Never.” Bucky whispers, sounding emotional too.

You want to see his face, to see the expression that he’s wearing that makes that voice, but you can’t bear to pull away. Instead you bury your face against his neck as he does the same and both of you simply enjoy the embrace.

~~~~~~~~~~

This shift is dynamic.

The way you and Bucky respond to each other’s presence changes instantly and you couldn’t be happier.

As you walk back towards the beach with him, hand in hand, you can’t help the smile that splits your cheeks.

Each of you chances several glances at the other, smiling wider as you make your way.

“What?” Bucky chuckles, shaking his head as you stare.

“If I’d known that making you jealous was the way to get you to make a move…” You tell him.

Bucky shakes his head. “I think I’d have gone crazy if you’d done anything intentionally.”

You can almost picture Bucky’s rage if you’d done something on purpose, throwing yourself on Ryan just to get a rise out of him.

The idea of you wanting anyone’s touch other than Bucky’s is so preposterous that you really don’t know how Bucky could have believed for even one second that you and Ryan were possible.

“I’ve only wanted you, Buck.” You sigh, cuddling closer into his side as you rest your head against his metal bicep.

Bucky sighs deeply, relieved?

“I didn’t want to…assume,” He begins. “We were the only two here and you’re the only woman? Me the only man? I was so afraid that I’d make you feel uncomfortable if you didn’t feel the same way.”

“You could have asked.” You sigh. “But I guess I could have said something too. I could have told you it was okay.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I-I wasn’t nice to you at first. I don’t blame you for thinking I wasn’t feeling it. It’s my own fault.”

You pull him to a stop, tracing the shape of his forearm. “Bucky, none of this is your fault.”

This guilt he carries around with him about the plane, being marooned here, now his behavior when you first crashed?

“You didn’t know me. You saved me. We were strangers then. I don’t blame you for keeping me at a distance. Especially with everything that you’ve gone through and who you are? It’s natural for you to want to be cautious.” You understand his position.

Being the former Winter Soldier could not be easy to carry.

“But I should have been nicer.” He argues, reaches up to stroke your cheek again.

You lean into his touch, suddenly grateful that he can touch you like this away from the fuselage at bedtime.

Bedtime…holy shit. Your stomach erupts into flutters.

You quickly clear your throat and swallow to clear away the thoughts of how this will change bedtime too.

“I should have been more patient.” He continues.

With a smile, you shrug. “Maybe, but then you wouldn’t be you. I needed the kick in the butt. I’ve led a pretty sheltered life. I wasn’t prepared to survive out here. I’m glad you were stern.”

“Stern feels like an understatement. I was mean.” Bucky argues.

“Why are you so damn stubborn? I’m trying to give you a pass here, Barnes.” You gripe, suddenly annoyed again.

Bucky throws his head back and laughs, stroking your cheek with more affection at the sound of your irritation.

“Oh, man. You’re a firecracker.” He observes but doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s leaning in to kiss you again.

You push yourself towards him, eager to kiss him again because you can, and you’ve wanted it for so long. The fervor with which you pull him against you should be embarrassing but you’ve been so starved for his affection and now that you have it, you’re going to take advantage of it.

“I really like you.” He whispers as he pulls away.

Your heart is exploding with butterflies and your stomach flips pleasantly.

“I really like you, too, Bucky.” You smile. “So much.”

He gives you one more quick peck before leading you back towards the hut, hand in hand.

As you approach, you put a little more distance between the two of you but keep your hand wrapped around his. Both of you search the area for Ryan, Bucky probably eager for him to see that you two are now together but as you move towards the clay trough, you spot only the bottles of water that you’d asked him to fetch.

Bucky lets go and moves for them, thirsty.

“Well, at least he’s useful.” He says, taking a drink. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” You look around, wondering if he’d one back to the fuselage for something. “Maybe he forgot something back at camp?”

“Maybe.” Bucky says, eyeing the way to camp with narrowed eyes. “I don’t know if I trust that guy.”

“Oh, come on, Bucky. I’m already yours.” You tease and turn to fix him with a smile.

Bucky shakes his head, fighting his own but it only makes him give you a heart-stopping half-smile. Pretty pink lips curved on one side in a new expression that you make note of to demand it again someday.

“I’m serious.” He insists. “There’s something off about it. I don’t know what, but I feel like he’s hiding something.”

“Something about the plane?” You wonder, voice serious now as you consider that you’ve only known Ryan for such a short time.

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, moving towards the clay trough where he immediately dips his hands in to mix the sediment that’s settled at the bottom.

“But he’s so nice.” You counter, feeling sad by the thought that Ryan might be two-faced.

“Most bad guys are.” Bucky mutters sinisterly.

You open your mouth to argue when the sound of splashing turns you towards the shoreline.

Rising from the water is Ryan, shirtless, blonde curls plastered against the side of his face. He wipes the water away and freezes for a moment when he spots the two of you on the beach.

He suddenly smiles, moving towards his shirt and pulls it over his head as he approaches.

“Hi.” You offer, squinting against the morning sun. A quick glance at Bucky shows you he’s standing, hands and forearms covered in clay as he stands watching Ryan too.

“Hello.” Ryan replies, moving towards the two of you with relaxed and easy walk. “When did you two get back?”

“Just now.” You smile at him, forcing yourself to see the kind man instead of the suspicious pilot that showed up out of nowhere.

Bucky’s own worries now seeping into you.

“Went for a swim?” You wonder, looking over his shoulder in the direction he came from.

“It’s hot out here.” He explains.

“Did you find anything?” Bucky suddenly asks, his voice full of forced friendliness. “You went to the cabin, right? What were you looking for?”

Ryan freezes by the small fire pit you and he had dug up a few days earlier to cook food on the beach instead of having to run all the way back to camp.

“I did go there, yeah.” He nods. “I wanted to see if mah bag was still there. I had some personal items I was hopin’ had survived the crash.”

“Nothing too important I hope?” And you really do hope it’s nothing that means a whole lot.

Ryan meets your gaze and fixes you with a tight and forlorn grin. “Some pictures of mah son.”

“Your son?!” You gasp, completely shocked by his declaration. “You have a son?”

“Aye, I have a son.” Ryan sighs. “I’ll go get the fish, ya? I’ll cook breakfast. You take a rest.”

“Now he has a son?” Bucky wonders once Ryan is a safe distance away and you honestly can’t blame him for the suspicion you can hear in his voice.

You really don’t know Ryan at all and now have to wonder how much more he might be hiding.

[aellynera]

Accidental Anniversary (Llewyn Davis x Reader)

ACCIDENTAL ANNIVERSARY

💜💘 Happy Valentine’s Fic Exchange, @samrockweil​ 💘💜

I am your Valentine’s elf (or maybe cupid?) It was an absolute blast writing this for you!! At first I couldn’t decide which guy to write for, but Llewyn spoke to me and I ran with it and I hope you love it even half as half as much as I did writing it. Happy reading and happy beeps!

Also, huge thanks to @sergeantkane​ for putting this fic exchange together! Love you Clarke!

Word Count: around 8k oops look i had a whole MONTH okay i’m not sorry

Summary: You meet Llewyn Davis one night at the Gaslight, and soon find out that the universe has an odd sense of humor and an even weirder sense of timing.

Warnings: A few curses. Nothing else, it’s 99.999999999% fluffy fluff.

March 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a whiskey, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as your boss flips the power on.

You’ve been working there for a couple weeks, a side job to help make your rent and keep you busy on the weekends. It’s not a terrible gig, most of the time; the patrons are pleasant enough, the performers hit or miss, and Pappi, your boss, is okayish, so long as you can mostly steer clear of him.

You begin to wipe down part of the bar while the next performer sets up on the small, dingy stage. You haven’t seen him before, but whispers from the stools at the counter hint he’s semi-popular around these parts. You quirk an eyebrow; he certainly is easy on the eyes, at least.

From the minute he takes the stage, your focus is ninety percent on him (you do need a little brain power to do your job, after all) and you find that he is also very easy on the ears. Dark curls, dark beard, dark eyes, dark clothes, but a surprisingly bright voice singing lovely songs. He finishes his set, comes off the stage, and sidles up to the bar. You hand him the requested bourbon with a soft smile.

And the next thing you know, Pappi is on the ground and this stranger is holding his hand, wincing, flexing his fingers. Your mouth drops open.

“Oh my god!” you cry. “What--”

“Jesus Christ, Llewyn,” Pappi groans from the floor. “I was only kidding.”

“Yeah, doubt that,” this Llewyn person mutters under his breath, taking a seat on the stool closest to him. “Can I bother you for some ice?”

You keep a wary eye on him, and on Pappi as he gets up and wanders to the other side of the room like nothing happened, and wrap some ice cubes in a towel and hand it to him. “You decked him.”

He scoffs and takes a sip of his drink. “You hear what he said about you?”

Well, no, you hadn’t actually, but having heard what Pappi has said about others in the club over the past two weeks, you can imagine. “I can handle him,” you say archly.

“I’m sure you can,” a huff of air escapes his lips, “but you shouldn’t have to.” He turns around to look at Pappi, who just glares and shakes his head. The man in front of you flips your boss off.

You refill his glass without him asking and stick out your hand, telling him your name.

He shakes it and says, “Llewyn Davis” with a sheepish smile.

April 14

Llewyn shuffles down the sidewalk towards the Gaslight, really only noticing the early spring chill that hangs in the air. It’s early, before noon, but he wants to run through his set before the night’s performance and the early hour is convenient for him to be able to do so in peace.

He’s about a block away when a sound distracts him. A voice is singing, pure and sweet - if a tiny bit off-key - and if he didn’t know any better - and he certainly does, at least most times - he would call it angelic. No, not angelic. An actual angel. That’s what it sounds like.

Llewyn stops and looks up at an open window on the third floor. He can make out the vague outline of a figure inside, but he’s unable to see any details. But that voice. A few minutes pass as he just listens, staring up at the window, thinking about calling up to get the attention of the mysterious singer. But he doesn’t, and he just stands and listens, until he finds his feet starting to carry him on to his usual destination. 

Three steps into his walk, he realizes he knows the song. It’s one of his songs. Part of him can’t believe it, and the rest of him wants to offer pitch correction. Three more steps into his walk, and his face makes very solid, very resounding contact with the light pole on the corner.

“God dammit,” he shouts.

A few seconds later, the window on the third floor slides open and a head pokes out. “Oh my god. Llewyn?”

Llewyn looks up and groans inwardly as he recognizes your face from that last gig at the Gaslight. “Hey,” he waves awkwardly, leaning on the pole.

“Are you bleeding?” you call down to him.

He reaches up near his eyebrow and realizes he is, in fact, bleeding. Quite a bit, honestly. Before he can answer, you call back down, “Come up the fire escape to the side window!” The window drops shut and he can hear another slide open.

So Llewyn Davis climbs the fire escape steps and meets you at your side window, a first aid kit in your hands as you motion for him to sit. He does and you start to patch up his wound.

“You should be more careful,” you mutter as you worked, stopping briefly to look him right in the eyes.

He holds your gaze. “Sorry, I was...distracted.”

“Mmm,” you return. You fold a gauze pad and hand it to him. “Hold this on that cut. I’m going to get you some ice.” You turn to walk to your kitchen.

He mumbles his thanks and leans his head back against the fire escape railing.

May 14

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and although Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, he takes up a spot at the end of the bar and thanks you as you pass him a drink.

“How have you been?” you ask. You’d seen him a few times over the past couple weeks, here and there in the Village, but it’s been several days. You found Llewyn’s company quite enjoyable. You’d talked a bit and even shared lunch once at the diner a couple blocks away.

His lips turn up, a shy smile lighting his face. He opens his mouth to respond, when another voice breaks in.

“He’s been an asshole.”

