#and that one person is my friend I’ve known for nearly a decade | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cherry-leclerc · 5 months ago

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don’t lock the door ☆ cs55

genre: fluff, humor, smut, angst, thriller/suspense, mentions of depression, mentions of suicide, mentions of homicide, erotic literature, tragedy

word count: 9k

An oleander is beautiful—yet deadly. You’re beautiful—yet deadly. But Carlos has always been gentle, and has always known how to take care of things he loves. And even if he doesn’t, he’s willing to learn, just for you. But you can’t outrun secrets. Not when they have everything to do with the only thing he adores—you.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+... fingering, riding, car sex

STOP AND READ:

The story you are about to read is not meant to be admired or looked up to. Regularly, the types of fics that I like to present to all of you are light, humorous, and sweet. While I feel that this story does have occasional glimpses of that, it also deals with heavy topics such as; suicide, depression, and homicide. At the end of the day, I care about all my readers, so if any of you feel like this is not something for you then you are always welcomed to head over to my masterlist for much lighter reads. You all know me by now, so you must know that sometimes I like to mix a story of traditional love with a dash of real life struggles, such as trauma and guilt, in this case. With that, I hope you enjoy word for word.

cherry here!...did you miss me????

Tension is normally one’s enemy. It’s fairly simple, you try your best to avoid what makes your skin crawl. Isn’t that how the story goes?

Not quite.

There’s tension, yes, but it's only because you’re the opposite sex. Nothing beyond that. It could also be because you’re both introduced to each other as a pair of miserable singles. Lewis is the person you share in common.

She’s a close friend, he proclaims as you two shake hands. The touch is sticky, just like hot glue— and for a minute—it feels like a knife cuts this invisible strain in half. He lets himself salivate over your lioness stare; dark, sharp, amorous. You lean towards him just the same; dominant, mature, suggestive.

I’ve seen you race.

He hums, still attached to your desirable touch. Yeah? Why haven’t I seen you then?

Fingers press sternly against his warm skin, as if to provoke him more than he already feels himself falling into. It should be alarming the way his mind slips into a frenzy because of it, but likes it. The rush.

Maybe because I wasn’t rooting for you.

There. Right then, he disconnects. I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case.

You grin. Well, now you know.

“You know what? Mingle—”

“Who says mingle?” you and Carlos question at the same time, judgemental eyes staring coldly.

Lewis blushes. “I-I-Is that not a thing anymore?” Silence. “Fuck, I really am getting old...”

The night consists of mimosas, because according to you, it reminds you of your late-mother. “She liked something fruity, but also fun enough to make her head spin. It was entertaining to watch.”

“How so?”

“She’d ramble on and on. Slurred about her dreams.” A sad smile. “That’s the only reason why I ever found out she wanted to become an author. She was fifty—five decades too old—but she said she wanted one last adventure before retiring. It didn’t even matter if she made it onto the New York Times Best Seller list.”

The way your eyes even out, round and almost doughy, makes him trip for a second because this is not the same girl he shook hands with nearly three hours ago. No, this version of you was almost childlike, but he supposes that's how everyone who loses a parent becomes.

It comes out shy—closed off—your laugh. As if you just caught yourself being too vulnerable. That was always the worst. “Look at me making you my therapist. I have got to stop doing that.”

His mouth opens lamely, ghostly scoff sitting upon his lips. And if it were to be released, it wouldn’t hurt your feelings. It was a weird thing to note. “I like hearing you talk.”

A beat. “We’ve only just met.”

Carlos grins, crinkles tracing the corner of his eyes like some beauty. “Then let's meet some more.”

The opportunity is there, the kind you’ve been looking for. With a sheepish smile, you nod. “I should warn you though, I’m a bit of a mess.”

Finally, the scoff escapes. And like envisioned, you laugh at the sound.

“Consider me warned.”

He fucked you that same night in the back of his car. It was late, so dark that you barely even had the chance to register the fact that you squirted all over his vintage Ferrari.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he pants as he snaps his hips up again, fast motion making you head loll bad. You wonder what he means, but as soon as his long fingers circle your swollen bud, you’re just as good as gone.

He asked you out an hour later, when he dropped you off right in front of your apartment. You happily accepted, unable to hide your excitement.

Your smile falters. “Give me a reason as to why I should say yes.”

“Um, well, you sort of already said…yes?”

The confusion that settles onto his handsome features makes you glow with satisfaction. “I could always change my mind. Pretend this night never even happened.”

Panic rushes harshly against his shoulders. He doesn’t even know why he cares so much, but he does.

Vulnerability is a bitch.

“Huh,” he hums, relaxing against his seat, head hitting the expensive cushion. And you can see it. The challenge. He clicks his tongue, bored all of a sudden. “Listen, I want you, but I certainly don’t need you.”

You realize right there and then—you met your match.

You realize right there and then—you two share the same green pride.

You realize right there and then—

“It was nice getting to know you.”

The only reason you’re even friends with someone like Lewis is because your mother married rich.

Filthy fucking rich.

Then, somehow, married richer by her third and last marriage. The man was twisted, but you never knew just how much. Not for a very long time.

He dabbled in stocks, or some boring shit like that, and later invested in some other crap. Somewhere along the line, you met the Brit.

The same Brit who now hisses at you through the phone.

“God damn it, what happened? Weren’t you two getting along?”

You sigh, rubbing your feet together as you admire the way the navy blue paint covers your pedicured nails. Stormy clouds match your mood as you shake the bottle of pills that lay on top of your desk.

“He’s too vain.”

He groans. “You my dear, dear friend, are looking into a mirror then, I suppose.”

A sharp gasp. “Are you insinuating I’m the same?”

“If the shoe fits…”

“May I remind you that you sit and stare at yourself for God knows how long before any race? Newflash, dickhead, you’re going to sweat, look like shit, and one out of ten times, you’re going to win.”

“I see I triggered something.” He sighs heavily. The sound tells you he’s not really upset or anything, but more so worried. Ever since she died, you’ve been that way.

Snappy. Defensive.

“Hey, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. I know you.”

And although he can’t see, you still smile fondly. Rattling the bottle of antidepressants, you inch up higher and higher onto your chair until you face your own reflection. Shattered glass stares back at you as you feverishly look down.

“Do you still have an extra pass to this weekend's race?”

There had to be something wrong with you. Everyone could tell, and quite frankly, you could agree. Would you admit to it out loud? No, now that’s something different. Or maybe you’re just odd. That would also make sense. Whatever it was, it would explain as to why everyone around you screams with excitement as the fast cars fly by. You, on the other hand, simply stare with straight lips and empty eyes.

While all clap cheerfully when Lewis finishes on the third step, you cross your arms. While everyone runs out of the Mercedes garage to declare front row, you drag your feet slowly to the last.

While Carlos makes eye contact as he lifts his trophy—notably bigger than the Brits—you yawn.

You’re not impressed.

She’s not impressed, the Spaniard remembers thinking to himself as he smiles wider towards the stacks of cameras that turn him temporarily blind. He selfishly thinks you’re here for him, but he knows that's straight bullshit. Truth be told, it didn’t seem like you were here to support your friend either.

“It’s been so long,” Lewis huffs in disbelief as you stare across with vacant eyes. To him, you’re simply jetlagged. “Can you believe it?”

An exhale. “You did good.” Extending your legs outward, you admire the black tiles that shine back brighter than if it were to be white. “Drinks. On me.”

The Brit laughs. “Deal.”

Somewhere close by, they play jazz.

“Pretty,” you softly speak as you connect your lips to the glass. The live band sways back and forth, only adding to the charm you seem to like. And you like it a lot. “Dance with me.”

Lewis snickers. “I love you to death, but I’m gonna have to go with no.”

You frown. “Come on. I never ask you for anything.”

“You were born with a golden spoon and have used retinol since you were ten, you’re not allowed to ask for anything when you’ve already had everything.”

“Yeah…well not this.” You’re secretly envious of every lady in the room. The way they beam with sincere smiles at their husbands. Boyfriends? Flings? Affairs? Who cares honestly, you were jealous nonetheless.

The Mercedes driver watches as your fingers lazily tap against your lap, as if signaling you’re free. Guilt slithers down his neck as he sighs in defeat. “Fi–”

“Nice seeing you two here.”

Lewis wants to cry with utter thankfulness as Carlos inches closer with a lousy grin. “Hey! Oh God—hey.” You blink. “Wh-what are you doing here? Not that I’m complaining, of course, because I’m not.”

The Spanirad shrugs. “I won. Wanted to celebrate, I suppose.” Brown eyes flicker towards you like thunder and suddenly you feel naked under his gaze. You swallow. “You look nice.”

And there it is again—tension.

He cocks his head to the side, almost as if waiting for a compliment of your own. Instead, he finds himself being ignored. Crossing your legs, you lift the empty glass up as the bartender hurries for a refill.

Finally, Lewis speaks up. “I think I’m gonna hit the hay—”

“Who says hay?” you and the brunette spit out with snarkiness. You bite back a smile while he releases a chuckle.

The Brit stands up, chugging the rest of his drink as he waves you two off. “I’m not that old,” he shouts as he turns the corner and disappears.

Carlos takes the time to catch up on your appearance. Last time he saw you, you had longer hair, now it appears you’ve had a trim. He likes it. You were slightly tanner, but now appear a shade lighter. It could just be because it’s winter. It's nice seeing other versions of you.

“So, how have you be—”

“Why are you still here?”

He freezes. It takes him a while to find the strength to open his mouth.

“We never finished our conversation.”

He didn’t fuck you that night, no, he took you dancing. And maybe that’s why it worked this time around. Instead of taking the time to learn all the different types of moans you have, he took the time to learn all about your upbringing.

I learned how to bike when I turned six. Had severe trust issues for a year, so I tried again when I was seven.

That must be where your scars are from, he thinks to himself, but he finds them endearing.

I like long hair, I find it beautiful, but as soon as it’s starting to grow out I think it looks too weird on me.

That must be why your hair is shorter than he remembers, but he loves it. Has the urge to run his fingers through.

My favorite movie is How Harry Met Sally, but quite frankly, I don't find Harry attractive at all, so I never really understood why Sally settled down with him after so long.

And you’re honest. Brutally honest. And he finds that attractive.

“How about you, Mr. Singapore?”

I learned how to kart before I learned how to bike, actually. I, too, have scars on my hands from small crashes.

You blush as you hide yours beneath your coat.

I have two sisters, so I mainly learned how to dance because of them. I hated it at the time, but now I’m quite grateful.

Is it possible to swoon harder?

And I don’t have a favorite film, necessarily, but I’ve watched How Harry Met Sally, and I would agree. Sally was too good looking for him.

You have to laugh. “Is that so?”

He smiles. “The name Harry sounds so…” He winks cooly before running a hand through his locks. You giggle. “He looks more like a Bob.”

“Oh my God! Could you imagine? How Bob Met Sally?” You pause. “Wait, that actually doesn’t sound half bad…”

He chews on his bottom lip slowly, nodding in agreement. Silence engulfs you two as you stare at each other with round eyes. He’s the first to crack a loopy grin and you quickly follow with a sheepish one. Then, it vanishes and he’s left looking like he swallowed a frog.

“Listen, about last time…”

“Long forgotten.”

He halts, almost surprised by your response. “No, no, there’s no need to pretend, I was a—”

“Jerk?”

The Spaniard rolls his eyes. “Great, so you haven’t forgotten.”

You shrug. “I’m a girl. We remember everything.”

“Got it,” he declares. “Ask me again.”

Now it’s your turn to freeze. “What?”

“Ask me why you should say yes to a date with me.”

“You don’t have to do this, we’re good—”

“I know we are, but I still want you to ask.”

You lick your lip anxiously before relaxing your stiff shoulders. He tilts his head as if urging you and you nod. “Why should I say yes to you?”

Satisfaction settles. “Because you like a good challenge.” He leans closer. “And isn't that what this is?”

Carlos Sainz Jr. was made for you.

“Leave me alone,” you scream, veins throbbing, as you rush past him, heading towards the guest room. You’re glad his parents aren’t home at the moment because Lord knows the embarrassment you would feel.

“No. Not until you talk to me.” As simple as that. Your eyes twitch as you turn back, then bring your hands up to your hips. He adores it when you do that, though he probably shouldn’t right now.

“You want to talk?” You let out an unhinged scoff. “Oh, would you look at that, he wants to talk! Now he wants to talk. Well guess what, fuckhead—I don’t.”

With that, you march out into the balcony. His eyes follow the way you light up a cigarette. The way you drink the last drops of champagne that linger in the bottle gifted to you by his mother.

She was kind. She was beautiful. She didn’t deserve someone being this mean to her son.

You barely recognize him because of how blurry your vision is, but his scent does it. Musky. Woody. Calm.

He hands you the familiar pill, then a glass of water. He rushes the champagne away, then takes the cigarette and squashes it against the cold floor. He doesn’t so much call you out for being a lunatic, for upsetting his dogs with all your yelling, or for pushing him. No, he doesn’t do any of that. And you have never been more in love with him than now.

“I know I can be a bit much sometimes…” A sniffle. “I swear I try to catch onto it so you don’t have to deal with any of this, but—”

“You don’t mean it.” He tangles his fingers through your hair as you sob. And it’s soft despite spending the entire day near the ocean. It feels silky. He’s obsessed. “I know you.”

You were made for Carlos Sainz Jr.

“How do I look?”

“Like an angel.” He swears he turns bright red when you blow him a kiss. “Your name must’ve been Bonita in another life because look at you…” A hand flies up to clutch onto his heart as he makes a face. “Though, I must say, you do know how to make me look bad.”

You giggle. “Oh? This old thing? I thrifted it. Nice, eh?”

He groans. “Very, but you’re supposed to be rooting for Spain.” A gag. “Not Italy.”

You frown. “That's all I had. Plus, you’re basically Italian given your working status.”

“No, amor, they pay me to like Italy. It’s a cover up, think about it.”

You huff, popping your hip outward. “Still. I like it, so I’m wearing it while cheering for the opposite team.”

“Always over complicating things.” He laughs. “Can’t say I’m surprised, you’re a complicated person.”

A deadpan expression. “Suck your own dick.”

“Oi, relax.”

Spinning to face the mirror, you fix your jersey one last time before skipping out the door, tube socks sliding as you go. The Spaniard lets out a dreamy sigh.

Were you flawless? Not at all.

Were you put together? Not without a prescription.

But he loved figuring it all out with you. And that’s called love.

You’re in the middle of a rampage, during dinner. While everyone stares at you puzzled, he simply laughs at your cartoon expressions.

“I mean, I offered!” A pout. “I clearly stated I could get the cap signed for her and she gave me the nastiest, ugliest, dirty-looking glare! I for sure thought her face was permanently damaged.” You relax against the chair, your shaky hand finding its way to your water bottle. “Like sorry for riding your favorite driver…”

Charles laughs nervously. “I don’t think that was a necessary thing to include…”

You shrug, raising your brows over to your boyfriend who struggles to breathe.

The conversation flows easily, like most nights you're all together, but this time there’s a minor bump. You’ve been good about it; avoiding the question for so long. Over the course of time, you’ve managed to be so mendacious, that truly no one knew the truth. Not even Carlos.

“I hope it’s not overstepping, but how did your mum pass?”

He means no harm, Lando, but you just wish so badly that you could believe that. While Carlos and Lewis were the closest thing you have to a family nowadays, even they knew not to ask. You never laid the rules out loud, but they could tell it was an unwanted topic to have on your behalf, no matter how curious they got.

All of a sudden, your mood deteriorates. The look in Lando’s eyes makes sure to strike off as an apology, but you’re so busy looking down onto your lap that you don’t even pinpoint the meaning. The table grows awkward as time ticks by.

No one has the power to change the subject, save you the same way doctors tried to save your mother—because they, too—wonder.

You gulp, feeling small, but far too seen at the same time. It was confusing. “She, um…her last husband…” Everyone feels bad, like you’re some limping puppy, zigzagging down an empty highway, but remain quiet. Then, you look up, stone cold but the tip of your rosy nose and blotchy face is enough reassurance that you still have a beating heart.