Llewyn’s head ships around and you follow his gaze. A slender woman with long, straight brown hair and piercing eyes stands about ten feet behind him, arms crossed and glaring. Neither of them says anything for a beat, Llewyn turns away from her, and then she’s on him, daggers flying from her lips, going on and on about assholes and responsibility and electrical tape.

Llewyn keeps his eyes down, the bottom of his glass suddenly staring back at him. “Jesus Christ, Jean.”

You bite your lip as you glance between them. You have no idea who this woman - this Jean - is, but it’s clear she is not a fan of Llewyn Davis. In three seconds flat you decide you do not like her either.

“Is there something you needed?” you break in.

Her eyes flare at Llewyn, then at you, then bore into the back of Llewyn’s head. You resist the urge to literally toss a glass of whiskey in her direction.

“I need Llewyn to stop being an asshole,” she seethes. Llewyn rolls his eyes.

You arch an eyebrow and the words are on your tongue - I need you to back off, you crazy weird bit-- you bite your tongue just hard enough to make your mouth behave. Fortunately, she’s distracted by someone else calling her name and her attention drifts to the stage. With a final mutter of “asshole” and a rude hand gesture, she flounces off.

You point over Llewyn’s shoulder. “Um, what was that?”

He snorts. “A night of bad decisions and a lifetime of regret.” A pause. “It’s...a long story.”

You watch as she adjusts the microphone center stage. “Good lord, is she a singer? Tell me she’s not going to just smile and sing after...whatever that was.”

“Yeah. Well,” he offers by way of explanation and doesn’t say anything else. It’s almost like this woman sucked all the fight out of him and you feel your heart give a little twinge.

You toss the rag in the sink and take his glass. “Do you wanna get out of here?” The air around you has a weird vibe now, and you felt a sudden impulse to get out and take this man - your friend - with you, away from this...whatever she was, somewhere safe.

“Fuck yes,” he sighs, a grateful glimmer passing through his dark eyes.

“There’s a great cafe down the block.”

“But don’t you have to...you know...work?”

You look around and shrug. “It’s dead in here, and Bobby can handle it,” you hook your thumb at a co-worker behind the bar. “And if Pappi says anything, I know someone who can set him straight.”

Llewyn’s eyes glint and his lips turn up in a real, honest smile this time. “So, coffee?”

“Coffee.”

June 14

The summer - or very last days of spring, technically - is starting to get hot and your open windows are doing the bare minimum to alleviate the warmth. Of course, the third glass of wine you’re drinking probably isn’t helping things either.

Whatever. It’s your day off.

Shoes kicked off, jeans rolled up above your ankles, feet up on the arm of the couch, a record on the turntable and your glass of red as the dusk slowly melts into dark. The night is tranquil and relaxing and perfect. It has been a shitty week, and all you want is to ignore the outside world and do exactly this.

The shrill ring of your phone bursts that bubble..

You close your eyes and tilt your head back on the couch. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away. The phone stops ringing. Deciding to take no further chances, you switch off the ringer, completely, then sigh happily, settling yourself on the couch and sipping your wine.

Perfect.

A resounding, repeated thump echoes through the room. You bit back a shriek. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away - lightning can strike twice, right? It was extremely rude of people to just call you and knock when all you wanted was--

“Hey, are you home?” a muffled voice comes from the other side of the door.

Suddenly alert and somehow much less annoyed, you spring up and cross to your front door. Yanking it open, you find a very disheveled Llewyn Davis on the other side. He doesn’t seem to notice right away that the door was now open, and you had to jump back as his hand, raised to pound on the door again, almost knocks you in the head instead.

You take a deep breath. You catch a waft like the mat under the taps after a long night at the bar.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

“Are you drunk?” You take him by the arm and drag him inside, appraising him quickly. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, his curls an absolute mess, and there’s a dark mark under his left eye and a split in his lip. He looks terrible, smells just as bad, but suddenly all your desire for a quiet, no-other-humans night evaporates. “And did you get in a fight?”

“...yes?”

You sigh and point to the couch. “Go. Sit. I’ll make some coffee, and then you’re getting a shower..”

“You’re incredible,” he slurs, smiling, “And you’re so…I tried t’call you, from th’phone on the corner but you dinnt answer. An’ then I realized, hey, I’m on your corner, so decided t’come up and see you. You’re pretty.”

You take him by the elbow and lead him to the couch, only stumbling twice and managing to catch him as he sways, precariously, once. “Uh huh,” you bite your lip to hide a smile. “Sounds like you’ve had a fun night. You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” He flops down on the couch and buries his face in a pillow.

By the time you make the promised pot of coffee and get back to the living room, Llewyn is snoring, still face down in the throw pillow. Turning off the music and the lights, you cover him with a blanket and take your glass of wine to your room.

July 14

Ring, ring, ring.

You’d remembered to turn the ringer back on three days after Llewyn slept it off on your couch, but your phone hadn’t actually rung again until just over half an hour ago, and honestly you weren’t sure if that was a blessing or if it was just sad.

You are sure, however, that the sheer desperation in the voice on the other end when you answered is the reason you’re on this train to Queens. Are you doing anything, Llewyn had asked, because I could really, really use some help right now. Please, I’m begging you. And now the echo of your phone ringing just, well, rings in your ears.

The train screeches to a halt and you exit, making your way to the given address. You knock on the door of a smallish, nondescript row house and it swings open almost immediately, revealing a very disheveled, slightly panicked looking Llewyn.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he breathes and grabs you by the arm, dragging you inside.

“Llewyn? What is going on?”

“It’s a disaster,” he says. He’s completely serious.

You’re preparing yourself for blood, broken bones, water damage, collapsed ceilings, possible dismemberment, anything, really, that could explain your friend’s current frazzled condition. What you get is completely, unexpectedly, not anything like that.

There are about ten kids, all around ten years old, running around in the living room, which is also full of balloons and streamers. One giant pinata, shaped like a baseball glove and bat, hangs from the light fixture. To Llewyn’s credit, it is kind of...chaotic, but it’s far from a disaster and you can barely contain the guffaw that escapes your lungs.

“Whose birthday?” you grin at him.

He narrows his eyes at you. “It’s not funny.”

You consider this and try to straighten your lips. Nope, not working. “It’s a little funny.”

Llewyn smacks you lightly on the shoulder. “It’s my nephew’s birthday, and my sister forgot some party thing and made a run to the store. I was stayin’ here last night and she just decided, oh, Llewyn can watch the kids, and she was gone.”

“So what’s the problem, exactly?”

“She should be back by now,” his eyes look slightly panicked.

“Maybe she had to go to a couple stores? Maybe she just got delayed by transit?”

“I can’t do…” Llewyn gestures around weakly, shaking his head. “This.”

“Llewyn, they’re kids. They can’t be more than what, ten years old? Just blindfold them and let them whack at the pinata.”

“You’re the people person. I can’t...can you help me, please,” he turns to look at you. Directly at you. You’re fairly certain his eyes cannot get any bigger or shine more pleadingly.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Let’s go wrangle some kids.”

The panic slides from his face and to your surprise, he throws an arm over your shoulder and kisses the top of your head in his thanks.

And when one kid takes a wild swing at that tacky papier-mache sports equipment, misses completely, and lands a clean hit on Llewyn’s thigh, neither of you talk about it.

You just get him an ice pack.

August 14

“I’m making lasagna. Come over for dinner.”

You worked early that day, and said this to Llewyn as you left the Gaslight for the day. He isn’t playing tonight, and he’s really just here to stay out of the sun, and as much as he doesn’t like to push his luck with others’ hospitality, he has to admit that a home-cooked meal does sound incredible.

He has a feeling your invitation was partly due to Jean showing up, ready to do unnecessary verbal battle because she just can’t let it go, and you’d asked to both deflect her and keep yourself from actual physical battle. But whatever.

So he finds himself at your front door a couple hours later, a bottle of cheapish red wine in hand and an odd tingle in his chest. He dismisses it offhand; he’s probably just hungry.

You open the door and Llewyn’s nose is assaulted by the smell of homemade sauce - he’s half Italian, he knows these things - and cheese and garlic. You smile brightly at him. Yeah, he’s definitely hungry.

“Hey! Come in, it’s almost ready.”

He hands you the bottle. “Brought wine.”

“Excellent,” you lead him to the kitchen table and motion to a seat. He settles himself into it and grabs a piece of bread from the basket on the table as you grab two wine glasses.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks around a mouthful of carbs.

The timer dings and you pull the lasagna out of the oven. “No occasion. I just felt like making this and I didn’t really want to eat alone.”

“Lucky for you I like to eat,” he chuckles.

Your face suddenly feels warmer. Well, you did just pull a piping hot casserole dish out of the oven, so that does make sense, you suppose. You turn and put the lasagna on the trivet in the middle of the table, then turn and grab two regular glasses for water. There is an outlandish, metallic ka-chunk-ing noise as you turn on the tap, and suddenly water is shooting from under the sink and halfway across the room.

Llewyn jumps up and dives at the faucet, a chunk of bread clutched between his teeth, at the same time you crawl halfway under the sink to try and shut the water off. The stream blasts you in the face and you sputter.

This is not how you imagined tonight. Blasted ancient, rickety building. You make a mental note to have words with the super tomorrow.

You finally get the water shut off, and Llewyn closes the tap and sinks down onto the wet floor next to you. You lean against the cabinets and try to wipe the water out of your eyes.

Llewyn fares a little better; he’s only wet from his waist down. Your head thumps back on the soaked particle board behind you and you turn your head towards him. For a long moment he looks back at you, then rips the butt off the hunk of baguette in his mouth and passes it to you.

You snort. He bites his lip.

“Sorry, I think dinner might be a bit late,” you deadpan, eyes still on him, and take a bite of bread.

He bumps your shoulder with his. “It’s okay. Lasagna is always better the next day.”

Llewyn has to admit, though, it’s still pretty good a couple hours later, after you’re both dry and the lake in the kitchen is mopped up and you settle on the couch with your plates.

And if you use the water glasses for the wine, well, neither of you mentions it.

September 14

It’s pleasantly warm today, the heat of late August dragging itself into the beginning of September, and you find yourself in Washington Square Park, on a checkered blanket, a basket in the middle and a guitar by your feet. Pigeons wander and plot to steal food, but it’s easy enough to shoo them away.

It takes a little convincing, early that morning, to get Llewyn to agree to join you. It didn’t, really; he’s quickly become one of your best friends, and he doesn’t have anywhere else to be, he just likes to tease you.

But he does accept, and you eat some of the bread and cheese you packed and drink the iced tea you brought, and you get out a container of fruit salad and package of cookies your down-the-hall neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, made for you that morning.

“For you and your lovely man,” she’d said as she knocked on your door. You feel the warmth in the tips of your ears and you certainly see the color rise in Llewyn’s embarrassed face, but you don’t have the heart to correct her. She’s such a sweet old lady.

Llewyn plays a song or two while you enjoy your lunch, and even asks if you want to hear a new song he’s been working on, which you are more than happy to agree to.

It’s such a pleasant afternoon.

Until a small, brownish-gray blur jumps onto the blanket and grabs a chunk of bread and darts further onto the lawn.

“What the hell!’ Llewyn shouts as you yelp in surprise. The squirrel, for its part, just stops fifty feet away and turns back with a triumphant gaze, then scoots off into the bushes, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in its wake.

He starts to make a comment about the nerve of the wildlife, but you’re not really listening. Your eyes are fixed on the path the squirrel just ran and you tug on Llewyn’s sleeve. He keeps muttering and you tug harder.

“Llewyn.”

He finally looks up and follows your finger. There’s a flock - an honest-to-god flock, not that he has any real idea on the technical makeup of a flock, but there’s more than one so as far as he’s concerned, yeah, it’s a flock - of geese marching directly at the blanket.

Okay, so there’s only three of them. But they look angry.

The leader strides forward deliberately and bites at Llewyn’s shoe. Another yelp leaves your lips and he grabs your hand, pulling you to your feet. He also grabs the remainder of the bread and tosses it in the opposite direction as he takes off running towards the fountain, dragging you behind him.

“Where are we going?” you shout.

“No idea,” he replies. The leader falls for the bread feint, but his loyal minions do not, and they follow behind you, quacking and honking and flapping and Llewyn isn’t sure but he may dislike geese even more than he dislikes pigeons.

He jumps up on the edge of the fountain and pulls you into a protective embrace as the beasts close in. Only Llewyn doesn’t account for, you know, physics, and the force of your bodies colliding sends you both straight into the water.

Spluttering, you try to wipe the water out of your eyes. Llewyn is doing the same when a loud HONK startles you both. The leader is back, flanked by his friends, and they’re all staring at you.

“Um, Llewyn?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“...don’t geese like, love the water?”

His eyes flick to you, then the winged monsters, then you again, then the fountain like he’s seeing it for the first time and all he can do is mutter, “Shit!” and grab your hand as he pulls you to your feet and takes off running again.

You manage to swing by and gather the leavings of your picnic, blanket and basket tucked under your arms and his precious guitar clutched to him, as you beeline out of the park, soaking wet and laughing.

October 14

Llewyn slides the key into the lock and turns it, an odd flutter rolling up his spine as he hears the bolt click open. He’s had a key to your apartment for almost two months now. You gave it to him, insisted really, telling him this way he wouldn’t need to worry about finding somewhere to crash. That your couch is always open.

It still doesn’t feel real and he doesn’t always use it, but tonight he really, really doesn’t feel like making the rounds. You’ve been spending more time together recently anyway, and he feels mostly comfortable around you.

He’s greeted by the sight of you wearing a catcher’s mask and knee high rubber boots, and you’re wielding a tennis racquet. He doesn’t know what to say for a full minute.

“What are you...why are you wearing...what the hell.”

“There’s a bat,” is your whispered response.

Llewyn’s nose scrunches and he isn’t any less confused than he was a second ago. “What?”

“There’s a bat,’ you repeat. Your voice is slightly on the edge of hysteria because, well, “there is a bat. In the bathroom.”

“...okay?”

You jab your finger at the closed door. “I was just going to wash my face and brush my teeth and I went in there and it was just...in the corner, by the shelves. It was staring at me.”

He bites his lip, trying his hardest to suppress the smile tugging on his face. It isn’t working. He drops to a whisper himself and asks, “Baby, why are you whispering?”

Your head jerks towards the bathroom, and your shrug nearly sends the tennis racquet into his shoulder. “Because that’s how they...they’re...how they do the...the bat hearing thing!”

Llewyn laughs fully. He can’t help it; you’re ridiculous and his face heats a bit as he realizes it’s entirely endearing. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” he says, his voice sliding back to a whisper. He avoids your death glare as he makes his way to the bathroom door. “But sit tight, slugger, I’ll get rid of it.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

Hand on the doorknob, he pauses and considers this. “Just gonna encourage it to go home? I dunno.”

Your grip tightens on the racquet. “How will that work?!”

“I don’t know! I’m not a fucking bat!” he hisses at you. “Just, make sure a window is open.” He opens the bathroom door.

Several things happen at once. Llewyn doesn’t so much open the door as he flings it wide and it slams into the wall. The bat makes a squeaky-shrieky noise (you were entirely unaware, until now, that they could even do that) and swoops out, recklessly streaking through Llewyn’s mess of curls. You make an actual shriek and fling the side window open as wide as possible. Llewyn makes a sound he can’t describe and you’re honestly not sure if it was Llewyn or the bat. The bat decides to take a few laps around the living room and you duck under the window sill just before it mercifully decides that outside is the place to be. Llewyn slams the window shut and you spring back to your feet, crash into his chest and his arms wrap around you.

Neither of you say anything, and Llewyn isn’t sure how much time passes, but he’s very aware of your hand running through his hair, and your soft words catching as you say you’re just trying to smooth out the bat damage.

He clears his throat. “I, uh, I’ll keep watch out here, make sure that thing doesn’t come back,” he jokes. “You okay?”

You finally - finally, he cheers internally - take off the catcher’s mask and nod slowly. “Yeah, I’m...good. Thanks for...thanks.”

Llewyn lets you go and takes the tennis racquet out of your hands, placing it next to the couch. He throws you a soft smile. “Just in case.”

November 14

It’s been a long night at work, a lot longer than it has any right to be and infinitely insufferable. The Gaslight is packed, patrons nearly crawling the walls and not an empty seat to be found. Drink orders stack up and you try to keep up. It’s so crazy that even Pappi doesn’t have a chance to be a smartass like usual.

Apparently it always gets like this, closer to a holiday.

Note to self - skip holidays.

There are two acts tonight. Llewyn is first, and it’s clear much of the crowd is here to catch him. It cheers you slightly, and it would certainly cheer you more if you had the time to pay more attention to him, but the constant call for whiskey and gin takes most of your focus. But for the time he’s on stage, your heart feels lighter.

Then the second act takes the stage, and Jean launches eye missiles at Llewyn from behind the microphone, and your mood sours instantly.

Yeah, it’s a very long night.

Everything is blurry for the rest of the evening, until last call mercifully rolls around and you can finally get to straightening out the mess the bar has become. You notice Llewyn still sitting on his usual stool at the end of the counter, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Don’t even say it,” you point at him sternly. “When will you stop fussing about this?” Ridiculous man. He has a key to your apartment, and still he worries that he’s an inconvenience.

You toss an orange slice at him, and he allows you a sweet grin.

Finally - finally - you’re home and Llewyn follows you inside, locking the door behind you. He heads for the couch and you head for your room, a mumbled g’night the only word that passes between you. You’re far too exhausted to deal with anything higher level.

It could be minutes or it could be hours later - your alarm clock somehow ended up on the floor and the darkish sky outside giving nothing away, and when did it start raining anyway - when a loud SPRONG and then a yelp and a THUMP from the living room jolts you awake.

It takes a few seconds to regain your senses. “Llewyn?”

“Fuck.”

You stumble out to the living room to find him half-sitting, half-sprawled on the floor, the quilt he normally uses tangled around his knees and ankles. He rubs a spot on his lower back and winces.

“Llewyn! What happened?” you cry.

He points to the middle cushion and you see something sticking up from the padding.

“Oh, Llewyn, jesus. I’m so sorry,” you apologize. You really do feel terrible; your couch hasn’t been in the best shape for ages, and it looks like the squeaky spring you noticed a few weeks ago finally gave up and poked it way through. And stabbed Llewyn in the back as he slept. Damn it. 

“It’s...it’s fine,” he tells you, still wincing. “I can turn the other way, or sleep on the floor. Not a big deal.”

You shake your head. “Yes big deal. My couch just stabbed you, and it’s cold outside, you can’t sleep on the floor.”

“S’fine. Not the first time I ended up on the floor.”

You make up your mind before you even think about it and reach your hand out to him. “Come on,” you wiggle your fingers. “Come to bed.”

Llewyn’s eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to protest, but your look is so firm that he relents with a soft sigh and extricates himself from the blanket. He follows you to the bedroom and asks, no less than seven times, if you’re sure this is okay and says he really has no problem sleeping on the floor. You eventually tell him to shut the hell up and get under the covers.

You both lay on your sides, facing each other, but keep a space between you. Llewyn still looks mildly uneasy but relaxes as you smile at him and the warmth of your duvet and the softness of your pillows pull him under.

“Good night again, Llewyn,” you whisper.

“Good night again,” he replies with a soft yawn.

The rain steadily patters on your window and the sky slowly lightens as morning breaks and you languidly wake, curled into Llewyn’s chest, his arms secure around you.

December 14

Snow falls lightly outside, coats the grass and sticks to Llewyn’s curls, and his breath swirls and makes curlicues in the chill winter air. It’s two weeks until Christmas, and you decide to put up a tree, a real tree, and you tell him he’s going to help decorate it.

You also tell him that a bunch of your light strings have stopped working, and before you can ask him to run to the shop down the block that sells replacements, he volunteers and is out the door.

He can’t remember the last time he was anywhere with a real tree. It was usually those cheap-looking fake ones, the green plastic branches a color that would never exist naturally, if there were any tree at all.

So yeah, maybe he’s a little excited. He comes up the steps to the apartment, a bag perched in the crook of his elbow as he unlocks the door.

“So I got the lights, like you asked,” he says cheerfully, and sets the bag down on the table by the door.

“Help.” That’s...not the response he’s expecting.

It’s two weeks since the entire living room has been rearranged. The new, non-back-stabbing couch is on the opposite wall. You rearranged all your shelves, got a new armchair, and much to Llewyn’s wary delight and bewilderment, a new side table. The side table has blank sheet music and pens and there’s a guitar stand next to it and he doesn’t really know what to make of it. You just smile and tell him he needs a space to be himself, whatever that means.

The newly-opened space under the window is where the tree is going. Or, should be going. Llewyn looks down at the toppled fir and sees a foot sticking out near the trunk.

“Sweetheart? What happened?”

Your voice answers from beneath the branches. “Can you just help get this off me, please?”

Llewyn rights the tree and turns his head to check on you. He’s more concerned about you than the tree, of course, but he wants to make sure it doesn’t take you out again so he secures it to the stand as he takes you in. Thankfully you look fine, a few needles stuck to your sweater and a tiny scratch on your cheek, but otherwise…

He tries to stifle a laugh. “You’re looking very festive.”

Your eyes narrow. “Go ahead and ask,” you bite out, “because I know you’re going to ask.”

“I already did ask, before I had to be your lumberjack.”

You refrain from telling him that lumberjacks fell trees, not upright them. Whatever. You motion your head to the shiny silver tinsel wrapped around your torso. You can’t use your hands, really, and you’re not sure how they got tied up in this mess, exactly, but here you are, sitting on your living room floor in a pile of pine needles, trussed like a Christmas goose in sparking silver twine.

And your best friend is laughing at you. Jerk.

“I was trying to get this around the top part, and I lost my balance. Then like an idiot I tried to catch myself on the tree, and the whole damn thing went down with me,” you sigh. “I don’t even know how the rest of this tangled mess happened.”

He does laugh now, full and rich. “I was only gone for like, twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Um, can you maybe...untie me?”

“Oh! Wait, here, I got something else,” Llewyn jumps to his feet. He ignores your request and pokes around in the shopping bag.

“If it’s not chocolate, I don’t want to hear about it,” your grumbled response brings another laugh.

Llewyn’s back in front of you seconds later, holding a small white cluster above your head. The grin on his face is equally charming and infuriating.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you blink at him.

“I mean, I was just gonna, y’know, hang it above the door later and let it happen, but now seems like a better time for some Christmas cheer.”

“I think you’re pretty satisfyingly cheerful right now, idiot.”

He waves the mistletoe over your heads. “Come on. It’s tradition.”

One day, maybe you’ll be able to stop sighing in his presence, but today is not that day. You sigh again, roll your eyes, and lean in, planting a soft kiss on his cheek and delighting in the shade of crimson he turns in response. He clears his throat and places the mistletoe to the side.

“Now will you untie me?” you ask, sugar-sweet.

He does, and helps you get the tinsel where it’s supposed to go and you spend the rest of the afternoon decorating the tree and drinking hot cider.

Llewyn sings you more than one Christmas song to make up for all the teasing.

January 14

It seems like a good idea at the time. One of your friends at your actual day-to-day job offers to set you up with another coworker, and it’s been ages since you went on a date and you figure, why not? What could possibly go wrong?