“Husband number three strangled her to death.”

You say it like you don’t care. Like it hasn’t affected you at all, and that makes Carlos blink twice as fast as everyone else in the table. A droplet makes its way down your cheek as you let out a light laugh.

“I guess he thought he was some Superior God who had a say in cutting her time short.”

They all freeze.

“I am so sorry for asking—”

“I didn’t need to respond.” You smile lamely. “It’s fine, Lando.”

But it’s not, not even close. They ripped the confession out of your throat, at least that’s what it felt like. No one stepped up, no one said anything.

Your eyes flicker to the only man who makes your heart speed.

He reaches for your hand and you grip it hard.

No one said anything.

Not. Even. Carlos.

You’ve always excelled at holding a grudge. It came fairly simple.

But as you stare at him through the screen, for the first time—and only the first time—you struggle. Maybe it’s his puppy eyes that betray you, or his gentleness anytime he steps near you, you don’t really know.

And you don’t want to.

“I was thinking mariscos.”

Hair flies past your eyes as you squint. He looks particularly handsome today, wearing a linen shirt that drapes over him like some silver armor. Long waves brush against his temples as he returns the squint, slightly smiling at your lips.

“Sounds good to me.”

Soft music roams the isolated restaurant that almost seemed to belong to just you two, and that helps you relax. You could tell it helps him too.

“The car felt good today.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, biting onto a piece of shrimp. “Felt like I was flying.”

You let out a whistle. There’s a comfortable silence that lingers for a while before you raise a brow up to the open sky. “Hey,” you start as his orbs flicker up with all the attention in the world. “Do you believe in angels?”

A moment. “I’d say so, yes. Yes, I do.”

Hum. “You sound freakishly sure.” You inch forward with teasing eyes. “Why?”

“Easy.” Chocolate orbs swirl with adoration. “There’s you.”

“I don’t count.”

He frowns. “And why not?”

“Because you love me, of course you’d say that only to be nice.”

“I say so because I know so.”

“Love is blind, love is blind,” you chant, sipping on his open can.

A second ticks by. “Why do you ask?”

And like the first night he met you, your eyes merge into doe eyes. “Because I do.” A sheepish grin. “And sorry to disappoint, but it’s not you.”

“What’s his name?” he jokes.

But you’re not even listening. “My mom was pure. She was a good person, Carlos.” A beat. “She’s my forever angel.”

His heart physically hurts at your glossy eyes, immediately reaching for your hands. “You must really miss her…”

A wet laugh. “Is there a word stronger than ‘really’? If there is, then that would be one way to say it.”

And he has to apologize, even if it’s seven days too late.

“I’m sorry for not stepping in that night. I-I-I should have said something and you should have said nothing.” Thick brows knit in together. “You don’t know how shitty I felt, but—”

“You wanted to know as well.”

The way his features freeze is enough confirmation. And you can't be mad. Not even a little. Not even a lot.

“That doesn’t make you a bad person, Carlos. I should have been more open and honest with you first.” A gust of hot air slaps you across the face. “I tend to shut out people like you because…I don’t know.”

“Vulnerability is a bitch?”

You laugh. “That’s one way to say it.” Orbs scan his beauty with no shame before falling back. “You still have plenty of questions, don’t you?”

“O-of course not.”

Another laugh. “It’s okay. You caught me in a good mood. Go on.”

He’s awkward at first, but slowly eases with the sound of your breathing. “Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

“Because he’s a multi-billionaire.”

He gulps and you blink. “Why haven’t you sued?”

“Because I’m not a multi-billionaire.”

“So…he did a cover up with a wad of cash?”

“Mhm. No one dared ask whose hand shaped bruise was imprinted in her neck.”

He’s caught off guard by your bluntness, but he knows he needs this because he knows it will keep him up the same ways it’s kept him up since that god forbidden dinner.

“This was the cause of your…” He doesn’t even want to finish his sentence.

“Depression…yeah. Losing someone you love will do that to ya.”

But he wants to ask—he wants to ask more because he knows there has to be more. He’s lost people he loves too—and he loved them very much—and he never got this way. In a flash, he feels guilty for comparing his healing process to yours but quickly looks down onto his lap.

And the hot summer rain is enough warning for him not to question you any further.

The Spaniard shares a grateful smile. “Thank you for trusting me. To take care of you, and all t-that,” he stutters, blushing.

“I love you, Carlos.” A beat. “I’ve always trusted you. The only person I don’t trust is myself.”

“Be quiet,” she hisses, urgently signaling you closer. “And make sure to shut the door.”

Confused, you hesitantly push until you hear a click. Inching closer to your mom, you slowly become more and more lost as you eye the scattered papers all over your step-dads office table. “What is all this?”

Color drains from her normally youthful face. Even the brightest shade of red can’t help add life. “Proof of embezzlement.”

“What?”

She slides stacks of black folders towards you and you quickly flip through, to which you don’t understand a single thing. “He’s stealing money, that’s what. We’re not talking thousands, we’re talking millions,” she whispers frantically before growing green. “Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Okay, okay, hold on, you’re okay.” Rushing to be next to her, you clumsily tie her hair up into a messy ponytail before fanning her with the white sheets. You wince, quickly placing them back down. “How did you even come across this?”

Just as fast as a lighting bolt, she spins the chair. “I’m starting my book—” She gags, “I was supposed to start today, but I came in here looking for his typewriter. You know, the one with the tiny cherubs?” Across the office, you spot it, the tiny angels delicately painted onto the infamous typewriter. You nod. “Well, I started to search for some paper and instead found all of this…”

Even you grow dizzy as you eye the infinite zero’s that jump out against all types of sums. That’s not even enough to spend in ten lifetimes. It was no wonder he just recently made it onto The Forbes list. Her eyes—honest as ever—make you panic as you twirl your thumbs. “Wait…you’re not thinking of confronting him about it, are you?”

“I have to.” Pause. “Right?”

No. You don’t want her to. Not in any scenario. It’s taken you both so long to reach the life you deserve, and now that you were finally here it’s about to be ripped away from you? Your lack of words makes her glare.

“I don’t know why I’m asking you, I have to! It’s the right thing to do.”

Adrenaline. “Mom, just think about it—”

“I did not raise you to be avaricious,” she spits out, fire practically fuming out of her. You flinch. “I’m going to talk to him.”

“Y-you’re right.” There goes all your money down the drain. “I’m with you no matter what.”

Knock knock.

Like mother-daughter, you both freeze as your eyes flicker to the sound.

“Angelica, are you in there?”

You never liked the name Angelica. Not on anyone else that wasn’t your Angelica.

Running over to open, she finds herself face-to-face to Lucifer himself as he cocks his head in humor. “Locking me out of my own office now?” He enters. “Fun.” Dark eyes roam the messy area. “Fun.”

Her eyes plead with you in a language only you both knew, but never did you mean to obey. You wanted to stay with her—something told you to stay with her.

“Honey, give us some privacy, yeah?”

“U-uh…” He winks like that was the go-ahead. Like that was the last permission you needed to agree. And maybe it was.

Deep down it’s almost like you knew he had sinister intentions. Deep down it’s almost like you knew he was capable of committing those sinister intentions.

Deep down.

It’s like you don’t even care.

You smile, tight lipped. “Whatever you need.”

You heard the argument that night, you heard the threats. You heard her pleads, you heard her chokes. You could only imagine what was going on inside, but you were your mothers daughter. You could imagine quite a lot.

She could’ve been an author—with his resources she might just have hit the New York Times Best Seller list. She could have been a grandmother one day—surely your kids would have lived a luxurious life.

She could have been obedient. Why wasn’t she obedient? Was it so hard to brush it all under the rug?

He was sweating, just as much as a pig. Or maybe he’s glowing, he is smiling after all. Here and there he apologizes in a lousy manner, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was—

“How much money am I gonna get to keep?”

He’s intrigued. “How much do you want?”

“Enough to not have to worry.” You can still see it; cramped rooms, tin canned meals on paper plates. You could never go back.

An eye roll. “You’re just like her…” A beat. “Fucking greedy.” You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks. You’re embarrassed—-of course you were—who is he to judge? He sighs. “No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“It means I’m not transferring you anything. I want you out of this house no later than Sunday.”

Plump lips open, then snap shut, teeth gritting. “I’ll tell everyone that you’re a murderer. You’ll lose it all, w-watch.”

He’s not phased. Not even in the slightest. “And who’s going to believe you? Tell me, really, because I’d like to know.”

Fuck him for having everything. Fuck him for having everything. Fuck him for having everything.

And fuck yourself for having nothing at all—again.

Months swept by, the death was ruled a suicide, and antidepressant became your loyal friend. There was no one else, and sometimes you feared there would always be no one else.

Then—by some miracle—there was Carlos.

He was handsome. He was shy. He was sweet. He was kind.

He was rich.

You played hard to get, but so did he. You played the long haul, but so did he. You were a fantastic liar, but he was an ever better believer.

And it all clicked.

Just the way it was supposed to.

You’ve been accustomed to a certain lifestyle for years now, but somehow you’re always surprised about the sudden boost you’ve switched to ever since you’ve met him.

Chanel heels turned into red bottoms. Last season dresses turned into those that were not yet released. You loved everything about it.

“You look so beautiful, cariño,” he groans against your lips, desperate for more. His large hands play with the silky fabric, fighting to slide it up against your hips. You shudder. “I mean…come on.”

“Hey, hey—that’s sweet and all—” You push yourself closer to his toned body, immediately feeling his erection. You nearly whimper. “But why don’t you fuck me instead?” A kiss. “You missed me, no?”

And instead—he whimpers. “How dare you even ask?”

With that, he picks you up with ease, pinning you against the wall. You’re dizzy, because unbeknownst to him, he’s casted a spell on you. Never did you think you could fall in love, much less, have someone reciprocate.

Tender fingers make their way to your clit as you lunge forward, biting down onto his shoulder. It should amaze you how he holds you up with one arm, but you’re not. If anything, you leak more and more by every passing second.

His dirty pants make you fold as you clench around him. The way they curl, the way they pulse, all of it was your kryptonite.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you squeal, keeping your eyes trapped shut, feeling the familiar knot forming. He grins, pecking your sweaty forehead, digits speeding up. Berry lips form an O as you moan louder with every push.”I-I’m c-c-close—oh God.”

“Shh. It’s okay, let go for me, yeah? I’m right here with you.”

Gritting your teeth harder, you moan like some pornstar as you finish all around him. Almost like some rule, he desperately sucks his fingers clean. The Spaniard hums like he’s living his biggest dream of all before opening his round eyes.

“So sweet.”

You blush. “Yours tastes like shit.”

He laughs. “And yet you beg for me to finish all over your face, isn’t that so?”

Nearly choking at his bluntness, you fight back a smile as you play with his floppy locks. They’ve grown so much from the last time you saw him, so this was certainly eye candy to you. He sighs, relaxing as you continue to twirl thick strands around your fingers.

Soft legs still drape over his waist, hands still lay around your waist, and even breathing connects you both. Carlos feels like he’s nearly dozing off, but his hand remains firm, preferring to take a bullet than to let you fall.

You like to think that you like his lashes the best. But then there’s his eyes. And his nose. And his heart. And his lips. And his hands. And his sculpture body. And his jokes. And his laugh. And his freckles. So you never could choose, not truly.

Inching closer to his ear, you smirk slowly. “Wanna fuck my mouth?”

His eyes snap open, jaw clenching. “You’re such a tease.”

A shrug. “Want to or not?” You bite your lip, legs letting go of his hips as you slide down. “Because this offer ends in five…” He raises a skeptical brow. “Four…” You motion him closer to which he steadily follows. “Three…” He laughs. “Two, one!”

Sprinting up the stairs in a flash, you giggle as he chases after you. The sound of his steps make your heart beat faster as you jump onto your shared bed. Rushing past the corner, he cocks his head to the side as he clicks his tongue. Stepping into the room carefully, he swung the door closed before locking it. You frown.

“Reassures me that no one will walk in.”

“No one will walk in,” you whisper as your stomach drops. “There’s no need t-to—”

“No, yeah, you’re right,” he agrees, taking in your breathless state. “But I prefer it this way. Just you.” A closer stride. “And me.”

Palms are sweaty. Blood slithers down your throat and thighs. And yet your freeze. You feel hot and cold, all at once. You don’t like the feeling, any of it, but you try to ignore the inner monologue.

“You look stunning,” he states, finally reaching you. “You always do.”

Your speeding heart lessens. “T-thank you.”

A beat. “You’re not nervous—are you?”

Hastily, you shake your head. “N-no! Of course not!”

Thick brows knit together. “Because you normally aren’t.” His smile fades. “W-we don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to, you know that right?”

Physically, you’re cringing. Mentally, you’re spiraling. The act itself makes the Spaniard withdraw, taking a steady step back and shaking his head. Panic rises fast as you crawl closer to him, reaching the end of the bed.

“I just have a lot on my mind, but I want this.” A beat. “I want you.”

It’s as if you’re a blank sheet of paper, blinking up at Carlos with such innocence. So much so, it makes his heart stop. He looks for reassurance, which you give him, and he looks for it again, which you give again without hesitance.

“Come on, Carlitos…” you slowly whisper, batting your eyes. “I know you’ve missed my mouth.”

If you weren’t so breathtaking, if you weren’t so seductive, if you weren’t so goddamn tempting then surely turning you down wouldn’t be an issue. By alas, you’re here—and even better—you’re all his.

“Eres un sueño.” It seems like an eternity passes by before he finally steps close to you once again, getting rid of whatever distance you ever had. Like it was never meant to be there to begin with. “Can I kiss you first?”

It’s sweet that he feels the need to build up to fucking you sore, but sweet nonetheless. That’s one thing you love about him—and there’s a lot to choose from—his respect towards you. Smiling warmly, you extend your arm, inviting him like an angel before he smashes his lips against you like the devil.

The contrast. It’s just what you needed.

“God, I fucking love you.”

“I—” His lips press harsher as he continues marking his territory. All of it was making your head spin like a rollercoaster. “I love you too,” you manage to spit out as he makes his way down. You blush. “I-I-I sort of wanted to…”

He blinks. “Sort of what?”

“Well, you know…” You point towards his hardened cock.

And he actually snickers. “Cat got your tongue today or what, bella?”

A groan. “You’re so fucking annoying—”

“No, no, no,” he cuts in with a whistle. “By all means, go ahead.”

Desperate hands crazily reach out towards his belt in a nanosecond. You should be ashamed how hopeless you are, but you don’t find enough strength to care. Not when he was looking down at you with hungry eyes.

“Tan linda,” he whispered underneath his breath. As if you weren’t meant to hear him. As if he can’t quite believe it’s you he gets to keep. This must all be a dream to him, he thinks.

Just as you’re about to pull his jeans down, large hands get ahold of your wrists. Confused, you look up at him, head tilted and messy hair falling over your shoulder. He grins wickedly.

“Just one more kiss.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Are you kidding me—”

But his soft lips move with such urgency that you don’t even have time to bitch and moan. Not that you’re trying. You can feel it; the hunger, the lust. The way you run your fingers through his hair, or how he squeezes your ass. In a matter of seconds, the room grows steamy, hot breaths expanding with every peck. It’s as if Carlos was too afraid of being ripped away from you even for a second, scared your lips might change and he wouldn’t know a thing about it.

Not knowing you might be his biggest fear.

It happens without a warning, his grip. You feel it slide slowly up your ribs—you remember thinking how much you like it, how much it tickles. Then it reaches your chest, to which his eager hands squeeze your tits, pathetically moaning into your mouth. You can’t help but giggle, but still not separating. And then…

It reaches your neck.

As soon as he squeezes, your eyesight begins to blur, but he doesn’t notice. Your chest begins to rise and fall at an alarming rate, but he doesn’t notice. And you’re terrified.

But he doesn’t notice.

“Carlos,” you whimper, but he takes it as a good sign, mouth moving with ease. “Carlos, honey…”

“Yeah, baby?” His voice is deep. “You like that?” Large palm squeezes harder. “Bet you do.”