It turns out the answer is, a lot. A lot can go wrong. So much that you don’t even want to think about it.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. There is no chemistry, no spark, just an hours-long recitation of how your date is god’s gift to pretty much everything under the sun and possibly also the moon. The name-drops are just the cherry on top.

Maybe your first impression isn’t wrong after all.

You trudge up to your apartment, the bag of your favorite takeout under your arm filled to nearly bursting, and get the door open. All you want to do is stuff your face and maybe take a long, hot bath with a glass of wine. Yes, that sounds perfect.

The melody of a strumming guitar stops as you place the bag on the side table and shimmy out of your coat. The lamp in the corner is the only illumination and you tilt your head towards the armchair’s occupant. You’re surprised that he’s there, but only because he was supposed to be somewhere else tonight. Knowing he wouldn’t be around was at least...half the reason you agreed to this stupid date in the first place.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date tonight?” Llewyn asks in a low voice through the dim light.

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing at the Gaslight tonight?” you retort, brow raised.

He shrugs. “Might have had a few too many an’ said some things. Might’ve gotten thrown out.”

“Mmm,” you appraise him. He just looks the same way you feel; ridiculously tired. Exhausted. “Might’ve told my date I had to use the restroom but… maybe didn’t mention I meant the one at my house.”

“That bad?” Despite his snort, Llewyn sounds genuinely curious.

You sigh as you flop down on the couch and hold up the takeout bag. “I’d rather not talk about it. You wanna help me eat this?”

In an instant he’s on the couch next to you and you hand him some plastic utensils and a napkin. You get up and grab two beers. For a while you just focus on eating, passing containers back and forth with occasional comments about the food. Your knees bump sometimes as you each reach for different containers or your drinks.

“So what happened?”

You stab a piece of chicken a bit more forcefully than necessary. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. It was a stupid idea to go on a blind date.”

“Kind of a stupid idea to go on a date at all,” Llewyn replies softly.

“What.” It’s not really a question. You definitely don’t mean it as a question and you vaguely think about throwing an egg roll at him but that would be an honest waste of decent takeout.

“I know what the problem is,” he continues in a normal voice. “It’s the fourteenth.”

You look at him with a raised brow. He has an odd look on his face and you wait a beat before asking, “Okay? And?”

Llewyn also waits a beat before replying and points at you with his fork, a green bean stabbed on the end. You lean forward and pluck it off with your teeth. He needs a moment to clear his throat before he can go on. “It’s the fourteenth,” he repeats. “Don’t know if you noticed, but...well..weird things seem to keep happening. On the fourteenth. Of every month.”

“Huh.” He’s right, now that you think about it. You stab your food again. “What do you think that means?”

Llewyn looks like he wants to say something, like he’s going to say something, but instead he just shrugs. You put the container down and lean back on the couch, swinging your feet into Llewyn’s lap. 

He idly strokes your ankles as his expression grows serious. “I think it means we should not go out on any fourteenths, ever. Just to be safe.”

You poke him with your big toe. “You’re an idiot. There are things that can happen inside. There are things that have happened inside.”

A smirk creeps through his beard. “Shit, you’re right. One-a your crappy novels might fall off the shelf and crack me on the skull.” He pauses. “More run-ins with wildlife? Oh! I know. Squirrels, but this time, in the walls.”

“That’s not funny!” you try to poke him again and dissolve into giggles as he tickles your foot. Your combined laughter ricochets off the living room walls before dissipating back into silence.

This time, you’re clearing your throat before being able to continue. “It’s been a day. I’m gonna go take a hot bath.” You get up and walk down the hall to the bathroom.

“Please don’t fall asleep in the tub!” he calls after you. “Don’t forget what day it is.”

Idiot.

After your bath, you head to the bedroom and find Llewyn passed out on top of the covers. He has a key, and he stays over far more often than not nowadays, and even though he’s been told numerous times since the broken couch that it’s okay if he’d rather sleep in a bed, you don’t mind sharing, he rarely takes you up on that offer. Okay, so this is the first time since the broken couch that he’s even sort of taken up the offer.

It’s been a weird day.

You grab a quilt and curl up on the other side of the bed, pulling it over both of you and snuggling down into your pillow. 

“I wonder what happens on the next fourteenth,” you yawn mutter into the darkness of the room.

You’re asleep, so you can’t notice that Llewyn isn’t, really, and he rolls to face away from you and whispers, “Yeah, me too.”

February 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a straight bourbon, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as Pappi flips the power on.

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, and he hasn’t shown up yet, which is strange.

Another thing that’s strange? This weird feeling of déjà vu.  Whatever, you’ve been working more nights at the club recently, and they’re all starting to blend together.

“Your friend’s out back,” Pappi’s voice breaks into your thoughts as he sidles up to the bar and leans back on it.

“My friend?” you ask, confused.

Pappi shrugs. “Said he was a friend of yours. Dark curly hair, worn corduroy jacket, always looks tired or pissed off or both.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Wait, why is...did he get the crap kicked out of him again?”

“Nah,” Pappi shakes his head. “At least, maybe not yet. Anyway, I dunno, he just asked me to tell you he was outside. I don’t know what the hell he’s up to.” He nods his head towards the back exit and turns to tend to the bar.

Strange.

You duck your head out the door and glance up and down the alley. You see nothing except the usual debris; trash containers, the dumpster, the rusty drain pipes that run down from the gutters, weathered fire escapes. Something skitters off at the far end and disappears between the buildings. Was that a raccoon?

You snort a laugh as you recall Llewyn’s jab about wildlife run-ins. It would be something that happens, in a dark alley behind a basket house in Greenwich Village on the fourteenth of…

Oh. It is the fourteenth.

“Hey,” a familiar voice calls from the head of the alley.

Llewyn stands there, leaning against the brick, dark curls and worn corduroy and all. He holds a single yellow rose in his hands. He looks incredibly nervous, enough to match you looking incredibly confused.

You step fully outside and the door clicks shut behind you. “Hi?”

“Uhm, this is for you,” he says, awkwardly holding the rose out. “Saw a guy selling ‘em a few blocks down, thought you might like it.”

“Thank you? But what’s the occasion?” Why is everything coming out as a question? Even that.

He bites his lip. “You don’t know what today is?”

“Yeah, it’s the four---” Oh. Oh. 

“You wanna get out of here? Have dinner with me, maybe?” Llewyn rubs the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen him done countless times, usually when he’s thinking about something serious and… Oh.

You twirl the rose in your fingertips and don’t quite meet his eyes. “I thought you said maybe we shouldn’t go out any fourteenths.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, well. Um, I don’t know if you also noticed, along with this whole fourteenth business, but I...I really like spending time with you, just hanging out with you, and...I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid, but I thought maybe we could, y’know, have a non-weird fourteenth day of the month for a change.”

He’s rambling and it’s adorable. You hum softly. “...on Valentine’s Day.”

Llewyn’s hands twitch in his pockets. “Well...yeah. I mean, I like spending time with you, but...I also like you. So why not?”

He has a point. And really, now that one of you has said it out loud, you really can’t deny it. All the time spent together, all the shared meals and drinks and late-night talks on the couch and letting him basically move into your apartment...it’s no secret, you realize, it never really was, how close you’ve become over the past many months. How easy it is with him. How natural it is.

All the times he helped you. All the times you helped him. All the times you were together, just being.

The fourteenth of the month be damned.

You pretend to think about it for a little longer than necessary as Llewyn watches you anxiously. “Well, I do have to work, you know.”

“I already asked your boss,” he shakes his head, “and he was more than willing to agree. Something about not getting a black eye on your behalf tonight.”

Your laugh rings out into the street. “But it is the fourteenth. What if one of us gets food poisoning or chokes on dessert or something?”

“Vomit doesn’t bother me and I know the Heimlich,” he smirks. “And I’m already asking you out in a dark alley in the Village, how much weirder can it get?”

“You make a fair point, Llewyn Davis.”

He extends an elbow and a hopeful smile.

If he notices, as he brushes his lips on your knuckles as you take his offered arm, that your breath catches and your heart rate increases, he doesn’t let on.

But later that night, as he trails kisses along your jaw and down your neck and asks you what you want to do on the next fourteenth, well, Llewyn Davis definitely notices then.

~end~

[darkpoisonouslove]

“Ice Is Stronger with Some Lightning and Darkness Mixed in”

Summary: Icy is trapped after her convergence with Darcy and Stormy ended and it seems like her powers won't be quite enough for her to escape. She still has her sisters to help her, though. Even when they are separated, their bond can't be severed and she can draw strength from it. Set in 3x01 and fixing some things that just didn't make any sense whatsoever.

This was totally inspired by my rage over the stupidity that was the part of the writing for 3x01 that involved the Trix' escape from their ice blocks in Omega. You have to be really stupid to think that an ice block can contain the literal witch of ice and it was just written so out of convenience for the writers but it gets on my nerves too much so I took it upon myself to fix it and I got some Trix feels along the way. Enjoy!

She felt the impact when her ice capsule hit the ground. The Omega dimension. Where everything was dead and frozen, and so much better than their previous prison. At least it was full of negative energy and no one was trying to drill happy, peaceful thoughts into her head. It’d taken less than two years and one unfortunate team-up to go from the most prestigious school for witches to the prison for the worst criminals in the universe but she wasn’t complaining. Other than not getting the ultimate power and universal control and the situation with her current commodities, it was still much better than that absolute nightmare in disguise that’d been masked as lenience had been. And now they knew her name and she’d built herself a reputation. A very bad reputation. How fitting for a descendant of the Ancestral Witches.

Icy allowed herself to smirk before focusing her attention on getting out of her newly assigned cell. The temperature was correct but everything else was rather distasteful. There wasn’t even room for her cape in there and she could barely check out her nails. No, that wouldn’t do.

The ice was not a problem, of course, but those fools from the Council had somehow pulled out enough brain cells to grasp that they couldn’t contain the witch of ice in an ice cube and had made sure her capsule had extra security built in its system. There was a magical force field around it that not only prevented her from blowing the ice to pieces since it would just turn right back on her and cut through her but it was also feeding off of her own magical powers and draining them. She’d be impressed–it was genius, really, and the moment she died, the force field would disappear as it was no longer needed–if she weren’t absolutely livid. Not to mention that she couldn’t attempt to mess with the structure of the ice and try to get it to turn liquid since there was electrical charge woven into the force field that would churn her completely when the ice broke and any water would only make it worse. It was a tight bind but she was far too powerful to let herself be defeated by those losers and their inexplicable show of wit. Or at least she had been.

She still felt empty after the rush of the Gloomix was gone. And Darcy and Stormy’s thoughts were no longer in her mind. They’d been in total unison, the rage flowing through all three of them binding them so tightly as if their beings had been woven together and allowing them to merge into one whole. They’d been so powerful... so close... so close to their goal. Only to be separated from it... and from themselves. It felt like a part of her was gone, taken out by the force released when they’d been separated back into their own bodies. It was emptier than the loss of her magic left her as the force field drained her. She would never gather enough magic to escape if she allowed that to go on. She needed to take the reins.

She listened to the buzz of the energy outside, the electricity coursing around scraping and tugging at something in her very essence, irritating her to the point where she barely kept herself from giving into the urge to blast the cell to pieces. She couldn’t. It would kill her, and that would be too much of a loss. Not only her beauty and power would be lost but also those of Darcy and Stormy, too. They couldn’t get out of the ice without her and she had to save them. She had to save herself. They couldn’t be defeated. It was too stupid an end for the three of them and their origins.

Something sparked inside her at the thought and she finally recognized the source of the persistent sensation that was still clawing at her mind and magic. It was the electric shock that came from one of Stormy’s attacks. She’d felt all of Stormy’s powers when they’d been merged together into the same being and somehow she still had some of Stormy’s magic left in her veins. She sensed it out and felt the electricity in her body, hiding deep, deep inside her, at the center of her power, at the center of all of her rage and madness, in her heart. And there were traces of Darcy’s darkness, too, her powers even more elusive but they came out at the call of Icy’s own, almost reached out to her magic in an attempt to meld into one once again. She would love that but she had work to do and she had to keep the powers separated. She’d need them a little later.

Icy sensed out the ice surrounding her, studying its structure. It was negatively charged just like everything else around and for someone else that might have been a setback but she’d always found it easier to cooperate with another problem. And it looked like she wasn’t the only one.

The ice responded to her magic and started cracking. Slowly, very slowly and precisely, the fissures appearing just where she envisioned them and not a molecule away. She had to be careful if she didn’t want to fry herself with the electricity that a mistake in her plan would let in. Though, she’d have to worry about that, too, but a little later on. Now she only had to worry about the ice–it was her only shield against the violent charge waiting to roast her–and not breaking it too soon. And about her sisters, too.

She was in her own waters in the ice cage but Darcy and Stormy didn’t have her defense against the volatile temperatures. She knew they’d developed a bit of an immunity through the quality time they’d spent with her but she could only guess whether it would be enough for them to last until she could break them out. Their other saving grace was that they probably still had some of her magic left inside them, too, but she had no idea whether they were conscious enough to employ that. They had to be! They were witches, her sisters, in the name of all things evil. They couldn’t let her down like that and waste what surges of her magic they had left in their bodies.

She had to rein in her temper once again. She would use it, just not yet. She had to be careful and execute everything according to plan. Once they were all free, they’d have plenty of time to rage and think about their revenge. Perhaps releasing all of Omega’s criminals would teach those idiots from the Council a lesson. But that would leave them with too much competition in their quest for universal domination and would require too much effort. At least she’d crossed off one option. And perhaps Darcy and Stormy could help her come up with something tasteful when they were out.

The ice was all broken and ready to crumble out of the way to give her her chance at freedom. She still had the electricity to get through but she had a plan for that, too. She just had to focus on the execution. Which was, of course, the tricky part.

Once the ice crumbled away, she’d have to use Stromy’s electricity–she wasn’t sure how much of that exactly she had left but she had to go in blindly as it was her only chance–to make a shield around herself protecting her from the security spell around her while she used Darcy’s hypnotic powers to convince herself she had no power left. It would be hard to pull off the duality of feeding Stormy’s powers and letting Darcy’s convince her she was powerless but it was the only way to disable the defense system. She could do it anyway. She was the most powerful witch in existence. Of course she could do it.

Icy sensed out the powers hidden inside her once again and coaxed them out to the surface, holding on to them with everything she had, for they were her only chance at escape. Once she was sure she had a secure grip and easy access to them, she let the ice shell around her fall apart, her thoughts forming a sphere around her to keep away what wanted her dead and the magic in her being followed them, spreading around her to keep her from getting fried.

She let the illusion in her head, letting it make her vulnerable while doing her best to keep her shield in place. She had to fight against her instincts clawing at her magic as they made her hold on to it with all her might. She had to quiet them down if she wanted to get out, but letting go had never been something she’d known how to do. If it had been, she would’ve ceased to exist–at least in her own eyes–a long time ago. Giving up was a loser thing to do. And she was as far from that as her freedom was close. She just had to keep pushing against who she was and convince the defense system she was powerless.

It wasn’t working. Not really. Her powers were at an all-time low now to the point where she wasn’t sure she’d manage to ever get them back and she could barely find any more of Stormy and Darcy’s magic inside her. It would soon run out and leave her to burn to crisp that wouldn’t even be good for lunch. And it couldn’t end like that. Her sisters, her powers, her origins couldn’t let her down like that. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t something she’d allow.

She let go, feeling like she almost had to peel herself off of the magic she’d sunk her claws into like her life depended on it. She let them go, let everything go. Her magic, Darcy and Stormy, herself – it was all gone. She was so empty, so powerless, so alone–not at all the way she’d felt when the convergence between the three of them had given her power like she’d never had before–and the electricity moved right into her body, getting under her skin and filling her with pain as it threw her to the ground.

It had worked. She was out. The security spell had disappeared, the last remains of it coursing through her body but those were of no consequence now that she was free. She had other things to do.

She jumped on her feet resisting the impulse to groan–that would still be admitting defeat in a sense and she was far above that–and focused on the other two ice cages. She was downright exhausted but those two would be much easier to break through. It was just ice that was in her way and she could deal with that any day without any help. Stormy and Darcy were the ones in need of help currently and she concentrated on saving them from certain death.

She raised both her hands and sent her energy towards the two ice blocks simultaneously. She still had enough power to deal with them at once and set free her sisters. And it was well worth the effort as their power would multiply once they were at her sides again. It was a win-win and what made their partnership so wickedly useful.

The ice gave way under her intent and her concentration that only cracked after it did. She opened her eyes to find the other two witches falling to their knees, their arms wrapping around them in an attempt to warm them rather than extending forward to brace them against the ground. She’d known the cold would get to them but she’d beat it. They were still breathing and, hopefully, with rage burning in them directed at those who’d forced them on their knees. They’d have the time of their lives plotting their vengeance and it would make up for what they’d been put through.

“Welcome, ladies,” Icy greeted as she moved between them, focusing her powers into draining the cold from the air around them so that it would feel a little warmer and allow them to come back to their senses. She didn’t need them dying from hypothermia on her now that they weren’t frozen anymore. “The Omega dimension.”

“The worst criminals in the magical dimension,” Darcy looked around, her tone proud, of course, as it had to be. They’d earned their place. And if there was wariness in her eyes, Icy pretended not to notice. She didn’t need another reminder that they were essentially powerless compared to what they’d been when their powers had all been merged together and she didn’t want to think about what it must have felt like for Darcy and Stormy when they’d been completely defenseless against the death threat of their cages. She didn’t need more weakness. So she didn’t even see the hint of fear hiding in the golden irises.

“They’re probably talking about us in Cloud Tower,” Stormy said, her voice light, too light without the rage of lightning inside so Icy focused on the words.

“Oh, they most certainly are.” They were talking about them in the whole universe. And soon they’d have a reason to do it all over again because they’d break out of Omega and they’d have the power they’d always been meant to have. “How’s your magic?” She needed them battle ready and motivated. They still had a grand exit to make.

“Good enough,” Stormy said and Darcy nodded at the sentiment.

It was rather debatable but that was all she could want from them right now. She was quite exhausted herself and she hadn’t had the unpleasantness of freezing to death to worry about.

“How long were we in there?” Darcy asked while her gaze was all over the place, looking for anything that could help and it was high time that they did something as well.

“About an hour,” Icy said, well aware things would’ve moved much faster if they’d been there as well just as she knew that she wouldn’t have done it without the leftover magic from their convergence. So they had helped. They just didn’t know it as they’d been deeply frozen, unconscious. There was no need to bring their attention to insignificant details now and undermine herself. The last thing she needed was them doubting her abilities and worrying about the hypothetical situation in which they would’ve all died. Well, less hypothetical and more real for them but they’d made it. It was all that mattered.

“An hour in that cold? That’s-”

Impossible. It was. Or at least would have been if they hadn’t had traces of her magic left in them. And of each other’s too. It had activated even with them being unconscious, the terror of dying strong enough to overcome even that but she didn’t have time to judge them because they were no longer alone.

A white snake with ice crystals all over it appeared and the wave of magic that hit her was unbearable when it came from outside. That thing was powerful. Far more powerful than they were currently, and Icy so hated to admit it. But it would be stupid to get killed by clouded judgment after the feat they’d pulled off. They’d be the first to escape from Omega and the universe would know them as such. And then it would know them as its rulers.

The thought gave her enough clarity for her to take the most sensible course of action and not let her pride dictate her moves. It would be stupid. And she didn’t do stupid.

“Run,” she yelled. She could settle for tactical retreat as they were far from defeated. And even farther from done for. Plus, the running would help Darcy and Stormy warm up after their dwelling in the ice cages they’d been trapped into. It would wake up their survival instincts and their powers and the world would cower away once again.

[mistflyer1102]

pods

Summary: The Doctor can handle a simple Keurig machine, thank you.

Inspired by this prompt here.

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

“Mum, where did you get this?”

Rose hadn’t meant to go digging through the pile of junk that had accumulated in the corner of the living room, but she was also looking for a few jumpers to stash aboard the TARDIS in case of an emergency (which, given the Doctor’s driving abilities seemed to happen more frequently than he claimed) when she found the heavy box at the bottom of the pile. It was a Keurig machine, complete with a few sampler coffee pods according to the box’s labels. Her mother, as far as Rose could determine, was not a coffee drinker, and she knew Jackie would view it as ultimately a frivolous item to have in the flat. Yet here it was, and still had the machine if the box’s unusually heavy weight was anything to go by.

“Oh, that old thing?” Jackie said from where she’d twisted in her position on the couch. “That was a present from a Christmas gift exchange, I swear Tiffany was just trying to get rid of it since I know for a fact that she doesn’t drink coffee and she knows I don’t either. Been trying to get rid of it for years now.”

Rose nodded, nudging the box aside in favor of looking for the bin that she knew had her spare jumpers.

“Maybe that friend of yours wants it.”

Rose glanced up. “I don’t know if he drinks coffee, Mum, and I’m not going to dump more junk on him. The poor ship’s already got enough of it as it is,” she said, the last part disappearing into a mutter as she dove back into the pile. She had been fighting what felt like a losing battle with either the TARDIS or the Doctor in trying to clean up what clutter she found on the ship for the past few weeks. She didn’t know where he collected half of it, but it still had been an interesting little adventure in of itself, finding objects and either asking the Doctor for the story behind it, or learning from the TARDIS itself of the object’s history (based on clues the ship left behind, no matter how hard she tried, establishing a line of communication with the ship was still a work in progress).

“Oi, you in the kitchen!”

Rose silently let her forehead bump against the wall at her mother’s call.

“I’ve got a name, you know,” the Doctor said, his Northern accent thickening with irritation as his voice drifted from the kitchen.

“Fine. Doctor. Do you want a keurig machine?”

“A what now?”

There was a moment of silence, and Rose chose that moment to jump in and intervene. “Mum, Doctor, that’s enough. Doctor, it’s a coffee machine,” she said, sticking her head up above the edge of the back of the couch. She came up in time to catch the Doctor’s confused expression. “You know, you stick little pods full of ground coffee in it, pour water, heat up the water, which passes through pod and into your mug?”

The Doctor stared at her. “And you only get one cup out of a pod? Do you reuse the pod?”

Rose bit her lower lip. “No?”

The Doctor huffed. “At that rate, you’ll all kill the planet that much faster just for the sake of a convenience that saves you what, two minutes?” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

“Don’t worry about it, Rose. He probably doesn’t know how to use one anyway,” Jackie said, ignoring the Doctor’s scowl as she settled back on the couch.

“Excuse me, nine hundred years of traveling experience here. I can very well operate a Keurig machine,” he shot back, spine straightening as he turned back to Rose. “Where is it? I’ll show you, then Rose and I will pop into the future where they start using reusable pods,” he said as he stalked back into the kitchen. He then came back a few seconds later as Rose began to move the other stuff away from the box. “Here, let me take it.”

Rose nodded, stepping back so he could kneel down and pick up the box. She bit her lip to keep the grin off her face when she heard him muttering under his breath about how he was a time-traveling alien and that figuring out a simple machine should be simple and if it refused to cooperate, he’d zap it with the sonic screwdriver.

“Rose, make sure he doesn’t make a mess!” Jackie shouted after them.

“I know, Mum.” Rose shrugged her shoulders at the Doctor’s indignant look. “Yeah, you’ve got nine hundred years of time traveling experience, but you’ve also said you don’t do domestic. The Keurig machine is as domestic as you can get here,” she said, catching her tongue between her teeth as she grinned at him.

The Doctor huffed. “Watch me, then.”