“Okay, stop!” you scream, arms flying like some madman. “Let go of me!”

Panicked, he releases you in a hurry, jumping off of your trembling body. Color drains his face as realization hits him, but it's too late. You’re sobbing hard, shoulders bouncing up and down. The way you crawl back with fear makes his heart break as he shakes his head, running a hand against his jaw.

“Fuck.” More cries. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—I am so sorry, baby…” Desperate eyes stare back at you as you hide your face against your shaky hands. “I’m so fucking stupid. I should have known, I should have known.” Inching closer proves to be a mistake when you leap off the bed, throwing a mountain of pillows like daggers.

“Stop it,” you demand. “Stay. Right. There.”

He flinches. “Are you afraid of me?”

The laugh that erupts from your throat is unlike the others he’s heard. It’s almost maniacal. It makes his skin grow with goosebumps. “Is that even a question?” Dark mascara runs down your cheeks as you breathe heavily. “You just tried to kill me.”

“No,” he pronounces. “No, you know that that’s not true. I-I-I thought you’d like it!” The glare you flicker is enough for him to wince, pinching the tip of his nose. “I should have known better, okay? Please, just…calm down.”

All your sniffles come to an end as you freeze. “Are you calling me crazy?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my God.” Pushing your hair back, you release a chuckle. “You actually think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, stop putting words into my mouth.”

A scoff. “Okay, wow.”

He doesn’t have a clue as to how he continues to dig himself into a hole—and yet—here he is. Digging his own grave. Exhaling hard, he licks his lips before looking straight into your glossy eyes. “I love you,” he starts, but you remain as still as a statue. “And I want us to work through this. I want to be able to talk to you, yeah?” A beat. “I’m sorry about…what I did, I should have never done it knowing you’re…traumatized.”

He’s almost scared to see your reaction, but it never comes. Instead, you blink hastily, as if you’re mortified.

You should’ve known. You should have figured that karma would catch up to you sooner or later.

I mean, all sins must be paid for, right?

As soon as he starts closing the gap, you’re thumping heart picks right back up. “I just want to talk—”

“No.”

Despite his hurt, he continues his march towards you. “I just want to be near you, please—”

“I said no!”

It happens almost in the blink of an eye, the sound of glass shattering. He sort of thinks he must’ve imagined it, your hand flying to punch the mirror right besides you, but the gentle blood that oozes out of your hand makes his heart stop. Suddenly, all the scars you have make sense. So much makes sense.

“Just…stay there, Carlos,” you say, voice trembling, small hand holding out a piece of sharp glass towards him like some wannabe knife. You bite your bottom lip. “Just—there.”

“Cariño…”

“Stop it with that,” you plead, teardrops slipping. “Stop calling me that.”

Somewhere in the shard, he catches his reflection. Half-scared, half-brokenhearted. He doesn’t even know how you two got to this point.

He gulps. “Okay. I’ll stop, I’ll stop, but please put that down.” You shake your head fast, splotchy cheeks flushing furthermore. Carlos sighs desperately. “Come on—you’re bleeding.”

“I’m used to it by now.”

Tension resurfaces once again between you both as you stare at each other, awaiting for the next challenge. Playing the silent game for a second, curious to see who breaks next.

“Why did you lock the door?”

He almost laughs. “We always shut the door—”

You raise the blade up higher as you begin to lose patience. Deep down, you know you’re not capable of harming him, but how could you ever let your guard down once again when he tried to strangle you to death?

History almost repeats itself, and you’ll be damned if you ever let it happen.

“You said it, we shut it but we never lock it.” A soft cry. “What were you planning on doing to me, Carlos?”

It’s like a knife to the heart, you’re sudden distrust. The brunette finds himself struggling to breath as he blinks like a lost deer.

“You know that I would never hurt you. Not on purpose, at least…”

You let out a wet snarl, shaking your head. “I don’t believe you.”

A flinch. “All of this was a mistake and I adore you.”

“You don’t, though,” you protest, the shaky vision intensifying. “If not you wouldn’t have tried to mur—”

“For the last time, I’m not your step-father!” It’s as if he’s finally reached his breaking point, just now. His body is tired. His mind is tired. Everything is just tired of trying. Carlos shrugs lamely. “If you don’t want to believe me…so be it.”

The pain that rains out of him should be enough for you to know that he’s telling the complete truth. He’s a good guy, with pure intentions. He’s not here to get even with you on your mothers behalf. None of what you’re imagining is true.

But you just can’t seem to understand.

“I don’t believe your lies, alright?” you spit out with deep breaths. You drop the blade, finally. “Open the door.”

With his head hung low, he complies, feet dragging with every step. And finally, with a hand on the knob, he turns to give you one last glance. He can tell you’re holding in your breath and he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. Why it make him feel so much like a monster…

Click. The wooden door swings open as he pushes it gently.

“Now leave.”

A wave of nausea strikes with your words. “Amor—“

“Stop. Don’t even look at me.” Tension. “I don’t want to see you ever again—not even by accident.”

And that was the last stab that ended it all.

Every now and then, he wonders how you are. Hopefully better.

He hears your name mentioned once in a blue moon, but instinctively blocks it out, too disturbed at the thought of what occurred between you two.

What did occur between you two?

He could take a guess and say that you’re internally fucked. Straight and simple.

But it’s still annoying. The way he wishes to forget you with every passing birthday wish.

At first, it was because he missed you. He just wanted to forget you because he missed you—yes.

Later, it was because the memory of the cramped room suffocated him. The sound of glass breaking was stronger than the sound of his car crashing. And somehow the latter seemed better.

He just wanted to forget that day—yes.

Staring off into space has been his thing for a long time, often getting called out on it. Now, he finds himself with his eyes closed, too scared that someone might notice his feelings and feel the need to ask if he’s okay.

He hasn't been. Not since you.

“Grape or watermelon?”

Popping and eye open, he catches a glance of Lewis before rolling over. “I’m good.”

It’s tough, this silent war between both his friends. The break up simply made this…tough. Especially when no one really knows what happened.

Setting the electrolytes down, the Brit claims a spot next to the brunette. Groaning at the unwanted company, Carlos switches to sit upright. Brown eyes glare strongly before Lewis laughs it off.

“How you doin’, bud?”

Great, no yeah, just severely depressed thanks to your so-called friend. Would you mind asking her where she gets her antidepressants from for me? I mean, I would, but last time we saw each other she, uh, I don’t know, tried to stab me? And you know what’s the most fucked up shit? It’s the fact that I still love her just the same.

I just wanted to help.

He forces a shy smile. “Fine.”

A pity grimace. “I can tell she misses you, you know?”

Carlos hates how excited the thought of you alone—dreamily sighing for his return—gets him to sit up straighter, suddenly interested. It’s foolish, really.

“She would never admit it, but I can tell because I know—”

“Her?” The Spaniard lets out a mocking scoff. “Trust me, you don’t. Not entirely.”

That shuts Lewis right up as he sits there, staring blankly. A dark brow furrows. “Listen, I don’t know what happened between you two—not that I need to know—but she’s a good person. And so are you. So…don’t be afraid of reaching out.”

He flickers his brown eyes accusingly. “Why should I? Did she put you up to this?”

“She didn’t—“

But the fact is, the hesitation gives him away. Anger arises as the Spaniard rolls his eyes. “I knew it, God, I knew it!” A second. “I know her.”

The Brit drowns with nervousness as he waves his hands in despair. “She just wants you to apologize!”

A singular laugh. “Apologize for what?” He pauses, squinting at his friend. “She didn’t tell you why we broke up, did she?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t really know who’s fault it was, do you?”

Lewis looks down onto his lap. “No. Not really.”

“Great, then let me be the one to tell you that it was both of ours. I’m no saint but neither is she.”

An award silence lingers as the Spaniards voice echoes the room. Lewis nods. “Understood. I got it, okay?”

He sighs an irregular sigh. “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t worry about it, man.” A sheepish grin. “It’s not my place to fix anything about your guys’ relationship, I get it.”

Carlos’ face switches to bright red as he nods his head once. “T-thanks.”

The Brit, ever happily, stands up firmly before patting his back. “I’m always here if you need to talk.”

“Gracias.” Lewis is just a few steps away when he clears his throat before he can even stop himself from asking. “How’s she doing?”

It came across almost softer than a mumble, and one might have missed it if not alert, but not Lewis.

Spinning to face the almost manchild with round eyes, he smiles as bright as the sun, and that makes his stomach turn. Because he knows. He knows you’re doing—

“Really well.”

Fluffy hair falls down as he tilts his head, clicking his tongue. “That’s good.” Sure. He returns the same smile with a twitch. “That’s really good.”

Lewis has known you two for a long time now. He’s unwillingly memorized your ticks. How the right side of your face slightly twitches before every lie, or how the left side of his does the same before every lie. Much like right now.

The Brit contemplates for a minute, then two, then opens his mouth in the most hesitant manner.

“She’s moving to Germany.” Carlos freezes. “Only for a few months. Maybe a year, who knows. But…you should read her book.”

He unfreezes. “Her what?”

A faint smile. Eyes crinkled. “It’s a tough read, but I believe it was necessary. You know, to finally talk about it.”

He never quite believed you would open up this way, and yet here he was, in an unknown bookstore, spacing out. Your name jumps out like some shooting star, too difficult to ignore.

Without a doubt, you’d get a lawsuit from your step-father. Of course—you were only dragging the last name of what seemed to be the world's richest man.

For what it’s worth, Carlos is proud. This must mean you’re open to moving on. To get the necessary help you so desperately need. From start to finish, the pages are enticing. You go into gruesome depth, something you never seemed to have a problem in doing. From the mention of how her eyes remained open with no sign of life, only terror, to the fact that you got your many scars from punching the door, trying to get in on time. How he bribed his way against the laws.

Everything seemed to be coming out.

So then why, as he sits in his driver's room, staring at your picture in the back of the book, does he feel like doesn’t believe it?

Not even a generous half.

Angelica lived up to the first five letters of her name.

She was there for you in the moments you needed her the most. She braided your hair for playdates, she tied your shoe laces even when you were too embarrassed to ask, and she worked her way up, making sure you had it all.

Undeniably, she was one hell of a woman. Then again, she had more within her—pulled some trigger you never thought she’d pull.

You were going to lose it all, why couldn’t she foresee that? That conversation was going to rip your inheritance straight from your tight grip; the one that ensured your future vacations. How could she ever betray you? Her own daughter?

You were acquisitive. You were possessive. You were partially responsible for her death.

But call it naiveness, you really thought it’d work.

No one will truly know the way your soul left your body when you heard you wouldn’t get a single dollar. Not even a fucking cent. You had to find some other way to stay secure.

But Carlos was out to get you, you just know he was. You don’t have a clue as to how he found out about the truth, about what happened inside that stupid mansion, but he knew it all. And you had to get out of there.

Only it led you back to square one. With no purpose. With no money. Fuck men and their actions, seriously, too all hell with them.

However, you were your mothers daughter at the end of the day.

You could be a writer. An even better one that she could've ever been. If you wanted to, you could do it.

And that is exactly what you did.

You typed, and typed, and typed until your fingers would cramp up. The multi-billionaire was a leviathan and everyone would see that no matter what.

You, on the other hand, were an innocent bystander. Too weak to intervene, to fight back. Too young. Yeah. That was what happened that night.

But you also had your own perspective. One your mom could never match.

While she married for the illusion of love, you would’ve married for money with no shame. Carlos just happened to be the luckiest of strikes because you got both.

While she always was at the front of the room without having to try, you were always in the back with a bitter smile. Why did she get to have two dimples? All eyes would have surely been on you if you had at least one.

And while she never cared about reaching the New York Times Best Seller list—you did.

She would have jumped with joy just by selling ten copies, but not you. You always wanted more—craved more. Label it as ambition.

More copies sold means more money. A trust fund means more money. Playing the victim against your step-father means even more money. So yeah…

You did care about that stupid list.

Tilting your head back against your seat, you flinch at the taste of the pill, too familiar for your liking, but the wine helps. It always does nowadays.

Buzz.

Picking up with a level of indifference was all fake—you had been yearning this call for what seemed like your whole life.

“Hey.” His voice is almost raw. Like he could use a couple cough drops. “I-I-I read your book. It was incredible.”

And for the first time in a while, you smile. “Thank you, that means a lot, Carlos.”

You can hear the static against the line, indicating once again that you’re on opposite sides of the world and not together. You can almost bet that it will always stay that way.

The Spaniard coughs awkwardly into your ear.

“Oh, and also, congrats on making it onto the New York Times Best Seller.”

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting@chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire@alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious

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adnauseum11 · 1 year ago

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Bomb (John Price x Reader)

My insomnia is keeping me up and this kept me occupied.

Summary: Kate Laswell corners John Price with a loaded question. John admits to some startling news.

less than 1k words

SFW

no CW

Besides his mother, Kate Laswell knows John Price better than anyone. So, when they convened their bi-monthly poker game, she knows something's up almost immediately. John obliged her curiosity by playing well enough to make it down to the last three players, thus enabling her to trap him in the kitchen to question him away from the eyes and ears of the few remaining guests.

“How’s retirement treating you, John? Anything new?”

John raised a brow at the open-ended question, twisting from the sink where he was rinsing glasses.

‘It’s fine, Kate. Why do you ask?” The near formal response confirms her suspicions.

“You look like you’ve been trying to crack quantum mechanics all night.”

“Poker is hard.” John said lamely in a last-ditch attempt to not have this conversation.

“Not that hard. Not for you. What’s up?”

John sighs heavily and gives up on his self-assigned task. He fully turns, hands fisting on his still trim hips and assesses how doggedly Kate’s going to chase this. It’s Kate though, so he resigns himself to admitting his most recent conundrum.

“I have a friend. Known her since I before I shipped off to join the infantry. Our circle of friends grew apart but we stayed in touch.” John downplays their friendship, or that his routine when coming off a mission is to text her straight away.

Kate’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline in surprise. John has never mentioned this woman. Sure, talk of personal lives is limited in their line of work, but they had spent years developing a friendship beyond their professional one. Kate thought she knew him pretty well, all things considered.

“What’s the problem? She get herself into something she shouldn’t have?” Kate asks, going for the obvious.

“No, nothing like that. Although I wouldn’t be surprised, the woman’s middle name ought to be trouble.” The ghost of a fond smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“What is her middle name?”

“Grow up, Kate.” John rolls his eyes; he’s spent years keeping his work life and his small personal life separate. He’s not about to compromise that like a rank amateur.

“Worth a shot.” Kate smiles and crosses her arms over her chest, waiting John out.

“I’ve asked her out, we’ve gone on a few dates.”

“And? I’m still not hearing a problem. Really never would have pegged you for melodrama, John.” Kate chides gently, enjoying the disapproving look he sends her way.

“Mind yourself, I’m retired not dead.” John grumbles, crossing his own arms over his broad chest.

“So, what’s the issue? You decide you like being friends better and it’s awkward now?”

“No. Nothing like that. Actually, the opposite of that. But, ah… I’m not sure we’re on the same page.” He scrapes his nails through his facial hair in a reflexive gesture.

Kate’s face softens as she realizes what he’s saying and turns, going on tiptoes to reach a high cabinet. It’s filled with liquors and she pulls a scotch down, pouring them each a few fingers of the amber liquid.

“Cheers old man. Welcome back to civilian life. Relationships are hard.”

“Thanks Kate. Very helpful.” John nods and sniffs his drink before taking a taste.

“I find it hard to believe a woman who has apparently known you for years, and has agreed to go on multiple dates with you isn’t attracted to you, John.”

“She shuts me down, won’t let me do anything but kiss her.”

John throws the rest of the drink back in one swallow with that admission and Kate watches her old friend for a moment.

“How long you been in love with her?”

John chokes, coughing and thumping himself on the chest before raising his eyebrows incredulously at Kate.

“Never said anything about love –“

Kate doesn’t let him finish.