Rose said, “All right,” and then stepped back to watch.

The Doctor muttered under his breath as he opened the box, pausing long enough to study the instructions. Then he pulled the machine out, kicking aside the styrofoam packaging so he could set the machine up on the counter. Rose slipped into the space beside him to collect the styrofoam and box, and then stuffed the styrofoam back into the box. Then she glanced at the Doctor to find him pouring water into the correct space. She could see a small puddle off to the side where he had spilled a bit, but it didn’t seem to slow him down as he picked up the first Keurig pod that was within his reach and put it in the slot. Figuring he had it under control, she carried the box back into the living room and set it behind the couch.

“Does he always think he’s brilliant?”

Rose sat down on the couch beside her mother. “Mum, he is brilliant. He likes to show off, but it’s still fun to watch him work,” she said, shrugging when Jackie arched a brow.

“Say what you want. I just think he’s not all there now and then,” Jackie retorted, her voice lowering on the second half of the sentence.

Rose scowled. “Mum, he’s very careful with me.”

Jackie peered at her suspiciously. “Are you smitten with him?”

“Mum, I am not having that discussion again.”

“Rose, I just worry because—”

Ping!

Rose smirked at her mother’s stunned expression. “See? He’s got it,” she said before getting up and walking to the kitchen.

Only to stop in the doorway at the scene before her.

Coffee had spilled out of the mug and onto the counter and floor, still steaming as the Doctor dropped more paper towels on the floor. She could hear a steady drip, drip, drip noise as She raised a brow when she saw he was holding an ice cube to his tongue with one hand and cleaning up with the other. “Mum’s gonna—”

“Not. A. Word. Help me clean up, please, and we never speak of this again.”

Rose nodded, grinning at the Doctor’s scowl before she went to grab more paper towels.

[randomoranges]

last night, or more like early this morning, i was having a conversation with @allbeendonebefore and then, as always, i had this dumb idea. so i stayed up til almost 4 am to type this up. also one of the ending lines was hers and i borrowed it shamelessly. 

please enjoy some CANON fluff. so much fluff. 

Curtain Call

203X? 

Calvin drums his fingers against the polished wood and scans the crowd for any sign of him. He makes the ice cubes twirl in his glass with his other hand and settles for a sip of his drink. The whiskey burns down his throat, but it’s nice. He savours the tang of the alcohol and settles in his seat. He lets the noise of the small theatre and bar envelop him like a thick, warm, familiar blanket. He likes it here, has gotten used to this crowd and its vibe a while back now. Enjoys the performances and the ambiance. Likes the performers’ best – or well, one in particular. No bias.

 His face breaks out into a wide grin when he spots him and he gets up, all long limbs and such, nearly knocks the man besides him off his own chair in his excitement, and offers a brief apology, as he waves his hand in the air energetically to get Edward’s attention.

 Edward walks up to him, dress bag tucked carefully under one arm and smiles brightly when he reaches Calvin. He puts the bag down on the vacant chair on Calvin’s other side and then lets his boyfriend wrap him in a tight hug, who lifts him off his feet and spins him around for half a turn. Edward laughs, used to these antics by now and if his cheeks are a little pink when he’s back on solid ground, it has nothing to do with Calvin and everything to do with the vigorous wiping he did at his face moments before to remove the makeup; that, the lights, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

 “You were absolutely magnificent!” Calvin declares and kisses him soundly on the lips. Edward laughs, again, a little breathless this time and lets his boyfriend shower him with praise for a moment longer. It’s nice, to have such a devoted fan, and to know that he has the support of his partner in this little venture of his. It hadn’t always been like this – hadn’t always been this easy and carefree, but that was before, what could have been a whole different lifetime ago.

 Drag and performing had been another form of escapism for him. An idea born out of revolt, out of pride, out of affirmation and out of identity and himself. Something he had carefully created and worked on, something he had kept close to his heart, out of love, out of fear that had become his way of expressing himself in a totally new and different way. Here, he had found kinship, understanding, community, and acceptance.

 Calvin had asked to come, a while back, years ago, and Edward had been surprised. He had never pushed it on him, had never asked him if he wanted to come, afraid of rejection, not wanting to live that again, not now that he had it so good with Calvin, and so even though Calvin had known about his hobby, Edward had never invited him to a show and Calvin had never insisted. With time, Calvin had thought maybe Edward was ashamed of him – didn’t want him to meet his friends, or enter this other sphere of his life and eventually, he’d asked. If he could. Because he wanted to. Because they were sharing a life. And if they were sharing a life then that meant hobbies and passions as well. Being there for one another and such. Support, emotional, physical and all. Having each other’s back.

 Edward had agreed, if a little reluctantly, out of fear, again, always. But he was done with that. Done with hiding and being ashamed. That wasn’t how he functioned anymore. Done with living in shadows and the potential negative outcomes. He was done with self-sabotage. Had been done for a while, really, but, some small parts still remained, there at the back of his mind, whispering in his ear when he felt uncertain.

 But Calvin was different. Calvin was encouraging.

 Still, he had braced himself for judgement, but Calvin had been thoroughly on board with this other side of Edward. Had shown nothing but enthusiasm and support.

 It had been – really refreshing.

 Edward only regretted not going for this sooner.

 “Thank you for coming,” Edward tells him as Calvin takes his seat again and pulls Edward close. Edward leans against him, Calvin’s arms looped around him loosely and this is probably Edward’s second favourite thing about performing – the after performance aspect. When he finds Calvin at the bar and gets to spend some time with him as he rides his little adrenaline high he gets from performing. (He still wonders about that – about the high – what it could mean, if it has anything to do with before but – it’s too much of a nice thing to really look into and Calvin always looks so good and nice and formal in his suit – as if he was going to see a real performance. (Calvin likes to politely remind him that it is a real performance. Edward’s insides always do something funny at that.) So he drops it, doesn’t think about it and allows himself to enjoy something without questioning what it may or may not mean. It’s better this way, anyway. Things are allowed to be uncomplicated. Not everything has secondary, dark meaning to it.)

 “Of course! I wouldn’t miss it for the world; I love watching you perform,” There’s a coy and sly little smile to him that Edward chasses away with a kiss that Calvin is only too happy to respond to.

 “Didn’t keep you waiting long, I hope?” Edward asks.

 Calvin shakes his head, like he always does, “Nope, had a nice drink and I made a new friend,” He says it like it’s the most obvious of things and Edward rolls his eyes, so very fond. Of course, Calvin would befriend a stranger at the bar. He always does. Calvin is like an excited puppy that makes friends with anyone and everyone. Open and friendly and easy to talk to. Warm. Inviting. Pleasant.

 “I’m sure the two of you would get along,” Calvin starts as he turns around to where the other man is sitting beside him, “His name’s Étienne,” And just as Calvin says the name, just as Edward follows with his eyes to where the man is sitting, just as he takes in the mop of now quite familiar curly hair, his mind stutters to a halt, wondering if it didn’t trip onto itself. If this isn’t some weird dream he’s having or some such.

 But then, sure enough, the man turns and he’d recognise that face anywhere. (But would he though – would he really? Would he, considering he’d been standing right next to him all this time and hadn’t even noticed?)

 Calvin looks far too pleased. He had concocted the whole thing. He’d asked once, and just once, why Edward never invited Étienne to a show. Edward had conveniently reminded him that Étienne lived four provinces away, that he wasn’t always around and that his performances didn’t always line up with his visits. Calvin had called bullshit on that, knowing far too well that Edward always made it a point not to have any when Étienne was in town. Edward had then asked him to drop the subject and Calvin, feeling that there was more to this tale but also not wanting to start an argument, had let it be.

 For now.

 He figured that if he himself had wanted to see Edward perform and wanted to be an encouraging boyfriend, then Étienne would want to do the same.

 And so his plan had been hatched when Étienne had mentioned to him in passing that he’d be in town in a few weeks and would he mind keeping it a secret from Edward.

 Calvin had been more than happy to oblige, but on one condition.

 Étienne had almost seemed relieved at the condition.

 Calvin smirks to himself; and to think that some consider him naïve.

 Edward blinks.

 And blinks again.

 He stares to make sure he isn’t hallucinating and Étienne offers a shy smile and a gentle wave, “Surprise,” he says softly and Edward isn’t sure what the right response to that should be.

 Étienne is here. At his show. Or at least, is in the venue where he’d just performed.

 He takes a deep breath. Tries to ground himself.

 There had been so many times. So many times, before, when he’d wished for this. When he’d ached for Étienne to assist. For Étienne to sit in the crowd, support him, be there for him, be proud of what he was and what he did. He had yearned for this. Had hoped that – someday, eventually, Étienne would be there. Would clap and whistle, would be over the top in his enthusiasm for his performance. Unashamed. Wouldn’t hold back. Would tell anyone and everyone that he’d been here to watch him perform. That they’d bridge the gap and meet halfway.

 But – that had never happened.

 It had been – complicated.

 Étienne’s entire relationship with drag had been complicated. So, Edward had – let it be. Kept it to himself. Had fostered it close to his heart while resentment had slowly, but surely festered. Time had passed, words had been exchanged, and the proverbial drift had happened. Not only over this, no, that would have been too simple. Over – so many other things combined.

 But – that too, was in the past.

 They’d turned a new leaf. They were building something new now. Something wonderful and new and open and honest and so much better than what they’d had before. Authentic, Étienne would call it. (And Edward would roll his eyes, fond, and hit his arm.)

 But Edward had never brought it up again. Étienne had asked, once, in passing, if he was still performing. Edward had replied in the affirmative and they’d left it at that, probably both a little afraid of digging up old skeletons, opening up old wounds, destroying something that was still so very fragile.

 And it was fine, really.

 Even though, Edward would have still liked for Étienne to be there. At least once. Just once. Just once to see him on stage.

 And now here he is.

 “I don’t understand,” Edward manages to say, “You just got here?” He asks, because that would make more sense. Because some part of him still apparently refuses to believe that Étienne would come to one of his drag performances. That they’re that much moved on from the end of the twentieth century to have this. “When did you get here? How are you here?”

 There was no planned trip. He would have known. Étienne hadn’t said anything. But then again, Étienne is good at that. Good at surprise visits and showing up on his doorstep out of the blue. He likes that – likes that Étienne feels comfortable coming over when he feels like it, but still.

 “Had a bit of help from an inside man,” He says exchanging a conspiratory wink with Calvin. There’s a private laugh, some inside joke is passed and Edward can’t even be bothered to grasp at it – not now, anyways. Not when his mind is still trying to grasp this reality. Later, there will be time for admonishments. Later, he can get properly vexed and chide them both for conspiring behind his back. For plotting these things. Just to please him. Because apparently, that’s what they do – please him. As if they’d been placed in his life for that – to make him happy. To see him laugh and smile. They’re both so stupidly ridiculous and he loves them both so damned much. So damned much.

 “Got here early this evening, saw the whole performance. You were, absolutely, fantastic.” He says it with all the sincerity in the world and it does something to Edward. Really does. He feels the tears prickle at the corner of his eyes and doesn’t even try to stop them. In any event, his face has been scrubbed clean and he’s not sure there’s an elegant, discreet way from stopping this type of water works. Therefore, he walks up to Étienne, closes the rather small distance between them, a few steps really, and pulls him into the tightest of hugs possible. If he cries a little, he blames it on the adrenaline, on his emotions running high and on his mind that’s still trying to process everything.

 Étienne holds him tightly as well, grasps him close and for a moment, time stands still. There’s something – cathartic about this embrace. Something old that finally starts to heal properly and that rights itself after so long. Edward feels a little lighter, stands a little taller when they pull back and smiles a little wider when Étienne takes his hand and gives it a squeeze.

 “I got these for you,” Étienne says and takes a lovely bouquet of flowers off the bar counter. He hands them over to him and Edward can’t believe this man. Can’t believe that he gets to have his little fantasy come true in two folds.