“This is the first I’m hearing this woman exists and I’ve known you for the better part of two decades, John. You have gone out of your way to keep her to yourself, for a very long time. She’s got to mean something to you. So, you’re all in on this relationship now that your life has stabilized and she’s dragging her feet. Is that it?”

“Fuckin’ hell Laswell.” John’s reaching for the bottle of scotch to refill his glass.

“Find out why she’s dragging her feet and fix it you idiot. No risk no reward, you know that better than anyone. Now who’s got to grow up?” Kate raises her own brow back at a gobsmacked John.

“You make it sound easy.”

“Well, it’s pretty straightforward. Easy is another story. That’s between you and…?”

The look John gives her is withering before he throws back another drink.

#captain john price #kate laswell #john price x reader #john price cod #call of duty #fanfic #relationship advice #secret life #awkward conversations

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burinazar · 6 months ago

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I’m on a three day road trip with my sister with the chief goal of rehoming my rats annd auxiliary goals of visiting some people I know and also spending time (like, the two of us) together. I drove, ahem, several hundred miles today. (For a fun game try guessing how many hundreds. It’s probably more than you think.) The forward leg is nearly finished; we’ll be dropping off the rats at their lovely new home tomorrow morning and then coming back at a slightly more leisurely pace and visiting people i know along the way over the next two days.

I’m a swirl of emotions; rat ownership has been such an important part of my life for the last decade. I’ve never known my adult self as a non rat owner. But I decided last year it was time to give my heart a break after the current group, and then decided earlier this year (once I found out I got a position abroad) that the best thing for these particular girls was rehoming them to my amazing friend’s mischief before I went, and all of that is what I know is the right decision at this time for me and the rats. But I’m going to miss having rats so much. So much. I’m pretty sure I will again someday. I really do love them.

Also, on the last portion of today’s drive we got caught in tornado weather and it was the most terrifying and stressful driving experience of my life. I’ve always found storms immensely fascinating but this was the first time I felt genuine fear from one.

…

Now this was obviously A Bad Thing to have happened lol, and a mostly coincidental one on top of that, unrelated to like, anything I actually decided to do. And the end of rat ownership is, if not exactly A Bad Thing an extremely bittersweet thing. But it’s…being hammered in for me today that the inertia based manner in which I’ve lived my life for a long time is probably over for the foreseeable future. There’s probably not going to be a single empty “just exist and float forward and follow the path of least resistance” day between now and whenever the hell I manage to get used to living in Japan. Things are potent and uncertain in a way I think they haven’t been since the first half of college.

That’s scary, and it could turn out badly (arguably most of the Things from back then that were exciting for the forward momentum they conferred upon me turned out badly), but it’s also exciting. My heart was pounding in absolute fear today in a way I could actually feel in my chest, as the sky turned colors I’d never seen it. I was terrified and obviously I’m not happy that happened to us as but I’m also trying to remember last time I felt anything like that, the fear which reminds you that you don’t want to die, especially potent to anyone who remembers the passive feeling of not caring what happens to you or wishing something would take away your choice and quietly end it all for you. And I’m lying in bed tonight writing this on my phone and wiping off tears that are welling up thinking of the rats I’ve loved and lost and the ones that are leaving me now, and all told I’m reminded I am still alive and not the block of interwoven self fulfilling prophecies and mental inertia I am capable of imitating for years on end. I am still a person for whom things are happening. It sounds stupid to realize but on some level I just believed everything interesting that was ever meant to happen to me was far in the past. But as long as I’m breathing changes can come into my life (and I am, and they will). It all goes on, and so can I.

#man i’ll miss having rats though #Did I have some kind of journaling tag #btw it was 700. miles that is. and change. good night

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prototypesteve · 8 months ago

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Nearly a year out. Mostly good.

This is a special Pride Month (2024) because it’s been a little over a year since I first came out to a friend, and nearly a year since I began coming out in stages to larger and larger groups of people (a Pride network at work, and some more immediate coworkers).

It’s been mostly good. My local 2SLGBTQIA+ community was wildly supportive, and unexpectedly welcoming & inclusive of asexuality and aromanticism. Between August and October, I was able to attend three Pride festivals in western Canada, where I saw consistent and genuine aspec inclusion, with asexual and aromantics openly marching in the Calgary and Vancouver Pride parades. I joined and took on an organizing role in my workplace’s 200+ member Pride Team Member Network (reminiscent of the Pride Society in Alice Oseman’s Loveless). I even took up overseas international travel, visiting England for the first time, on a bit of an Osemanverse fan pilgrimage, where I accidentally had a very heart-healing series of encounters with God. I’ve been openly aroace at work, and among my makerspace hobby peers, where I’ve met a surprising number of other aces and aros (five or six, but considering how rare we are, that’s like knowing five or six unicorns in real life)! I’ve even led workplace workshops on other 2SLGBTQIA+ issues, like pronouns and gender-inclusive language. It’s been mostly good.

There’s been some bad, too. I stumbled through coming out to some evangelical friends I’ve known since the early 2000s. I still haven’t come out to my tiny immediate family. I don’t know how to come out to my two “mistaken exes”—platonic friends from before any of us had heard words like asexual, aromantic, or amatonormativity and allonormativity. And of course, I ran into all the wild dysfunction on Reddit, and the pockets of aphobia on Tumblr. Those things all happened on top of the many dark moments where I thought about the decades I spent not understanding that I was asexual or aromantic, and how that left me with a psyche that’s made almost entirely of emotional scar tissue.

But the bad was minor compared to the good.

I know who I am, and what I am. I know that this is the way God made me. Others know that I know that, too. I’ve had more than a few people tell me they’ve seen a change in me.

Happy Pride Month!

Photo 1: The tiny aroace flag I hid on the visor of my Mandalorian costume as I experimented with coming out as aroace at Maker Faire in May of 2023 (no one noticed, and I stayed quiet.)

Photo 2: The workplace Pride Team Member Network barbecue on June 23, 2023 where I had every intention of telling someone and just coming out, but where I caved and instead offered to take some photos as a staff photographer. I would come out to in 200+ person Pride Team Member Network group chat a just under a week later on June 29th, 2023.

#asexual #aromantic #aroace #aspec #aromantic asexual #asexuality #aromanticism #asexual joy #aromantic joy #lgbtqia #lgbtqia+#2slgbtqia+#pride month

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sophieinwonderland · 4 months ago

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Positivity anon.

You will fail then, simply put. If you continue to make yourself out as a monster, you will be reinforcing all of the things anti endos believe. You will be proving that endogenic systems are ableist towards CDD systems, in their minds, regardless of how you treat pro-endo CDD systems.

Did you treat SAS like this? I’ve been around in syscourse far longer than you have, nearly for that decade that you’ve mentioned, and on the internet for far longer than that still. I don’t remember seeing vitriol like this back then. I don’t remember you treating known “monstrous” anti-endos that way.

I don’t remember anything but kindness making this world a better place.

It’s not tone policing to let you know that actively retraumatizing anti endos will do nothing but retraumatize them. You will not make less anti endos this way. You will not make things any safer for endogenjc systems. You won’t be working toward plural acceptance.

Meanwhile, I just had another anti-endo friend of mine come to me to tell me they’ve changed, and they regret how they’ve acted. I’ve worked with this friend to remind them that, while I thought their beliefs about endogenic were horrible and dehumanizing and wrong, I believed they could be a better person, and I knew our differences couldn’t stop us from co-existing. I was the first endogenic system they knew who didn’t treat them like a monster.

When all you’re treated as is a monster, then you will stay a monster. And most days, it feels like that’s what you want. After all, if you didn’t have anti-endos, what would be left of your blog? Isn’t this all you do now? Attacking anti endos as much as possible to further instigate and traumatize them into becoming so monstrous that (somehow) they become irrelevant? I still don’t understand your logic.

This isn’t the plural future I want. When you said the future is plural, I thought you meant we would accept all systems — traumatized or not. Traumatized people will fuck up and make mistakes. Being anti endo is one of those mistakes. What you show to everyone is that making that mistake makes people irredeemable, worthy of the trauma they’ve experienced, and bigots with no hope of reaching a safe environment where they no longer feel the need to lash out.

I just want to show anti endos that there’s a way to change and grow.

Did you treat SAS like this?

Like what?

SAS and I had lots of back and forths, and they certainly weren't always kind on either side.

I didn't yell at them. I tried not to call them names. I didn't use profanity. But at least aside from the very early beginning, I wasn't warm and cuddly to them either.

But if you look at how I handle anti-endos directly when I talk to them... I don't think I've changed my tactics that much. I think if you compared how I responded to SAS 2 years ago, it's probably not much different from how I handle anti-endos directly today.

I'll make the big scary posts every now and then, but those are separate from my direct interactions with anti-endos.

I think that how I engage with individual anti-endos is the same as it's always been. I'll point out flaws in their arguments, I'll counter them with links to academic resources, etc.

I don’t remember anything but kindness making this world a better place.

What about passion?

What about righteous anger?

Would LGBT acceptance have made it as far as it has today (even with as far as it has yet to go) without the Stonewall Riots?

I am not suggesting that we are to the point where we need riots either. Nor that we're enduring the level of systematic oppression as LGBT people in the 60s. But what I am saying is that there's an alternate universe where, when the police raided, the LGBT community at the time bowed their heads and went along in silence because they didn't want to create stir. A universe where there were no riots and no gay pride parade to mark its anniversary.

In that universe, would gay marriage even be legal today?

I look around at this community, and I see so many people who are mistreated by society for being plural. But despite this, they have been conditioned to accept it. They've been conditioned to feel like there is something wrong with them for the way they are, for being plural.

And I want them to know that it's not their fault that they've been mistreated. That they've been bullied. That they've been accused of faking.

And that this shouldn't have to be the way the world is.

That we can change it.

But we can't change it if we aren't angry about it first. If we're complacent and just accept it the way it is, nothing will change.

We need to be willing to come together and loudly proclaim that we will not tolerate intolerance.

I respect what you're doing. I truly do. And I think the endogenic community needs people like you in it, who are willing to reach across to the other side.

But I think it also needs people who are willing to call bigotry what it is.

Because while kindness is great, kindness alone without passion will simply be complacency with the status quo, and acceptance of hate.

And that is unacceptable.

#syscourse

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phantex1708 · 1 year ago

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[M4M] Fantasy/Historical Roleplay Plot List (Discord only)

Hello, all! Looking for somebody to roleplay with through discord. I’ve been wanting to do a couple of different storylines, so I will share my ideas here! I’ll keep the descriptions short and sweet, as I like to work out any details with whoever I’ll be writing with. Also, I write semi-lit to advanced-lit with proper grammar and punctuation (sorry, it’s a pet peeve of mine) in the third person, past tense. I know that I go back and forth between past tense and present tense in this post, but that’s only because I'm writing descriptions, not the actual story! One last thing, keep in mind that I am totally open to changes in the plots! Don’t feel shy about telling me any ideas you may have!

Siren/Merperson and Sailor: Faolán is but a humble fisherman who spends most of his time out at sea. Having been a pirate stowaway in his angsty teen years, he still knows how to take care of himself out in the great open blue. His livelihood is selling his catches, and he doesn't particularly care for the job, but it keeps him fed and stable. One morning, he wakes up to find a not-so-happy merperson caught up in his nets. However, Faolán has no idea what to do. He’d never even seen a siren before, much less dealt with one directly. Even if he’s a grumpy, bitter man, he can't stand to leave any creature helpless like that. So, he cuts them free. What happens next is up to you and your character! (Alternative: I could use my merman, Ennius, and you could use your own sailor character!)

Reunited Childhood Friends (TW for abuse, familial death): Cody was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His whole life, he’s been a petty, privileged noble, gold in the eyes of the public. The only downside was his horrible living situation as a young child. His father, although he ran one of the most successful dairy production companies, was a cruel man who often beat him and his mother. Sometimes, he would run off from home to catch a break, and he would find himself in the company of one person each time. In truth, they were an unlikely friend, as nobles speaking with peasants was often seen as an abominable thing. Slowly, the two grew closer, becoming good friends; Cody would sneak out when he could to visit them, and they would go to meet him each time. One day, however, this friend of his stopped meeting him. In fact, he couldn't seem to find them anywhere. Of course, this left him feeling devastated and alone all over again, but there was nothing he could do; his only true friend had left, for one reason or another. The rest of his childhood wasn't much better. The beatings continued, and his father was only becoming worse. It wasn't until, when he was only sixteen, he snapped and killed the wretched man himself. This didn't go without consequence, however, as his mother nearly turned him in to the authorities, and she would have, if she hadn't become ill and passed away shortly after. Years later, Cody is now bitter and hateful. He owns the dairy company and he makes good money, but he lives a lonely life, one where he pushes away nearly everyone with his prickly nature. Imagine his surprise when his old childhood best friend decides to pop into town for a visit. They, unfortunately, are not at all welcomed back. Instead, Cody makes it clear that he resents them for leaving him right before the most difficult period of his life; he wants nothing to do with them. Of course, that’s a lie. He still cares about them deeply, but he’s hurt and reluctant to open up again. (This takes place in 1800s France, by the way!)

Royal Arranged Marriage: Sahknu, a known kingdom of elves, and (your fantasy country/any fantasy country of mine that you would like to use) have been at war for decades. The fighting has clearly taken its toll on both countries, leaving them with little supplies and thousands upon thousands of soldiers dead. Eventually, both leaders realized that they needed to put an end to this one way or another. And, to do that, King Akkar offered his youngest son’s hand in marriage, Voron. This wasn't much of an outlandish offer, as Sahknu had no care for sexuality binaries, as long as there would at some point be a blood-heir from the royal (not the goal of the roleplay, by the way; this is just an explanation of the cultural aspect). Prince Voron is a shy and timid man, not much of the fierce leader his father proclaimed him to be. He is very book-smart and has a passionate love for science and literature. Now in this unfamiliar kingdom, Voron is homesick and nervous.

Hunter and Naga: Nkosi is a fierce naga from desert regions. He is known to hoard stolen treasures in his burrow, attacking anybody who dares come close to his home. Unfortunately for him, the locals no longer want him there and have called for a monster hunter to deal with him. He is unaware of this and doesn't know what’s to come. Although, he certainly won't be happy about having his home trespassed once again.

Plague Doctor and Apprentice (heads up for serial killer-y vibes): Doctor Emyr Idris is well-known for his… interesting treatments for the plague. He is often called brutal, and borderline cruel. There are rumors that he is no doctor at all, just a man who wants to pick apart people out of morbid curiosity. Still, he is a mentor to his lively apprentice, and their difference in personalities balances well. Emyr, to his own surprise, finds that he is slowly taking a liking to them. (alternative: I could use my own apprentice character Alwyn and you would use your plague doctor!)

Let me know if any of these interest you, and if there are any changes you would like to make! I will say right away, I don't at all mind NSFW elements, I will totally write it, but I don't want smut to become the entire storyline. Anywho, please send me a chat if you’re interested!

#oc #my ocs #discord roleplay #discord rp #original character #literate rp #new rp #dnd character

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rebelsandrogues · 1 year ago

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On Mourning and Radical Music

I was doing my usual morning routine of drinking iced coffee, smoking a cigarette, and checking Twitter on Wednesday when I received a real gut-punch: Shuhada' Sadaqat (better known by her stage name of Sinéad O’Connor) was dead at 56. A beautiful soul, long-time outspoken artist and activist, and an Irish treasure. It hit harder than I’d even realized it would.

Now, to be fair, I do not have an easy time dealing with death, of anything. I sometimes get choked up seeing a cat or dog on the side of the road that has, unfortunately, been hit by a vehicle.

A good number of my personal heroes have, sadly, passed in the last 20+ years of adulthood. The first I was really affected by was Johnny Cash in 2003, but I immediately wondered why this one felt so personal. For the majority of that day I sat alone, revisiting her catalog and thinking about the reasons why. Then it dawned on me: she was one of the first musicians that truly made an impact on me from the very moment of exposure.

I must’ve been 8 or 9, in the early 90s, long before the very small town of my upbringing got MTV or Much Music. Our local TV station aired popular new wave, alt-rock, etc videos from the 80s and very early 90s. I’d stay up on Fridays, at my maternal grandparents’ house, being exposed to the likes of Devo, the Lightning Seeds, the Pet Shop Boys, and Sinéad.

I don’t exactly remember which video it was that I saw first, perhaps “Mandinka” or, most likely, “Nothing Compares 2 U”, but I distinctly remember being enthralled by something that was completely out of the ordinary and emotive, an experience I wouldn’t begin to even understand until I was much older. I was experiencing a *very* radical artist for the first time.

Now, I’m very fortunate that, for the majority of my nearly 40 years on this spinning rock, I’ve constantly been surrounded by good music. My parents are two sides of the same coin. My dad was a 70s rocker. He loves Skynyrd, Zeppelin, Bob Seger (who he’s always reminded me of), the Who, etc. Hell, he followed ZZ Top around for a while in his late teens. My mom, she was more into singer-songwriters like Neil Young, Dan Fogelberg, and, her absolute teenage favorite, John Denver (whom she invited to her high school graduation, but that’s a story for another time).

Needless to say, I had very early exposure to fantastic bands and musicians.

Now, an older cousin and her then-boyfriend enter the conversation. They loved R.E.M. (who had filmed a video in my hometown, and had album art created by a local folk artist), 10,000 Maniacs, L7, and loads of 80s “College Rock”. Her boyfriend first played me the Ramones, Minor Threat, and Black Flag around age 10. None of which I really unpacked the impact of until I was in my late mid-late teens. Thinking back on it, this early exposure set me on a course of fierce independence and learning all I could about both the musicians I loved, but also the underpinnings of what made their art special.

I remember the infamous SNL episode where O’Connor ripped up a picture of Pope John Paul II. I was nearly 10 at the time, but didn’t understand what it meant until a couple of decades later. Yet, that influence percolated, subconsciously, for so long.

Shortly after, I was exposed to the Cranberries, led by Dolores O’Riordan (another Irish treasure). I bought the cassette singles of “Linger” and “Dreams”. Then, “No Need to Argue” followed. I was immediately taken aback by it. “Zombie” is, of course, the best known song, but “Dreaming My Dreams”, “I Can’t Be With You”, “Ridiculous Thoughts”. Honestly, every track resonated with 11 year old me. I spent much of 4th grade drawing what I saw in my head as scenes from the song “Zombie”. These days I would probably have faced VERY bad consequences for that, but this was 1994. When I got my first guitar at age 12, that was the first song I learned.

In 5th grade a friend loaned me a cassette copy of the Crow soundtrack. Amidst making mix tapes of alt-rock songs off the radio, this was a turning point. Stone Temple Pilots’ “Big Empty” all but knocked me over the first time I heard it. And, as one does, I rewound and played it over and over and over.

I distinctly remember sitting outside, waiting for my grandmother to pick me up from school, with my Walkman and headphones on. I listened to that tape and my mixes (which included Gin Blossoms, R.E.M., Hootie and the Blowfish, along with many others), thinking “I’m so much cooler than all of you”.

This music was an escape. It was something that gave me life. It was something that made me feel different from everyone else stuck listening to the pop music of the era. It was special, it was my secret.

Middle school brought more discovery of punk rock (Green Day’s “Dookie”, Rancid’s “…And Out Come the Wolves”, and other typical mid-90s shit) along with ska. I was “technically” only allowed to listen to Christian music (goth bless my grandma, who didn’t give a shit one way or another, I was the favorite grandchild). This, in turn, led me to discovering Five Iron Frenzy.

They were a loosely “Christian” band that wrote songs about the removal of indigenous peoples because of manifest destiny, songs critiquing capitalism, songs about accepting people for who they were (there’s a song on a late 90s EP about the singer finding out Freddie Mercury was gay and working through it). I credit them, in retrospect, for a lot of my political and religious evolution (the band was full of communists, anarchists, and atheists).

At this point in time, the underground music scenes were pretty mixed. Very vocal bands that held varying beliefs, all played together, supported each other, exposed small-town kids, like myself, to many points of view. I read liner notes like novels, taking in every word, researching (as best I could, this was before we had the internet at home) and trying to find the bands mentioned in the “thank you” section. I was seeking out more of this feeling that had captivated me at such an early age.

I’d spend the next, nearly, 20 years playing in bands, always chasing the same feeling that felt as special as those early days of my musical journey.

I am a consummate student of music, it was (and still is) my first, and biggest love. As time has rolled on, I’ve discovered so many artists that have made me feel like I’m engaged in a secret many do not know.

In reality, that’s not at all the case. Many of these bands and musicians are widely revered, but none-the-less radical in context. From the blues of Sonhouse, to Sister Rosetta Tharpe, to Little Richard, to Link Wray, to the New York Dolls and the proto-punk of the 70s, to more modern bands like Pissed Jeans or Uniform or Soul Glo, it’s still my main love and fully has my heart.

All of this to say, I’m so happy that Ms. O’Connor, in some way, played a part in this. That, at almost 40 years of age, these artists still keep me on my toes. They continue to bring me joy and comfort. I’m eternally grateful that the ones named (and the thousands I didn’t name) existed/continue to exist, in some way. I hope they continue to inspire and change the lives of other kids like me that find out about them and feel like they hold the secret to life.

Rest in power to her and the other real heroes we’ve lost. Their impact will continue to be felt because of the art they created, and those who continue to be inspired by it.

#sinead o'connor #punk rock #inspiration #activism #music #essay

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influencermagazineuk · 1 day ago

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Guy Pearce, the actor known for his roles in films like Memento and The Brutalist, recently shared his personal thoughts on love and relationships in an interview with The Guardian published on January 18, 2025. The 57-year-old actor opened up about his past marriage to Kate Mestitz, an Australian psychologist, and the deep connection they once shared. Pearce admitted that despite their separation, he still views his ex-wife as "the greatest love" of his life. Guy Pearce and Kate Mestitz’s relationship began many years ago, back in 1980, when they met while both were studying at Geelong College in Australia. The couple quickly formed a strong bond and eventually married in 1997. For nearly two decades, they enjoyed a quiet life in Australia, away from the constant spotlight that often follows public figures, especially in the entertainment industry. During this time, Pearce’s acting career soared, but he and Mestitz kept their relationship mostly private. However, in 2015, after 18 years of marriage, Pearce and Mestitz made the decision to part ways. In a heartfelt statement to The Sydney Morning Herald, Pearce shared that their split was mutual and amicable. "Kate and I will always love and support one another and be the best of friends," he said. He further added, "No one knows me like Kate does, and we’ll forever be appreciative of our mutual respect. We’ve both grown enormously through our relationship, but sadly, the time has come to part ways." credits: wikicommons usbotschaftberlin, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons In the interview with The Guardian, Pearce reflected on the end of his marriage and how it deeply affected him at the time. He described the end of the relationship as a period of great personal struggle. "I felt like I messed up my marriage," he confessed. "I don’t feel that way anymore, but at the time I was devastated." Although Pearce has long since moved on from the pain of the separation, it was clear that the experience had been a significant part of his life. Despite the sadness of their divorce, Pearce was quick to emphasize that his feelings toward his ex-wife were rooted in deep love and mutual respect. He continued, "My ex-wife, Kate, was the greatest love of my life." This statement speaks to the profound connection they shared during their years together. Even though the relationship ended, Pearce has chosen to remember the good times, valuing the years they spent together and the personal growth that resulted from their marriage. Yet, Pearce made it clear that he has moved forward in his life. "But I’ve moved on from her now, and the greatest love of my life is my child, Monte," he added. Pearce’s son, Monte, was born in 2020, the result of his relationship with actress Carice van Houten. Pearce spoke about how fatherhood has brought him an entirely new sense of joy and fulfillment. His love for Monte is now his greatest priority, and he describes being a father as a transformative experience. In addition to discussing his past love life, Pearce also revealed the joy he feels in his current relationship with van Houten, with whom he shares a son. The couple, who have been together for several years, have maintained a relatively private life, but Pearce has expressed how grateful he is for their family. Their son Monte is the center of their world, and Pearce speaks fondly of the joy his child brings him every day. Throughout the interview, Pearce came across as someone who has found peace with his past and is fully embracing the present. His honesty about his emotions, both the joy and the heartbreak, gave insight into how deeply he feels about the people in his life. Even though Pearce has faced disappointment and heartache, he has also experienced growth, and his life has moved forward in a new and positive direction. credits: wikicommons Angela George at https://www.flickr.com/photos/sharongraphics/, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons In 2015, when Pearce and Mestitz announced their separation, Pearce also took to social media to share his thoughts. He posted a message on X, where he reassured fans that despite their decision to end their marriage, the two were still close. He wrote, "We couldn’t be closer. We love each other 4 ever." His words reflected the bond they shared, despite the decision to part ways as a couple. It’s clear that Pearce has a deep sense of gratitude for his past relationship with Mestitz, and he remains appreciative of the role she played in his life. He has also shown a strong ability to move forward and find happiness in new experiences. His son Monte has brought him a sense of joy that surpasses anything he had known before, and Pearce clearly treasures this new chapter in his life. In recent years, Pearce’s career and personal life have continued to evolve. He has remained a respected actor, known for his diverse roles in both film and television. At the same time, his family life has become a more prominent focus, and he has embraced fatherhood with great enthusiasm. Pearce’s openness about his relationships, both past and present, has allowed fans to see a different side of him—a side that is vulnerable, thoughtful, and deeply caring. Read the full article

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draiochteve · 2 years ago

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Shadowbringers being 4 years old now just has brought back so many feelings, emotions, and gratefulness that it's overwhelming. I've seen others express sentiment that the expansion saved/changed their life and it and I echo that as silly as it may seem to some.

I was in a really shitty place. Life was really looking bleak and I was running out of joy. No work, relationship issues, family making life hell, etc. I was actually mad at the game and ready to quit despite it being my primary escape (and I will confess, logging in as a scholar main that early release day 1 was difficult and I was upset enough I almost didn't give the expansion a shot). However, my partner insisted that what was ahead was meant for me and to keep going. As funny as it is to say, those damn purple trees in Lakeland is what began me letting go of my bitterness and take each step with wide eyed interest. The Crystarium was honestly more magnificent seeing in game than in the trailer. But, of all the things that planted the strongest seed in my heart, it was seeing Exarch rushing into the middle of Lakeland to find us. I need to preface this with where I was creatively and fandom wise. I was struggling on my original fiction and had just began writing fanfic again as a means to learn to stop destroying my own work because I didn't think it was up to par. I wasn't even writing in final fantasy universe (not to say I hadn't before. I use to be known elsewhere in other numbered games). And as for fandom, I had been checked out since my last major deep dive in my teens due to some traumatic shit that happened. I'd enjoy from affair, but the drive to participate again was minuscule. I was more than happy to sit and daydream about my favs in solitude. And none of my favs involved FFXIV. Cloud Strife was my fixation for nearly a decade and no FFXIV could possibly top him. There was no contest and I just wasn't invested in FFXIV enough then to even absorb the story anywhere near as much as I do now (that's a tale for another time). So, lemme tell you when I realized those first feelings of that new fandom fav love was stirring, in such an intense way that I hadn't felt SINCE I first played FFVII, something in me fundamentally changed. Am I saying the catboy rewired my brain chemistry? Considering my ridiculous G'raha fanmerch collection, yes. I found myself binging the entire expansion and finishing it the day before official launch. I was awestruck. Everything just scratched the itch right. Is it a perfect expansion? No, but it brought to the table so much that I was desperately lacking in FFXIV to get invested in the story to the depths that nearly competes with my love of Elder Scrolls.

I remember vividly laying in bed just smiling. That euphoria of having experienced a piece of media so enjoyable that you want more. You have to have more. It's that scratch many creatives in fandom know and is the backbone of our fannish society. I checked Ao3 and there was maybe 1 fic. Okay, fair, we were still in early release. So I read it, found myself still unsatisfied, but decided I'd simply play the game and goof off while I wait. 3 days in, only 1 more and I saw a pile of Emet fics instead. And this is not a bashing on Emet fans, y'all were on that sucker so fast like god bless the devil works hard but y'all work harder. But man if it didn't make my stomach sink. I'd fallen in love with characters before that next to no one cared about and not being heavily on social media at the time, I had a great fear Exarch just didn't sit right with most people are just wasn't as wonderful as I saw. Finally, a week in, I couldn't take it anymore. I realize now, looking back, people were trying to avoid putting out spoilers or were still just digesting the entire expansion. Meanwhile, here I am about to burst at the seams. And burst I did. The first story was for a friend. A silly second person POV subway AU spawned from an inside joke. I still cherish that story to this day as it was made in a moment of pure bliss following a conversation. Then, that bliss turned to anxiety and horror as I let it be public on Ao3. It didn't get much attention at the time and I still am not surprised, but that was a relief. Not too many eyes on me so I could just do whatever. "Whatever" was a feral release of Exarch fics in such rapid succession I've pondered to this day if I was possessed. I was filling a bit of a void in my life as well as in the fandom, but doing so creating was something I hadn't done in so long. It felt incredible. Looking back, it felt like I was in this little happy corner just writing away, finally not scolding myself or tearing down myself, but indulging. Just being. And bless my partner, I couldn't fucking shut up about the Exarch and I know for a while it did get on his nerves and was exhausting. But despite that, he recognized there was something growing in me that he had only seen glimmers of in our years together. It was him that pushed me to join an Exarch fan discord and to stop hiding myself away. Go meet people that are just as enamored as you. Go make those friends. I was terrified and scared that I'd regret diving in. In fact, I convinced myself I was only going to lurk which that sure didn't work out. Instead, what ended up happening was what was the final turning point towards something better. I met so many people I still talk to regularly (many still daily) who helped me find my voice, my courage, fostered my creativity, and encouraged me to keep making. I met so many other writers and artists! Soon, so many people were writing in the fandom it was hard to keep track of new stories. For a while, I was writing for them instead of myself and I don't regret that. I felt like I had found community again. And it's something that I desperately needed. Good and bad happened of course as is what happens with any fandom space. I lost some of those new friends as fast as I made them and some just weren't meant to hang around in my life. But those that are still here stand out as some of the strongest friendships I've ever had. I don't regret it one bit. I'd like to specifically blame my friend Gyoz for this (and you should totally go read her fics ) for the next stage of my FFXIV writing career which was the horny. I was so anxious to expose myself like that again in fandom space and go feral to the point I was incredibly self conscious about being judged. But she was there from the start telling me to not fucking bother worrying about that and to have fun. Be horny on main. Who cares if not everyone likes it? Just go for it. And as most here know, I did and didn't quite stop being horny on main LOL. That liberation led to more experimentation and finally led to Japhinne being born who truly has been a moon in my sky. Taking the step to let her be has opened so many doors for me that it would take another long ass post to explain, but know that she saved me. And I wouldn't have had her without shadowbringers or my friends. I went through so much shit after introducing her to the world (scary af surgery, falling outs, a lot of uncertainty with the future) but those around me and the need to write her stories were such huge factors in helping me pull myself up and not just settle to hurt alone. Saying goodbye to the Crystarium during 5.3 was distressing enough (...confession, I was so worried about Exarch's fate and how I couldn't let Japh continue in canon should he pass that I stayed up until 4AM my time to find datamined dialogue in Japanese confirming he had awaken on the Source. Once I knew, I fucking clocked out for 3 hours and immediately got to playing lol), but that final, for sure farewell upon the week before Endwalker...it was like saying goodbye to home. Things change, people come and go, stories continue. I still find myself wandering the Crystarium remembering how full it once was. Remembering the people gathering and meme-ing in shout chat while browsing the market board (cheers to the people arguing if Emet was a power bottom or not. I never got to see the end of that debate LMAO). Rushing to the Ocular to AFK, log out, or pester Exarch with his wind-up or his name. The music, the atmosphere, the everything. I have similar cherished memories from the other expansions and other zones (shout out to the BLUs self destructing around the Aetheryte in the Middy Eulmore to resummon Innocence sjfhksjdhks) but the Crystarium during 5.0-5.3 will forever be my dwelling in heart. I've gotten engaged since then, had multiple jobs and secured a steady one, have written and published over 200k of fic (with at least 50k more unpublished), and I look back and wonder where the fuck would I even be now without shadowbringers. So, if you made it to the end of this ramble, thanks for reading, and thank you shadowbringers for fucking existing.