 “You didn’t have to, really, you really didn’t have to,” It’s a lot. It’s too much. But it’s perfect and wonderful. It’s overindulging, but he can’t stop. Étienne watched him perform. Didn’t hate it. Didn’t run away. Got him flowers. Is sitting at the bar with Calvin, dressed nicely as well, both looking lovely and dashing and so very fond of him.

 He loves them. Both. So much. So much it hurts.

 There’s a card with the flowers. His name is written on the envelope. Just his name. In familiar script he’s seen half a million times over his lifetime. It’s changed some, over time, but it’s still familiar and similar. It’s in the curve of the d, the way the o and the u are attached together, because Étienne has always called him Édouard, more so than anyone else in this world, a private name shared between the two of them, and Edward thrills that Étienne is using it again – that they’ve reached another old milestone.

 He wonders what he’ll find in the card, wonders what Étienne could have possibly written to him on such a small card; Étienne who has been known to write him pages and pages of letters. Letters he still has. Letters he has kept. Letters he has read and reread, until he could recite them by heart. Missives sent his way with secrets and confessions (but never the ones he’d hoped to receive) and his breath catches, not for the first time tonight, at the two very simple, very powerful words he finds. He can get up on stage, perform, sing, dance, discuss, put on makeup, a dress, perform in stilettos and high-heeled boots without a problem, but the words on the card unbalance him and knock him over for a moment.

 So simple. So efficient. So much.

 Je m’excuse.

 Edward looks over to Étienne again. Looks from the card, to Étienne and then back. He tries to find something to say – something to respond to that but he’s overwhelmed with feelings and emotions and the ghost of a past that wasn’t always bad, that had a lot of good in it as well, but that had gotten mangled and complicated for nothing. That had left him gaping and aching and hollowed out in a new way.

 But they’re here now. They’re here and they’re back to where they were before, but this is a whole new chapter that’s being written and he doesn’t know what to do and what to expect. This is new. So new and fragile and wonderful and hopeful.

 For the second time that night, Edward hugs Étienne close. Holds him closer still and never wants to let him go. Wants him to understand what all of this means for him. That he’s here. That he came. That he wrote those words in that card. That he loves him. He thinks maybe that Étienne gets it, that he feels the same when Étienne wipes at his eye an errand tear away and Edward laughs and cups his face with his hands and caresses his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. They stay like that for a moment longer, simply breathing together, getting lost in a sea of hazel and green and Edward wonders if they’ve ever been this emotionally close to one another.

 “Thank you,” He finally manages to say; for the flowers, the card, his visit here, for staying, for loving him still, for not having given up, really. For trying.

 For trying.

 “I’m proud of you, you know?”

 Edward gets knocked off his feet for what feels like the third time that night. He nods, because he doesn’t trust his words, doesn’t trust that an ugly sob won’t come out of his throat instead. He takes Étienne’s hand instead and this time, it’s he who squeezes it tightly.

 They need to stop being this ridiculous; Étienne and Calvin, for they’ll be the death of him. What with their well-meaning actions and words. There’s just so much he can handle in one evening. He sniffles once and tries to gather himself back up. There’s been enough sharing of emotions for one evening. His feelings have been pulled out enough for one night.

 “Well, Christ, I wish I hadn’t washed my face, because I’ve been wanting to leave a lipstick stain on your pretty face for a million years and now you go on with your cards and your flowers,” He starts yammering on as he reaches for his bag, rummages through it to find his nice tube of lipstick – the one in that pretty shade of red he likes so much. He’s buying himself time, finding himself something to do with his hands and an excuse to look away from these two ridiculous men, “And you, mister,” He says as he brandishes the tube and points it like some sort of weapon at Calvin who looks far too pleased with himself, offers him an innocent smile he doesn’t buy at all, “Don’t think I’m not onto you. Can’t believe you both ganged up on me this way,” He adds and applies a perfect coat of bright red lipstick to his lips. He smacks them once for good measure, makes sure it’s even and then caps the tube and makes it disappear back into the bag, “C’m’ere,” He tells Étienne and pulls him close to place the biggest of kisses to his cheek.

 Étienne laughs and loops his arms around Edward’s waist. He holds Edward close as he kisses his cheek and it’s a liberating thing, to hold him like this, to be here with him. Edward surveys his handiwork afterwards and makes an approving noise at the back of his throat. “I hope I’ll get more in the future,” Étienne says and Edward smacks him lightly, before kissing him properly, if only to get him to stop saying such silly things that make the butterflies in his stomach flutter ever so wildly.

 Before Edward can escape, say something about the fact that they should head out, that it’s getting late and that he’d like to crash on a sofa and not move for the next several hours, Calvin pulls out his phone and says they should commemorate such an occasion. Edward rolls his eyes, but makes himself comfortable on Étienne’s lap and just as he braces himself for the flash of the camera, Étienne places his head on his shoulder and when Edward looks at him, he finds that his boyfriend has the softest of fond looks on his face.

 They take another photo, one last one before they head out, of the three of them, and Edward thinks that it’s a good thing Calvin has such long arms. Edward squeezes himself between both Étienne and Calvin and holds them both close as the shutter goes off. It’s a lovely photo, really, and they all look happy in it. Edward will, later, after he has Calvin send it to him, put it as his phone wallpaper and it’ll stay there for a good long time. He’ll look at it often, sometimes unlocking his phone just to see it, and every time, for a fraction of a second, he’ll feel whole.

 FIN

[carmenlire]

Two Ships

read on ao3

He drinks a little too much. He kisses a little too hard.

For the thousandth time, Alec loses himself in the feeling of Magnus surrounding him. His senses are clouded by the smell of his cologne, the harsh breathing in his ear.

Tonight’s nothing new. It’s nothing new, the way Alec’s chest aches, the way it feels cracked open under the onslaught of feelings that he’d carve out of himself if only it were that easy.

Their nights together are growing more frequent, if anything. Seldom a day goes by without either one of them texting the other.

Busy tonight?

My place.

Alec goes over to Magnus’s loft more often than not. Magnus opens the door and Alec never knows what to expect. A three piece suit, a sheer shirt tucked into leather pants, a silk robe falling open in a way that never fails to make Alec’s mouth flood with want.

There’s conversation, briefly. Magnus pours him a drink and they make a toast. Sometimes it’s a silent acknowledgement and their mouths curve in sardonic amusement.

Another night, yet another chance to lose himself in royal sheets and a man who’s as bad as he is good.

Well, that’s not quite true. Magnus might like to retain his mask, wrapping his position as the High Warlock of Brooklyn around him like the most steadfast cloak, but Alec’s seen enough to know that Magnus has a heart of gold.

It’s a little bruised, a little battered, but it beats strongly and no amount of makeup or sarcasm or devil-may-care wit can hide the way he’s seen Magnus drop everything to save a friend-- or anyone that comes to him looking for help.

Alec’s breath stutters as Magnus hits particularly sensitive area. His nails drag down Magnus’s back-- no doubt leaving scratches that won’t be particularly welcome in the morning-- and Magnus gasps as maintains the almost frenetic pace.

Losing every goddamn thought in his head, the only thing Alec can focus on is the heat of Magnus’s skin against his, the way he can almost pretend that this is so much more than it is whenever his eyes are closed.

Like this, there’s nothing but the two of them.

He loves it. He hates it.

A little while later, the room is silent except for their harsh breathing. As his pulse slows back to normal, Alec wonders for the thousandth time why the hell he keeps coming back.

It’s more than a good fuck. It terrifies him, the thought that he’s so far gone that a part of him-- most of him-- doesn’t even want to think about walking away from this.

It’s not much but if it’s all he can have, then he’ll hang on until there’s nothing left to hang onto.

Magnus doesn’t say anything in the dim room but Alec hears the clinking of ice cubes as he no doubt summons a drink. He hears the clearing of a throat and when he looks over, it’s to see Magnus holding out a glass of water with his free hand.

Alec takes it, drains the glass in a few, efficient swallows. It’s refilled automatically, this time with something that would make his eyes water if he lingered, so he doesn’t. He throws back the few fingers of whiskey just as steadily as he’d downed the water a few minutes ago.

The burn is welcome. It scratches an itch that Alec never had before he met Magnus. With a dry laugh, Alec wonders at just how much has changed in the past few years. Before Magnus, Alec couldn’t hold his liquor worth a damn and he had less than zero interest in changing that.

Now, he almost craves it after a hard day-- after a hard night.

Liquor tastes like mistakes and regret with a particularly bitter undertone and it seems only fitting to indulge after he goes another round with the most goddamn cryptic man he’s ever met.

“Something funny,” Magnus asks, breaking the laden silence. His voice holds idle interest at best and Alec feels his wandering gaze, can’t help the shiver that runs up his spine as Magnus reaches out and strokes a firm hand over his chest, trailing an appreciative path down his stomach to land on his hip.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say the touch was covetous.

How lucky then that Alec’s never been fond of lying to himself. Others, maybe. But he’s always painfully, tragically honest with himself.

Mouth tipping up into the faintest hint of a smile, Alec just replies, “I’m just remembering the first time we did this. That first time after.”

That’s the thing, Alec thinks, swallowing hard and avoiding Magnus’s gaze. It’s been a few years of this shit.

They’re both fucked to hell but Alec can’t find a damn to save himself and his stupid, traitorous heart.

They’d met a handful of years ago. Alec, the newly appointed Head of the New York Institute, green in most ways and devastatingly unaware of the pain and pleasure of a satisfying game of cat and mouse.

He’d met Magnus one night at the Hunter’s Moon. Overwhelmed and feeling one inconvenience away from drowning, he’d escape the cloying grasp of the Institute and made his way to a Downworld bar.

He’d had a single glass of wine when someone had sat next to him at the bar. Set to ignore whoever it was-- Alec wasn’t the most social under the best of circumstances, let alone when he was in the grip of a downward spiral-- he’d nonetheless found himself turning to face a voice that was as smooth as it was captivating.

Long day, darling? I think I know what can help with that.

Looking over to see a steady gaze, Alec had lost himself in warm brown eyes and when the man offered to get him another drink, he’d nodded wordlessly.

Magnus had charmed him and then he’d challenged him and the combination of the two was heady enough to make Alec’s head spin.

Sitting at the bar, they’d talk for a long while before Magnus had nodded toward a now empty pool table.

Do you play, he’d asked idly, taking a sip of his martini.

With that, they’d headed over to the pool table. Magnus had beaten him at pool and before he quite knew what happened, Alec had found himself falling through a portal.

That first night, Alec had been inexperienced but oh so willing and when he’d found himself leaning against a brick pillar with Magnus on his knees, he’d wondered why the hell he’d waited so long for this. He'd come out before his appointment to Head but he'd still been frustratingly inexperienced. No one had caught his eye and then Alec was so busy that he couldn't even think of pursuing anything even if he did find someone he liked.

But as he'd given himself to Magnus, Alec couldn't help but wonder that he'd had no idea what he'd been missing. It was everything he'd wanted and more and it'd taken everything he had to leave the next morning without waking Magnus, without another taste of what he'd gone so long without.

The next morning, though, he was out of the loft and back in his office before the sun was up. That afternoon when he held the first Downworld Cabinet meeting and Magnus walked in-- they’d both been stunned and the afternoon had been filled with blatant flirting on Magnus’s side and a desperate attempt at stoicism on Alec’s.

He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid, that he’d slept with the High Warlock. It was the height of unprofessionalism and he’d been terrified of anyone finding out, of that single misstep displacing him as the Head of the Institute when he’d worked so long and hard to make it.

Still, that night he’d found himself back at the Hunter’s Moon and then back in Magnus’s bed and now, a few years later, Alec’s shoulders don’t ache nearly as much as his heart.