#shadowbringers #ffxiv #I'M FEELING NOSTALGIC OKAY #drai rambles

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anitosoul · 4 years ago

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My Favorite Albums of 2020

4. Fleet Foxes, Shore

Favorite Tracks: Sunblind | A Long Way Past the Past | Jara

Fleet Foxes was one of those bands that got me into music. Like many kids who were in high school in the early 2010s and formed their initial identity around hipster pretention, I thought I was really interesting for listening to indie folk. While I genuinely enjoyed the music, it’s hard for me to say that I really connected with it past a smug aesthetic identification with “indie” just because it was cool at the time. Nearly a decade later, Fleet Foxes is still making excellent music, and is one of few bands that I’ve felt has evolved musically alongside my own personal growth and ethos similar to Vampire Weekend’s Father of the Bride or Bon Iver’s i,i. I’ve thought a lot about how I’ve changed in the past decade, experiencing my formative years entirely in the 2010s (also known in Time Crisis terms as a Tight Eight, or high school and college within the bounds of a singular decade). If there’s any lesson I can take away from the past ten years of my life, it’s gratitude and humility. Having more agency and responsibility over the choices in my life and interpersonal relationships has shown me that I don’t need to change who I am to please others and that people are just people; life doesn’t have any rules and everyone’s just trying their best. A genuine connection to and appreciation of the world and environment is also something that I’ve really developed over the past two years, and Shore feels like a culmination of these themes, tying youth and time to nature and seasons. This is most apparent on one of my favorite tracks, “A Long Way Past the Past”:

More than I had in mind More than I wish I knew And now it’s near on me Some rush of red fear And my worst old times look fine from here I know you walked this route And you might help me out You said what’s done is done I can’t turn the hand ’round But still it looks a long way down - Fleet Foxes, “A Long Way Past the Past”

When I went back to NYC for the autumn months, I decided to go to the Catskills with two of my best friends, something that I had been wanting to do but never prioritized over the allure of the city itself. We timed our trip specifically around the peak of fall foliage in early October. I saved Shore for this excursion, knowing that Robin Pecknold dropped the album specifically on the autumn equinox, signaling the last rays of summer and the beginning of long, cold nights. I don’t think I picked a more appropriate setting for listening to the album–the weekend we went out to the Catskills had some of the most gorgeous weather I’ve ever experienced, the leaves were vivid shades of yellow, red, orange, brown, and purple, and I was hanging out in a tiny cabin with close friends disconnected from the rest of the world. I later found out that Pecknold wrote a majority of the album after inspiration from a similar trip to the Catskills, and Shore‘s accompanying short film includes vibey, drawn out shots of the New England environment. Walking on the same land and physically connecting to the trees, grass, plants, fungi, and critters of the Catskills materialized my connection to this album. I thought about the trees and how long they had been there; I felt grateful for their magic, their beauty, and their wisdom. I recently read an excellent New York Times article called The Social Life of Trees that explains how older, dying trees will send their own resources and notify younger trees of dangers by communicating through underground mycorrhizal fungal networks. This challenges the traditional Darwinist notion of competitive survival and suggests that cooperation may be the key to success in nature. I’ve thought about how this could be applied to people, and felt that a lot of the themes of Shore share the sentiment. A standout lyric for me is on “Jara,” an ode to Chilean political activist Victor Jara that considers a similar transfer of wisdom from eternal figures:

Though we’re only alive a short while So many beneath my feet All weather, you walk with me And you were off on a wandering mile I was holding a weak excuse I was heavy beneath blue - Fleet Foxes, “Jara”

This theme is also clear in my favorite track on the album, “Sunblind.” Pecknold name drops his inspirations on the verse and brings us back to the present, enjoying simple times with friends in the chorus:

I’m overmatched (for Arthur Russell) I’m half as wise (Duncan and Curtis) If this is flat, brother I apologize (Jimi and David, for Nick and Otis) No one alone (For Bell and Buckley) Can leave the cave (Marvin and Adam) And all you’ve loaned won’t be kept inside a grave (For Arthur Russell, for Arthur Russell) I’m gonna swim for a week in Warm American Water with dear friends Just intending that I would delight them Swimming high on a lea in an Eden - Fleet Foxes, “Sunblind”

When I first listened to the masterpiece that is “Sunblind,” it was like every aspect of this kind-vibe crunchy appreciation for old wisdom, new friends, and the planet came together at once. I thought about all of the people who have shaped me; I thought about how I wouldn’t be who I am today without the love, support, and wisdom of friends, family, teachers, and mentors. I listened to “Sunblind” as my friend drove us down a sun-drenched hill, me sticking my head out of the window like a dog. I was sunblind. I felt like a kid. I felt like I was experiencing magic. It was the sublimity of life imitating the sublimity of art. Shore is autumn in an album.

#aoty 2020 #aoty #music #music writing #fleet foxes #shore #albums #reflects

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seresinhangmanjake · 2 years ago

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Signed Away

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader Series

Summary: You find out about the contractual marriage your parents arranged with Jake’s when you were a baby. You’re plently angered by it, but Jake doesn’t seem too bothered. He might even be happy.

Notes/Warnings: cursing, fluff, eventual smut, angst, contract marriage, loss of rights, feelings of being trapped, poor parent/child relationships.

This will be a bunch of fairly short chapters/drabbles, but considering there are generous time skips, I felt like it made the most sense. This is also just kind of a tester chapter. Idk that anyone is going to like it. As always, comments can make my bad days worth getting through, so i’ll never not appreciate them. Reblogs and likes make me smile uncontrollably, but no pressure :)

Masterlist

Part 1 - Words: 1340

For too long, it was never spoken aloud. Not by your fathers. Not by your mothers. Not by aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, cousins. And yet it was known. Expected. Silently proposed, accepted, and settled on long before you understood the role requiring your fulfillment upon your twenty-first birthday, long before you knew what a birthday even was. And it was non-negotiable. You would be Jake Seresin’s wife. You just didn’t know it. Because while everyone else had been well aware, they neglected to inform you.

-----

“You know we’re supposed to be dating, don’t you?”

That was the first thing a freshly graduated, 23-year-old Jake Seresin told you within his first week back on Texas soil. He sipped his beer as he stared out at the nearly one-hundred guests thoroughly filling out the space of his parents’ backyard for his Homecoming party.

You watched the summer heat condensation trail onto his hand from the glass bottle as he took another sip. “Excuse me?”

He smiled and waved at the partiers that did the same for him, some dressed like Sunday church-goers—clearly his parent’s guests—others laying around the pool in bikini’s so small they looked like spring breakers looking for anonymous, uncomplicated sex—his guests for sure. Abs and tits dripped with droplets of chlorinated water, drawing wet lines down their bodies that forced an onlooker’s eye to follow.

Despite it all, Jake kept his attention on you. “Nineteen, right?”

With a pinched brow, you gave him a quick questioning glance.

“I mean I know we haven’t spent a lot of personal time together in the last decade, but I’m pretty sure your birthday is the same,” he said with a devastating smirk that briefly sputtered your heartbeat.

No wonder he knew all of these tight-bodied, made-up women. They probably threw themselves at him constantly if that was the look he was shooting their way. Their glaring at you suddenly made a mountain of sense. Jealousy at its finest, solely from his proximity to another girl.

“You’re nineteen.”

Oh…right. “So?” you replied, failing at casually taking a long drink of the soda in your own bottle. You coughed when a bit of the liquid travelled down the wrong pipe, sparking the snarky chuckles from the near-naked women thirty feet away.

“So,” Jake stretched the syllable, impressively without managing to sound like an immature child. “You’re a grown woman, I’ve finally finished college, it’s only a matter of time before our sides start to ache from our mothers’ nudging elbows.”

Your scowl at his guests dropped once his words sunk it, and you paused, forgetting about anyone else entirely. You let out an unattractive snort that would’ve bloomed a dark shade of pink across your cheeks and chest had not the lunacy of what he was saying overpowered any embarrassment. “You sound like a crazy person,” you said. “No wonder we stopped being friends when we were little.”

“Yea, I’m sure the four-year age difference in school had nothing to do with it.”

What thirteen-year-old wants a nine-year-old little girl following him around? Somehow it was still fresh. You’d cried for what felt like days after he’d yelled that and promptly walked off with his friends, leaving you alone in the park to twiddle your thumbs and try to hold in the tears until you made it back to your bedroom. You didn’t have other friends to turn to. And that hadn’t so much changed as you aged.

“Look, Seresin, I don’t know how drunk you are to have crafted whatever ridiculous thoughts you have in your mind, or maybe you’re fucking with me to give your friends a show, but whatever it is, just so we’re clear, I’m not going to date you.” You gave a sharp nod, your own form of a solid pat on the back for standing up for yourself and preserving your dignity in the face of a man so irritatingly attractive. Had you not known him from the moment of your birth, you might have thrown yourself at his feet and thanked him for the consideration of being his potential partner.

He was entirely unphased and made sure you knew it by the deep chuckle he released. “Pretty sure you don’t have a choice, sweetheart,” he said. “We could wait I guess, but it’s probably best we spend the next two years getting to know one another again, I’d think. I don’t have any intention of marrying someone who has grown to be a stranger.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

-----

“Darling, stop this wild pacing,” you mother said from her seat. “It makes you look unhinged.”

To her credit, it got you to stop, but you stared at her with eyes likely wilder than a raging monkey. “Mom!”

“It’s not that big of a deal. He’s a handsome man. You’ll be fine.”

“You have got to be kidding me!” Your hands flew up in the air before they fell back to your sides, limp as a ragdoll beaten to death by fist after fist. “Why has no one, not a single fucking soul—”

“Language, young lady.”

“—ever fucking told me about this?”

“Y/N, your mouth!”

“Is that really what you care about right now!” you snapped, pointing a finger at her. “You and dad sold me off!”

She sighed, dejected at your outburst, and yet she still managed to look the prim, perfect woman she was, her hands delicately folded in her lap, legs properly crossed at the ankles. “That is not what happened.”

You scoffed. “Oh, no?”

Her head tilted and a manicured eyebrow rose. You’d recognize that gesture anywhere, too often from your childhood. She was waiting for you to get yourself together before she presented you with her speech. So you took a deep breath, allowed your arms to unweave from in front of your chest, and straightened your spine. She’d want more, but it was the best you were willing to give.

“When you were a baby,” she began, “your father and George Seresin merged their companies, as you know, and to ensure they each have a hand in the business after their deaths, they decided a merger of another form would be beneficial as well,” she paused as if that alone explained the madness, but then continued once it became clear you weren’t going to immediately snap at her. “You and Jake, as a couple, will run the company one day and—”

“And you didn’t think to share this with me?”

“Why tell you before it was necessary?”

“Jake knows!”

“That’s a recent development,” your mother said, shifting uncomfortably on the chaise longue. “And only because he inquired as to whether or not you currently have a boyfriend. Amelia felt it a good time to tell him that your relationship status with other men wouldn’t be worth the concern.”

Of course, he would get to know by asking a simple question. Of course, it would fall into his lap. His mother held a respect for him yours for you did not. A wife, for fucks sake. You would be his damn wife. And to the woman who birthed you, that acknowledgement couldn’t possibly be shown more casually. “Unbelievable,” you muttered.

“He’s very handsome.”

“As if that’s all that matters.”

She stood on her three-inch satin heels that clicked against the hardwood when she made her way over to you. A coco-butter-moisturized hand cupped your cheek. The other brushed the unruly hair from your face. “You could do much worse, darling, and I’m not sure much better. He could have waited to mention it, but he clearly wants to fall in love the old-fashioned way, and he’s willing to give you almost two whole years to fall with him.”

Smacking her hands away from your face, you took a step out of the cloud of Chanel perfume, and granted her a look that, directed at you, would’ve had you shrinking in your spot, but your mother stood firm.

“That’s not going to happen,” you said.

And you would make sure of it.

tags: @marvel-ousnesss @thespeeder @nobody7102 @marrianena @fangirlingoverfangirls @blue-aconite @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @dempy @chaoticassidy @alana4610 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @dracosluvbot @smoothdogsgirl @smit41

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goron-king-darunia · 2 years ago

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Eggtober Retrospective by @goron-king-darunia Well, there they are. Every egg-related piece I drew in October, along with the behind-the-scenes or in-progress pictures, including bonus art. Individual links will be at the end of the post. I’m gonna get sappy here, but first, a poem to tie this whole thing off before I get into the details some may want to skip. Poem for an Egg An egg is such a simple thing. Child of beasts of scale and wing. Let from this verse my praises ring, A poem for an egg. Yolk of gold in chest of white Armor crackling, feather-light. Wet albumen shining bright From a calcium-cast keg. Coated tongue with holy wine Protein and rich fat combined Sunlight nectar so divine To stain the humble bread. Toothsome sponge of firming yield, Heated skillet firmly sealed. Poached from out the plundered field, Plucked from feathered bed. Broth of life in fragile cradle, Font of youth of myth and fable, Decadent and smooth like sable, Anointed and alone. Nourishment of king and peasant Harvested from hen or pheasant. Such is nature’s oldest present To nourish flesh and bone. An egg is such a precious thing From which my inspirations spring And for the world I’ll proudly sing This poem for an egg.

Now, a little on what eggs and Eggtober mean to me as an artist. Eggs are symbolic of a lot of things. But I’ll go over the particular symbolism that felt relevant and inspiring to me. Youth - Obvious on the face of it. One way or another, baby organisms of any sort of complexity start as an egg. Baby chickens come from eggs. Fairly direct symbolism. But for me, Eggtober was connecting to a younger time in my life, where art was just something natural. Where I wasn’t pressured by my own expectations or burdened by a lot of the fetters that come with visual art. It was about connecting with that feeling of whimsy. Even my personal projects started carrying a weight of expectation to them, even though I swore to myself that the quality didn’t matter. The level of skill I achieved with art had me in that sort of Valley of Despair in the whole Dunning-Kruger graph. I knew enough to know that I had so much growing left, and my confidence fell through the floor. But Eggtober was a chance to connect with the confidence of youth, and grow the skills I’ve been nurturing that went to atrophy over nearly a decade of no (or very little) art. To just draw what felt right, learn, examine, look, tweak, practice, and grow. No external judgements. No internal judgements. Just making. And I think that’s helped me a lot.

Looking Beneath the Surface - I’ve been forced to do a bit of introspection recently. As is the human condition, I inevitably end up harming people I care about. And while a certain amount of that is unavoidable, the stuff that is avoidable stems, in part, from unaddressed self-esteem issues. Through a combination of examining my own writing, discussing with friends, and examining things that have hurt me when they ought not (i.e. I burst into tears for “no reason” because a Hershey bar had the phrase “treat for me” on the back as part of its marketing) I’ve realized that I... kind of hate myself. I have this deep-seated unease about facets of myself that I’m ashamed of. Things I think people wouldn’t accept, fears I have that I know aren’t true, anxieties about my own interests, doubts about my own capabilities. Things about myself that don’t really hurt anyone, that don’t need to be changed, upset me.

It got to the point where I was inadvertently hurting people in a desire to medicalize my own idiosyncrasies to validate them because as a psychology student, I’d internalized a pretty unhealthy “If I can name it, I can fix it” mentality. “If I can just associate this thing I hate about myself with a known disease, disorder, or mental illness, I can totally just get rid of it with the right treatment (that I don’t have access to for a variety of reasons)” And that’s not a healthy way to think about myself. Especially not about things that don’t hurt anyone. Doubly especially when those are just little things I enjoy in fiction. Things that don’t really indicate anything about me on their own.

That festering self-hatred probably stems from a lot of external sources, but ultimately, it’s the fact that it’s sitting inside me, unaddressed, that it’s become a problem. I internalized a lot of external influence meant to hurt me and decided that because others wanted to hurt me, that I deserved to be hurt. I decided that instead of examining any of that, to just accept it wholesale and that instead of changing things (which I didn’t want to change and don’t need to be changed because, again, these things don’t hurt anyone) I decided to cope with self-deprecation. Like putting on a red shirt before going on stage, expecting tomatoes. “You can’t hurt me more that I’m already hurting me. If I tell you I already know there’s something wrong with me, you can laugh with me and not at me.” Needless to say, I know that stuff isn’t healthy, and I’m more aware now that it hurts other people, not just me. For a variety of reasons, I can’t get professional help right now. But knowing at least one root of the behavior that hurts me and hurts others means I can address it. And being able to look inward will be key to growing as I move forward. Just as an egg holds a white and a yolk, my body houses a mind and its thoughts. Being able to look within and see what’s there, like candling an egg, will help me root out things that hurt others and affect my quality of life. Food and Community - I wanted to stick with an edible theme, partly because I like food, but also because food means community. Unless you’re a hermit living alone in the mountains and living off wild berries and roots, it’s basically impossible to eat something that hasn’t involved other humans in the process. Even if you cook your own food and eat all by yourself, someone picked those veggies, gathered those eggs, butchered that meat. And usually, eating isn’t something you do alone. There are reasons that going out to eat is a common activity to do with friends and dates and family and why food is a part of special occasions. Eggtober, as a challenge, was something we did together. Whether you only participated once or twice, whether you just watched, whether you did an egg every day like @quezify. It was a uniting factor. And even though lots of people have decided the plague is over, it really isn’t. And even if it was over, those years of isolation and limiting togetherness for the good of the community was rough on a lot of people. Doing something together is just nice.

Can I offer you a nice egg in this trying time? - I’ve always been an absolute slut for pink Pokemon. And while I characterize myself as more of an Audino, I really vibe with Blissey for this. “Blissey senses sadness with its fluffy coat of fur. If it does so, this Pokémon will rush over to a sad person, no matter how far away, to share a Lucky Egg that brings a smile to any face.” “Anyone who takes even one bite of Blissey's egg becomes unfailingly caring and pleasant to everyone.” More than anything, I want to live a life of kindness and making others happy. I’m not always able to live up to that. But I strive for it. Various media characterize various things as nourishing and nurturing. And while the poster-child food for that in the USA seems to be Chicken Soup, the egg is only a degree or two removed from that. And while the best known pop-culture reference on this site which uses the egg as a short-hand for affection has been memed to hell and back, I think it has more sincere implications in my art. Even if it’s only one person, I just want to make this world a little better for someone. I want to be kind, patient, nurturing. I want to embody love. I know I’m only human. I know it can’t always be unconditional. And I know I can’t always be the best me every moment of every day. But I hope if there’s a stat sheet at the end of life that my metric for kindness, compassion, and love is my highest stat.

Final Thoughts: Eggtober’s been an artistic adventure. I learned a lot about the raw mechanics of making art, trained my eyes, my hands, refined my process. But it’s also been emotional. I’ve been crying writing some of this. Growth is a series of small steps and consistent choices, and I’d like to think I’ve come out the other side of this month a markedly better person than I was before, in more ways than one. I’m no stranger to sadness and depression. In fact, in terms of Pixar’s Inside Out, I’d pretty soundly say I’m “Captained by Sadness,” as the visual metaphor goes. But even with things outside my control, even with the crying, even with the concretely bad day, October was a good month. In no small part due to drawing for Eggtober. I’m a characteristically weepy bitch, so not all of these tears are sad tears. But there’s definitely a melancholy setting in. It’s been nice doing all this, and it’s a little sad for it to be over. But there’s also relief. I can get back to a few other projects I put on the backburner. I can free up brainspace for other creative pursuits and I can be a bit more spontaneous. There’s also an overwhelming joy that comes with being able to see I completed something. Just putting everything together into one collage to see all I’ve made was an emotional endeavor. Being able to put something out there in the world and say “I made something. Something that didn’t exist before exists now, because of me.” I’m trying not to cry because it’s over. I’m trying to smile because it happened. We all did something great together. I don’t think I’ve had a happier month, even with everything. Thank you to everyone who participated. This was a wonderful experience. My askbox is open for anyone that might want to put in an egg request, even if Eggtober is over now. If you all have any favorites, I’ll consider setting up shop and running prints if you want to support me. But until then, I hope you all are safe, fed, warm, and loved. All Eggtober Art, in order, Left to Right, Top to Bottom: Eggtober 1 - Fried Egg Eggtober 2 - Deviled Eggs Eggtober 3 - Toad in the Hole Eggtober 4 - Eggs Benedict Eggtober 5 - Hard Boiled Eggs 3 Ways Eggtober 6 - Poached Egg Eggtober 7 - Soft-Boiled Eggs Eggtober 8 - Scrambled Eggs Eggtober 9 - Mushroom and Cheese Omelet Eggtober 10 - Bibimbap Eggtober 11 - Tonkotsu Ramen with Egg Eggtober 12 - Avocado Toast Eggtober 13 - Çilbir or Turkish Poached Eggs Eggtober 14 - EGGxperiment (Naked Egg) Eggtober 15 - Scotch Egg Eggtober 16 - Tamago Nigiri Eggtober 17 - Ikura Nigiri Eggtober 18 - Egg Salad Eggtober 19 - Mooncake (Featuring Salted Egg Yolk) Eggtober 20 - Minimalist Shakshuka Eggtober 21 - Huevos Rancheros Eggtober 22 - Impressions of Broccoli Quiche Eggtober 23 - A Cube of Egg Casserole Eggtober 24 - Tamago Kake Gohan Eggtober 25 - The Imposter or “The Egg Plant” Eggtober 26 - Century Egg or “Beyond Reach” a Starbot Fanart Eggtober 27 - Soy Grilled Quail Eggs Eggtober 28 - Pickled Egg with Radish Slices Eggtober 29 - Cloud Egg Eggtober 30 - Halloween Meringues Eggtober 31 - Cadbury Screme Egg

Eggtober Bonus 1 - Intermission Collaboration Eggtober Bonus 2 - Sushi Eggs Eggtober Bonus 3 - Zucchini Egg Casserole Behind the Scenes 1 - Bibimbap, But Just the Veggies (Under Cut) Behind the Scenes 2 - Avocado Toast, Emphasis on the Tomato (Under Cut) Behind the Scenes 3 - Starbot Fan Art without Pixelation (Under Cut)

#Eggtober 2022 #Eggtober Retrospective #my art #my writing #poetry #It's been a hell of a ride #trying to take what I learned this month with me moving forward #both the art stuff and the self-reflection stuff

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storiesforallfandoms · 4 years ago

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bloodlust ~ jasper hale;twilight

word count: 1754

request?: yes!

“I’m not sure if you do Twilight, but if so can you please write a Jasper Hale x reader where it’s just him coming to terms with his feelings and trying not to push the reader away just cause they’re human. Thank you no matter what love :))”

description: when she thinks he’s avoiding her because he hates her, he has to tell her his biggest secret

pairing: jasper hale x female!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of death

masterlist (one, two)

I didn’t understand Bella’s extreme obsession with Edward Cullen after they started dating until Jasper Hale started showing me the same attention.

I had known Jasper since the Cullens moved to Forks. Or rather I knew of Jasper. Much like his adopted siblings, Jasper kept to himself or to the Cullens. It wasn’t until our English teacher paired us together for a project that I finally got to know him.

Despite the whole school knowing that Jasper and Alice were together, I started to notice that the way he looked at me, or the way he treated me, mirrored Edward and Bella’s own romance. And before I knew it, my feelings also mirrored Bella’s.

I felt on top of the world to have the attention of such a beautiful man. I felt unworthy, but at the same time I felt a sense of pride. And overall, I felt strong, romantic feelings for Jasper; feelings I was sure he had for me as well.

Until he started ignoring me suddenly. He wouldn’t talk to me, he changed seats in English class to be further away from me. He wouldn’t even look at me when we were in the same room.

“He hates me,” I said to Jessica as Jasper drifted past me in the lunchroom without acknowledgement once again. “I don’t now why, but that’s the only reason I can think of that he’d be ignoring me.”

“Or Alice has him back on her chain,” Jessica suggested with a shrug.

“He and Alice broke up a while ago, Jess,” Angela pointed out. “Didn’t you know that?”

I laughed as Jessica shook her head. “The great gossip of Forks didn’t know something? Mark the calendar, Angela, this is a historic day.”

Jessica threw her nearly rock hard dinner roll at me.

That evening while I was home alone, a knock came at my front door. Confused, I went to answer. I was shocked to see Jasper stood there, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Jas?” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“I owe you an explanation,” he told me. “Care for a drive?”

I followed him to the flashy sports car he drove, one of very few in all of Forks - the others belonging to his siblings. He held the door open for me as I got in. He was in the driver’s seat and had the car started before I even had my seatbelt on.

Jasper’s driving was way too fast, and he was weaving in and out of the cars too carelessly. I was starting to regret my decision to get in his car. One hand was gripping the passenger door so tightly my knuckles were white. Jasper noticed and chuckled.

“Relax, I drive like this all the time,” he assured me.

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better,” I muttered. Jasper chuckled again, which made me slightly annoyed.

After some time, Jasper pulled up to a hiking trail a short ways out of town. I watched him unbuckle his seatbelt and get out of the car. He paused, waiting for me to follow. I was starting to feel panicked and wondered why I had decided to go with him. Why had he brought me out here alone? Why hadn’t I told anyone where I was going before I left home?

We walked in silence for a while. I started falling behind, stumbling over the twigs and rocks. At one point I almost fell, but Jasper was quick to steady me.

“I forgot you can’t walk as quickly as I can,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” I asked, but he had already started walking again.

We came to a clearing where the sun was just peaking through the trees. Jasper paused, looking back at me for a moment. “This is going to look silly for a moment, but know there is something serious underneath it.”

Before I could ask, Jasper stepped into one of the sunny patches. I gasped as his skin lit up like a diamond under light. He looked anywhere but at me, as if afraid to see what my reaction to this was.

I approached him slowly, extending a hand towards him. I poked some exposed skin, wondering if I was about to find out I was dreaming or that Jasper had never been real to begin with. His skin was cold and hard as stone, and I realized in that moment that I had never touched Jasper’s bare skin before.

“What is this?” I asked. “What are you showing me?”

“I heard you talking to Jessica and Angela at lunch today,” he explained, “about whether or not I hated you and if that was why I was avoiding you. But the truth is I was avoiding you for the opposite reason. I don’t hate you, (Y/N). I never could, but I’m dangerous. To you, anyways.”

I stepped back, feeling very uneasy. “What do you mean, Jas?”

“I’m not...human,” he explained. “And I haven’t been for decades. There are many names for what I am, but the most commonly used is vampire.”

I felt like the air had been knocked out of me. I was convinced this was some sort of practical joke on me, but I didn’t think any of the Cullens were capable of doing that.

“Are...are all of you...” I started, trying to find my words.

“We are,” he confirmed. “Carlisle found all of us and changed most of us. There’s a very long history about our family. I won’t go into it now, I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked him.

Jasper stepped out of the light, his skin almost immediately returning to normal. Every logical part of me was telling me not to let Jasper get closer to me, but at the same time I trusted him. I didn’t think he was going to hurt me, I trusted him not to hurt me.

He reached out for me, but hesitated. Against my better judgement, I stepped forward to let him touch me. His hands were cold against the skin on my exposed arms. His golden eyes looked down into mine and I felt myself subconsciously leaning into his body.

“Because I feel something for you that I’ve never felt for anyone besides Alice before,” he told me. “And I know you feel the same way for me. I tried to distance myself for your safety. I’m still new to living with humans as I was the last to join the Cullen’s lifestyle of just feeding from animals, but I realized that was only hurting you more. I needed to tell you so that you could make your own decision about how you felt for me.”

He was right, it was a lot to take in. I had so many questions, but at the mention of Alice I realized there was one outstanding question I needed answered before we went any further.

“What about you and Alice?” I asked. “You two have been together...I guess basically forever. What made you two decide to break up?”

“Alice, Edward and I all have special powers that we developed after we were changed. Edward can read minds, I can feel and manipulate emotions - which is how I know for sure that you feel the same way for me - and Alice can see the future. She saw many visions that included you - most of which included the two of us in a romantic setting. I told her it would never happen because I loved her so much, but she was so sure I’d love you too. She told me to wait until we were paired up for that project and I’d actually get to know you, then I could make that decision.”

I winced. Knowing that Alice saw visions of her boyfriend falling in love with another woman - a human at that - before Jasper even knew I existed made me feel guilty.

“Was she angry?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

Jasper laughed, a beautiful sound that echoed through the otherwise empty woods. “Not at all. If anything, she was excited. She claims that you two are going to be best friends the way she is with Bella, and she’s very excited to have another female in the family. That is...if you’re still willing to be with me with...what you know now.”

I had to admit, the thought of the person I was in love with being a vampire was terrifying. Not because of the needing to drink blood to live - like I said, I trusted Jasper. If his or any of the Cullens’ desire for blood was a risk, they wouldn’t be living amongst humans. But the thought of growing old while Jasper remained the same age forever, of him eventually not wanting to be with me because of that age difference was terrifying. And the alternative...I didn’t want to consider that right now.

I moved closer to Jasper. He moved his hands to my waist, pulling me so that my body was touching his. Our lips were inches away, and I finally leaned in to close the gap between us.

His lips, much like the rest of his body, were cold, but I felt a sensation when kissing him that I had never felt before. I placed a hand against his face, gently stroking his hard skin as our lips moved perfectly together. His grip around my waist tightened a little, but not enough to hurt me. It felt more like he was making sure I wouldn’t disappear on him.

I pulled away first, resting my forehead against his. “I hope that gives you your answer.”

He smiled and I felt a happy sensation wash over me. I remembered he said he could manipulate the emotions of others and I wondered if his happiness was so strong that it was effecting me as well, or if he wanted me to know how happy he felt.

“We should get you home,” he said. “Your parents will probably be worried sick if they come home and you’re missing.”

“You’re right,” I said. I reluctantly pulled him his grasp, but took his hand in mine as we walked back to the car. “But can you not drive like a maniac on the way home? I’d rather not die of a heart attack in your car.”

Jasper chuckled. “No promises. One thing you have to learn about vampires, we love to go fast.”

#jasper hale #jasper hale imagine #jasper hale x reader #jackson rathbone #jackson rathebone imagine #jackson rathbone x reader #twilight #twilight imagine #twilight saga #imagine #one shot #request #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom

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whirlybirbs · 4 years ago

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( this chapter’s gif by @ransomflanagan from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 5/?

summary: your plan goes to asbolute shit.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 9k, please pray for my fingers

a/n: there’s action, there’s gunshot wounds, there’s canon appropriate violence! this one has a lot of plot, a lot of action, and i truly want to sleep for seven days after writing this. you should listen to the glass cannon’s club playlist while you read, though, for vibez.

( PREVIOUSLY | AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT )

You do have a plan.

Maybe it’s a little vague, a little messy, and a little up-in-the-air, but it’s a plan.

Get in, find Kiwi, avoid a handful of unsavory characters, and access the Alexandria Library.

Getting the hell out The Glass Cannon once you and Bucky were in was going to be a whole different plan entirely — one that was more improv than anything else. Hopefully, running a quick facial recognition program wouldn’t take long. With any luck, it would get a hit on any more recent aliases Innessa Sidrova was using after parsing the motherload of information Kiwi held onto with her life.

Kiwi wasn’t always known as Kiwi. She worked at SHIELD, like you, and back then she was known as Suji Awal. She stuck around longer — and she’d stayed on board during the active collapse to do heaven-sent work. It was an absolute Hail Mary, but while HYDRA had tried to purge all of SHIELD’s cloud data to protect their active agents and decades of progress, Suji had beat the hare in the race. Two steps ahead, she’d managed to pull nearly 97% of all confidential data including mission reports, agent profiles, and even electronic correspondence. While the metaphorical fire burned the documents behind her, she’d managed to salvage one of the only surviving, comprehensive looks at SHIELD before the curtain was pulled back to reveal HYDRA’s infection.