No one knows where Alec spends his nights. No one knows that Alec and Magnus have been having an affair for years. Magnus has never said anything about making it more and Alec can’t quite shut down the thought that he’s nothing but a convenience to him, that he’s irreplaceable, something new to keep his interest for a little while before Magnus inevitably grows bored with him and moves onto somebody that could give him exactly what he wants.

Most of him wonders what Magnus would say if he asked to stay one morning, if he didn’t leave before the birds started singing.

If he lingered, if he woke Magnus up with breakfast and a kiss, would he be soundly rebuffed? Would this arrangement of theirs come crashing to a halt?

Christ, he wants more. He wants everything but he keeps silent and takes what Magnus deigns to give him. What started out as a swirling mix of lust and fascination and a desperate need for relief has turned into love.

It’s mostly the same except for when Alec remembers that this is all he’ll ever have.

And then it tastes like ash.

They talk about nothing in particular. They fuck and Alec loses himself in the feelings that grip him in a stranglehold, in the man that makes him wish and dream and hope against goddamn hope. Alec leaves and they don’t speak except for vague texts and hoarse pleas that used to make Alec blush but now just fill him with heady satisfaction.

Their professional relationship is above reproach, not a hint of familiarity bleeding into their tones. Magnus stopped flirting awhile ago and Alec didn’t know how to find the words to say he missed it.

He still can’t find the words to tell Magnus how much he loves him, how much he wishes, futilely, that they could have more, that they could bemore.

In the morning, Alec wakes to the light of his cell phone, the alarm he’d set a few hours before going off.

Sighing in the dark, he scrubs his hands over his face roughly. He’s so fucking tired and something tells him sleep wouldn’t do a damn thing to fix it.

Turning his head, he sees Magnus on his back sleeping peacefully. He almost reaches out and touches his face. He wants to sweep a thumb over the jut of a cheekbone, the curve of his jaw.

He’s reached a hand out before he quite knows what he’s doing. Jerking back like he singed his fingers, Alec squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shuddering breath.

Swallowing hard, he throws the covers off and swings until he can place his feet on the cold floor.

It’s grounding. It’s devastating.

He works on his breathing for longer than he’ll ever admit and he’s just about to stand up when something stops him.

“Stay.”

Everything in him stills at the word, hushed in the dark room.

His breath catches as a hand lands on his back, achingly familiar but still so damned mysterious. Magnus’s hand sweeps over his shoulder and down his chest. It sets a trail of fire wherever it touches and Alec takes a deep breath that sounds startlingly like a gasp.

He hears the rustle of sheets as Magnus sits up and then there’s a kiss being placed over his deflect rune and he hears Magnus’s breathing before lips touch the shell of his ear.

“Stay,” Magnus repeats. His voice is hoarse and Alec can almost, almost convince himself that it’s edged in desperation, that’s it’s a plea and a prayer and everything he’s dreamed of hearing since Magnus first beat him at pool ages ago.

He turns his head and meets Magnus’s eyes. His glamour is down like it only is when he’s feeling too much, when they’re wrapped around each other and nothing else in the world matters so much as them.

Alec doesn’t say anything for a moment. He studies Magnus-- the streak of eyeliner smudged under his eye, the crease of the pillowcase on his cheek, those brown eyes that he never stood a chance against.

Closing his eyes, Alec feels Magnus lean closer and nose along his jaw.

“Okay,” he finally says, voice hoarse with the way his throat is aching. “I’ll stay.”

When he opens his eyes a moment later it’s to see Magnus smiling at him, small and quiet but full of happiness and relief and overwhelming potential.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

When discussing what they missed about the 20th century with Brianna Claire mentioned messy cheeseburgers with all the fixings. Can we get a scene of Claire and Bree enjoying the previously mentioned meal together in Boston?

Missing moment in 4x10.

Claire tried like hell not to think of what she had left behind in the twentieth century.

Her daughter. Their daughter.

Plumbing.

Motor vehicles.

Radios.

Cinemas.

Electric kettles.

Furnaces.

Toilet roll.

Tampons and sanitary napkins.

Diner food.

Well-constructed undergarments.

But she could not help her mind from drafting a litany of these things when faced with some ordinary task or another.  

As they attempted to slice a piece of roast pork, she could not help but call to mind the ease with which modern cutlery or an electric knife could accomplish the task.  But she would never say it aloud.

Catching Ian’s curious eye when she unconsciously reached for the tap on a faucet that did not exist over the bowl of dishes at the end of a meal, she smiled, shrugged, concentrated on the washing up.  She never provided an explanation.  

As she doubled over in pain, melting into Jamie’s thumbs as they massaged away cramps, she mumbled a plea for a heating pad and an aspirin.  He made a sound, low but sweet, and continued kneading the muscles.

It had been easy to set aside these conveniences on her first trip to the eighteenth century.  

Adrenaline had coursed through her then as she engaged in a series of machinations to maintain her lie (my-husband-he-is-dead-and-I-am-traveling-to-France-please-pass-the-potatoes), and endeavored to stay alive.  For her safety (her brush with a Scottish witch trial had been more than enough incentive to think fast) and Jamie’s, she had tended to keep outward indicia of her modernity under cover.

However, on her second trip to the eighteenth century, her lips were infinitely looser.  With age, isolation on the Ridge, and the sheer boundlessness of the space around them and from others, she let slip seemingly harmless perks of modern life.  Ian’s fascinated, though sometimes doubtful looks, spurred her on.  Emboldened by her nephew’s thousand mile stare, she described such fantastic things as:

Ice cubes in freezers right in the kitchen, produced with abundance.

Matches, their easy strike along the pad and the tangy, elemental burn of them in the sinuses.

Fans on hot days, maintaining an artificial breeze that could wick sweat from the skin.

Stores with everything imaginable in profane volume – meats and cheeses, pickled vegetables and fresh produce, cans of food for family pets (eyes going wide at the thought of Rollo eating dog food from a tin).

Deodorant in pre-formed sticks or aerosol cans.

Showers with seemingly infinite hot water and soap that smelled like springtime or the ocean or tropical fruits.

Produce all year long.

However, Claire again became more circumspect in her mentioning of these things over time.  

The last thing she wanted was for Jamie to think that she prioritized things and stuff and modern conveniences over her connection with him. After all, he was the bedrock of the epic kind of love that she had returned through time to find. She saw the periodic twitch in his upper lip as he fought the inclination to ask if she wanted to return to her time when they argued, woke cross with one another over some misdemeanor or another, or she cursed hotly about this or that being a bother.

But when Bree appeared on the Ridge, Claire felt a certain freeness in letting slip these small things.  At least to their daughter’s ears.  She was particularly loose about the future and their past when she saw distance unfurl in her daughter’s eyes. All that had happened was an extinguishing Bree’s very life. She could see it in her daughter’s eyes (her husband’s eyes). A pain that had gone bone deep, that she had cause to know intimately. Bree’s mind was meandering on a path far, far away.  

One chilly afternoon shortly after Bree arrived at the Ridge, when the air was not quite crisp enough to make their cheeks sting and go pink, mother and daughter folded linens outdoors.  Then, Claire saw it plain as day in Bree.  The way her daughter’s eyes were weighted, pulled as if by gravity to the task of folding instead of up and into a study of the world around them. After observing her for a series of long moments, Claire made a choice.

To indulge in talk of the home that they had known together.

“Hamburgers,” Claire said plainly, lining the edges of a sheet.  “Messy cheeseburgers. With all the fixings. From Carmie’s.”

Bree looked wistful for a moment before offering, “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

Their game went on for only a minute, but the change in Bree at Claire’s acknowledgment of her longing for home was palpable. 

That night as their dinner wound down (candles close to the nub, bellies full, the glow of intoxication apparent in the apples of Jamie’s cheeks), Bree speared one of the fragrant, bulbous canned tomatoes left on her plate. Closing one eye, she held it up to the low, flickering light.  

“This,” she declared. “Only sliced and fresh.  Grilled mushrooms.  Swiss cheese so thick you really have to chew it or it’ll be all down the front of your blouse.”

A breath, closing the other eye then.  

“And caramelized onions that are almost too sweet.” She hummed, low and content. “Mayonnaise. A thick glob right from the giant, mass-produced jar of it.  And a pickle spear. Two of them. I’ll have yours, mom, you always leave it anyway.”

Tilting her head, she opened her eyes and surveyed her audience. 

“French fries. Lots of ketchup with black pepper shaken into it, stirred with the tip of my fork.”

Claire made an ecstatic sound, sinking back into her chair with her mug of water.  “Keep the Swiss and mushrooms, add lettuce and cheddar.”

“The good white cheddar?” Bree inquired. 

Claire grimaced, rolled her eyes. “Of course. Nothing but. And the chips must be extra crispy. I hate soggy fries.”

“Cheeseburgers,” Bree sighed, eyes almost cloudy with food lust.

Jamie looked between his wife and daughter, brow furrowed, before shaking his head.

That night, Jamie took his wife by the waist as she stripped down to her shift, fingers insistent at her hipbones.

“Cheese burr-gurrs?” he asked, voice halting with unfamiliarity at the words being joined together.

Snorting, Claire turned in his arms. She smoothed the ditch of a furrow from between his brows, carefully gathering her encyclopedic explanation. “Ground meat, either seared on a flat top or grilled over a flame.  Bread.  Melted cheese. Ketchup.  Mustard. Mayonnaise…”

(He had tasted mustard. He had heard of course of mayonnaise – cream and eggs, tangy on the finish - but never tasted it. He let slide Bree’s mention of “ketchup” without a request for further elaboration.  He had seen enough of his daughter to know when lightness was acting as a barrier for some other pit of emotion.  He had been there intimately enough to know the purpose of diverting oneself from what really laid beneath meaningless banter over this or that.)

“Eating that kind of diner food… it’s a nostalgia thing for Bree.”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Oh, aye?”

“Every time she got a good report card from school with good marks, the two of us would go to a diner down the street from our house.  We would sit at the counter and order cheeseburgers, chips, and ice cream sundaes.”

Claire’s heart skipped a beat before she said what she said next, but she had to say it to put the experience into context for him.

“Frank never came along.  It was our time. We bonded.”

Jamie pushed aside the curls that were acting as a veil over her neck and nestled his face close to her throat. It was as if by absorbing with his lips the vibration of his wife’s words, he would have the memory for himself, feel the nostalgia bubble in his veins at the mention of cheeseburgers.

“Bree would tell me about school, what she wanted to be when she grew up.  It varied significantly over time, of course, as young children are wont to change their young minds.  A pediatrician.  A veterinarian.  A violinist.  A race car driver.  A physicist.  A historian.  When she was older, we talked about her plans for university.”

“Ye think fondly of those times.”  

“I do.” A pause, a breath, her pulse flickering under his mouth. “She talked about boys only once. I told her about the birds and the bees.  She grumbled and rolled her eyes and hissed, insisting she already knew all of it.”

Claire faded away for a moment before Jamie took her chin.  “Those moments are dear to ye, are they no’? Ye’ll no’ ever forget the times with her at the diner with the… cheese-bur-gers.”

Claire could almost taste hot fudge and whipped cream, the cherry on top. She could sense her teeth breaking through the light char of the meat and tongue absorb the grease exploding across her tongue. She could see Bree clutching the yellow slip of paper on which a series of A’s were listed with comments about her meaningful contributions in Social Studies and her thoughtful commentary on a Robert Frost poem in English Literature.  She could feel the chrome of the counter against her bare knees and smell the hot oil.  She could picture Bree.  Her toothy grin, locked down in a cage of orthodontia, and a pimple quietly growing under concealer filched from Claire’s cosmetics bag.

Claire turned and carded her hands into Jamie’s hair, drawing his face close.  She studied him for a time, the blue earnestness in his eyes.  He wanted to know, even if it meant that he would never have those moments.  

“I’ll never forget.”