It had been used to try multiple HYDRA agents in the wake of it all in the federal courts. It was significant evidence, but after nearly all was reaped from the crop, Suji had taken the aptly named Alexandria Library and gone underground. Now, Kiwi was just another hacker in the thick of it and the Alexandria files were all but whispers.

It’s all about knowing the right people in the end.

Kiwi was a regular at The Glass Cannon. There was a nine out of ten chance you’d find her there. And if you didn’t find Kiwi, you’d probably find Climber and… Well, going to him wasn’t the most ideal situation, but out of the menagerie of acquaintances you’d gathered up throughout the years, you could trust Climber. He’d send you Kiwi’s way if you finally called in that favor he owed you. Either way, you’d find her and you’d get the files.

You just needed to avoid Alexei Gardzov.

Easy. Ish.

In truth, you barely get anything done Thursday — you’re too preoccupied in your head, running over the so-called plan even now as you fold laundry in the basement of your apartment complex.

You’d dug around in your closet, trying to find some semblance of an outfit. It was difficult. It wasn’t like the barely-there dresses and platform shoes were your thing anymore. Back then, your diet was mostly energy drinks and alcohol — in a way, it’s a relief to find that a good number of your staple outfits no longer fit. It made you feel like you really had put all this behind you.

You have.

Sure, it was the Rabbit you were going to have to be for tonight, but you’re not the Rabbit you were eight years ago. Good thing, too. You’re not too sure you and Bucky would have gotten along otherwise. Right now, your relationship with him was the biggest thing keeping you afloat — for the first time in a long time, you feel like you have some sort of purpose, even if it was a vague one at best.

You knew Innessa Sidrova was a threat — and you knew Bucky had to remedy that threat. You knew he felt responsible for creating her, for planting her in a position of power where she could manipulate and control. In truth, there was still a lot of vagueness surrounding his past. He’d made it clear he hasn’t been himself for a long time, but you couldn’t bring yourself to wade through the muck of his trauma to pluck out your answers. It just felt wrong.

If you were to say you hadn’t been tempted to go out on your own and dig, that’d be a lie.

Even now, as you pull out the ink-black top from the dryer and fold it neatly on top of the other pieces of laundry needed for tonight, you can feel it sparking like a lighter in the back of your head.

He was keeping something from you.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You nearly jump six feet in the air.

It’s Miss Bonnie — and she’s laughing when her feet touch the cold concrete of the unfinished floor. Her basket of laundry is balanced neatly on her hip, and she walks with a smirk on her face. Her hair is piled neatly on top of her head, and as she bends to plop the basket down, she offers a wink.

“I could hear you thinking from upstairs,” she ruminates, paisley and dyed skirts kissing the ground, “Like a little steam engine.”

You laugh quietly into your task. You duck your head and heft a black bra and jeans from the dryer. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

She looks up, eyes moving carefully from the laundry pile to your face. Her eyes glimmer with quiet curiosity. “And a big night planned, huh?”

You snort. “What was the giveaway?”

“It’s always the lacey bras,” she chirps and slides a smirk your way as she waggles a finger at your pile, “And the strappy little bodysuit was a good hint, too.”

You exhale with a laugh, bracing a hand against the dryer. She’s not wrong — you’d really forgone comfort with this outfit lineup. It was temporary, though, and well worth the efforts if it meant helping Bucky tick off a name from his list of amends. You knew how much those meant to him.

“So,” she continues, voice muddled as she continues to load the washer, “I take it this friend of yours is really helping you out of your shell?”

“I guess so. Yeah. It’s — It’s sort of a mutual shell-cracking, I guess.”

“Mm,” a hum, “You sound troubled, though.”

Your mouth opens as your fingers trace the line of the bodysuit. You pause, and you rock back on your heels. Miss Bonnie notices.

She waits patiently, bent at the knees.

“You ever just…” you wave your hand, “Feel like — I don’t know. He’s my friend. My best friend, honestly, and that’s… Really saying a lot. But, there’s stuff under the surface and I know it’s not my business but…”

Out comes a strangled groan.

“What? Like a crazy ex-girlfriend?”

“No, no — I don’t think so,” you mutter, “Wouldn’t surprise me, though.”

“Handsome?” she asks, smiling.

You close your eyes and ignore the smile on your face as you reply. “Yea, handsome.”

“Well, have you tried asking?” she shrugs as she stands, “Not about the crazy ex, but about the stuff you’re worried about? It never hurts.”

“Problem is, I don’t really think it’s too much of my business.”

Miss Bonnie hums at that and presses the start on her washer. She’s quiet for a bit, swaying slightly as she weighs the conversation and you watch — enamored with the older woman’s calm wisdom. She gestures openly with ringed hands.

“I think it’s normal for us to want to know everything about those we care about,” she says, “We want to know how we can protect them, how we can comfort them. But… it comes in due time. All of it does. You’ll find a time when he does open up about the ex, or whatever it is on his mind. You’re friends, after all.”

You’re nodding, chest tight with thanks.

Miss Bonnie’s face is soft.

“You got a picture?” she chirps like a bird looking for a worm, “I wanna see who this little friend is. And if he really is as handsome as you’re suggesting...”

You scoff and lean to dig out your phone.

“Cut it out,” you mumble as she moves closer, “No playing matchmaker.”

“Sure, sure,” she waves, leaning to watch as you scroll through your camera roll.

The only photo you have of Bucky is there from Tuesday night — after he’d housed nearly an entire container of noodles and promptly passed out during the third Lord of the Rings movie. You’d woken up around one in the morning to find that Poke had unceremoniously curled up on top of the supersoldier’s chest. Bucky’s hand was still in the calico’s fur as he dozed, the colors of the TV painting his face all sorts of peaceful. You’d taken the photo, shoving it in his face after gently nudging him awake.

He’s laughed.

You gesture to show Miss Bonnie.

Like ice, she freezes.

You notice a microexpression dart across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. You can’t pin it, but the way she bends to pull the phone closer and zoom in on her face comes off as interest. You blink, label it as shock, and move on.

Her voice sounds different.

“Handsome,” she mumbles plainly, preoccupied with the sight, “I get it now. What’s his name?”

“Bucky,” you say as she hands the phone back, “He’s… He’s a good person.”

Miss Bonnie just nods.

You tuck your phone away and plop your laundry into your basket. Ignoring the sudden quiet that had crept between you both, you haul up the stack and offer her a gentle smile. She’s fiddling with the washer’s timer.

“Thank you, Miss Bonnie.”

“Of course,” she rushes out, smiling gently, “And be safe tonight.”

“I will.”

With your promise, you ascend the stairs.

In that basement, Bonnie McLayne is no more, and instead, Innessa Sidrova remembers that night in Moscow, back in 1975.

She remembers the Winter Soldier.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Bucky calls you three times with no answer.

Normally, he’d just give up — but it was Thursday, and you weren’t answering the buzzer to your apartment either. He tries his best to ignore the strike of panic that sparks in his chest. It could stoke a wildfire, really, but he pushes it down and remembers to breathe. He doesn’t let himself think about what he’d do if something happened to you.

After all, you’re probably fine. Sleeping, maybe. The both of you had a long night ahead.

(Longer than either of you realize, really.)

It’s nearly seven o’clock, and after trying your cell one more time from his perch on your apartment’s stoop, Bucky decides to say fuck it.

A well-adjusted person might frown upon what he was about to do, but Bucky wasn’t exactly well-adjusted, now was he?

He rounds the back alley with long strides and easily finds that, with a little maneuvering, he can hoist himself upwards on top of the nearest dumpster. With a well-timed hop, he can also snag the bottom of the fire escape’s ladder and haul it downwards. The rest is easy, and he’s scaling the fire escape to the third floor with ease before he even knows it.

There’s even a smug little smirk on his face the whole time he does.

Finding your window is a little harder, but Bucky eventually spots Poke’s round little body smushed against the glass — it’s a dead giveaway, and after some prowling, he finds the window to your living room and unceremoniously throws it open.

It’s unlocked, for whatever reason, and he makes a mental note to have a conversation with you about safety and security in the city. After all, you never knew when an ex-assassin supersoldier was going to break in and pet your cat.

Upon opening the window, he pieces together pretty quickly why you’re not answering. Could be the music coming from your bedroom, or even the singing that’s coupled alongside it. From the bathroom across the hall from your room, steam has settled above on the ceiling. The whole apartment smells like fruit and soap and perfume and Bucky’s not really sure how to parse through all the sensory experiences that greet him with he shimmies in through the window, legs first.

All in all, they make him smile.

Bucky shuts the window behind him as he’s quickly greeted by Poke — the calico offers a gratuitous little chirp when Bucky bends to scoop up the cat. Easily, he melts. Poke is purring loudly in his ear as Bucky takes a moment to survey your apartment a little bit closer. Mr. Poke Bowl rubs his face against Bucky’s stubble as the man weaves through the kitchen.

It’s very you.

He isn’t really sure what that means at the end of the day, but all he knows is that he feels at home here. He feels safe. He feels comfortable. He feels like he can be himself. Not James, not Sergeant Barnes, not The Winter Soldier. Not even Steve’s Bucky, but just… his Bucky. Himself. Sarcastic and exhausted and a little cynical.

Bucky lets Poke down on the counter and moves to the fridge.

There’s still beer from the other night in there, tucked in the back, so he makes easy work on popping open a bottle and busying himself with petting a very adamant Poke.

As he sips the Leinenkugel, it’s no small coincidence that his phone buzzes again — for what feels like the hundredth time today — with a message from Janelle.

She was nice — pretty, too. Once upon a time, she would have been his type.

That was before he met you, though.

There’s a little pinprick of mortification at that quiet confession that’s been slipping into his heart more and more in the last few days. You are, after all, his best friend. He’s your best friend. Guilt swims with the feelings that have begun to pluck his heartstrings and he has to admit he’s not too comfortable with the song they play.

His biggest fear is fucking this up.

Fucking you up.

Honestly, his track record isn’t great. The whole defrosted-international-threat bit made it a little difficult to date. Janelle seemed to think the date had gone well enough, though, hence the handful of texts he’d been getting every few hours asking if he’s free.

Like usual, he ignores them.

Exercising his own free will is hard sometimes. Especially when it comes to saying no.

Taking another swig of the beer, Bucky shoves his phone back into his pocket and tucks his fingers back into Poke’s fur. The calico’s tail swings patiently as he sits and watches — and it’s a little weird how human his eyes are for a second there. He mmrrps and lunges for Bucky’s hand when he comes close, bonking his head eagerly against the cool vibranium.

It’s a different sensation.

That’s another big adjustment — learning how things really feel with this new arm. It’s not just handling recoil or gripping knives or throwing punches. It’s the soft tickle of fur, the gentle pressure of a warm rag to clean the joints. Meticulous upkeep wasn’t something HYDRA did often. He doesn’t miss the twinge of pain and molasses-like stickiness that came with a dirty arm. Blood was the worst. Always sat deep in the cracks.

He flexes his fingers. Poke meows again.

He moves to plop down on the couch. Poke follows.

You’re singing, still, to some song that Bucky’s never heard, when you push open your bedroom door and move towards the living room.

You jump six feet in the air and scream when you see him just sitting there, clutching a beer and petting Poke like he fucking lives here rent-free.

Bucky’s reaction is muted, mostly because he’s a little too preoccupied with your outfit and your jewelry and the pink eye shadow that creeps up your brow-bone. There’s glitter on your eyelids and lip gloss on your mouth and he can smell some sort of candy-sweet perfume coming off you. The plunging neckline of the jet-black top is enough to leave him shifting his gaze back up to your startled expression with a tight jaw.

His face is blank.

Then he offers that stupid fucking smile he does. Y’know, the tight-lipped one where he somehow maintains a dead-eyed look the whole time. If you weren’t trying to calm your racing heartbeat, you might have laughed. You hate the white-hot flare it sparks in your chest.

“How the fuck did you get in here?” you hiss, waving your hands.

“We need to have a serious conversation about locking our windows,” he says as he kicks his feet up on the coffee table and wags a finger at you, “Also, what are you wearing?”

“You — You fucking broke in through my window?”

“Yea, well, you were too busy pretending to be Britney Spears to hear me try and buzz up, and my phone calls.”

Sheepishly, you cross your arms. “Nice reference—”

A shrug from Bucky. “Thank you.”

“—Also, what are you wearing?”

He looks down at his usual t-shirt, leather jacket combo. He squints back up at you.

“I’m sorry,” he chirps, “You’re talking to me? Did the department store run out of fabric, Rabbit?”

You self-consciously adjust the plunging neckline of the bodysuit as you frown deeply. “I think I’m gonna skip on the fashion advice from the man who lived in a time where ankles were seen as scandalous.”

“I was born in 1917,” he mumbles as he stands, actively avoiding another pass over your outfit because as much as he hates to admit it, it’s not a bad look on you, “Not 1817.”

“Point being, we’re going to a club. And you look like you’re going to the local Home Depot,” you move to snag a set of dangly earrings that are sitting on the coffee table, “We’ve gotta look like we’re there to party, nothing more.”

Bucky sighs. He finishes the beer, places the bottle down and sheds his jacket. “So, what?”

You pry your eyes away from the flash of skin — his arm, flesh and blood, speaks to how strong he is. And, undoubtedly how easy it was for him to fucking scale three stories of the fire escape to bust in.

“So,” you mumble as you thread the earring in, “I have some of Jaimie’s old shirts. There’s probably something you can use… If they fit.”

Bucky exhales softly. “You kept them?”

“Didn’t have the heart to throw them out,” you reply as you gesture for him to follow you into your bedroom.

The back of your top is arguably more crisis-inducing than the front — it’s an open back, and Bucky settles on admiring the decor rather than the curve of your spine. He has to. For his own fucking self-composure.

Your bedroom is nice — and like the rest of your space, it makes him feel comfortable. It’s all warm colors and posters and plants in the corners. Across from your queen-sized bed, there’s a large desk with a triple monitor setup. That’s where the music is coming from. The little knick-knacks on your shelves and desk make him chuckle.

Then, he stops, halfway to the closet, and stares.

You blink over your shoulder as you bend, digging to the back of your closet to pull out the clear bin you’d piled most of Jaimie’s stuff into after the funeral. After you’d cleaned out his apartment on your own.

He’s looking at the poster — the one from Cap’s USO tour. It’s framed nicely, set up on the wall beside your desk. It’s got a gold frame, and Bucky can’t help but wander closer to look at the signature.

It’s Steve’s alright.

“How much did you pay for this?”

You scoff. Your necklaces tinker together. “Don’t even go there.”

“The jerk signed thousands of these,” he mumbles, crossing his arms as he leans closer, “And still, the fame didn’t go to his head.”

You smile softly, leaning back.

“Jealous?” you chirp, raising your brows as you pretend to swoon, “Oh, Sergeant Barnes, I’d just love to meet your dear friend—”

Bucky’s laughing as you swat at his knee, leaning back on the carpet like a damsel in distress.

“Shut up,” he snorts, “It’s a sore subject for me.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious — do you know how many dates I had to set up for the chump? And then, boom. I’m invisible.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter with a smile, unclicking the lid, “Some people just like blondes, Buck. I’m sure there were plenty of eyes on you. Stop being so dramatic.”

“Yea, the best friend, sure,” he mumbles at the poster, “Hell, he was taller than me. You know you don’t need to lie to me—”

“Listen, if I was some Lauren Bacall-looking nurse back then,” you wave your hands, “I’d have gone for you. Alright? Stop lamenting and get over here.”

He goes quiet and ignores the warmth in his cheeks. He squats by your side. “Shut up.”

“We seriously need to work on taking compliments,” you groan, throwing your head back, “I’m being serious, y’know, for once. And I’m not just saying it as your friend. You’re handsome and everyone knows it except you, apparently. My neighbor agrees that’s for sure.”

He squints.

You wave it off and gesture to your outfit. “She saw me doing laundry.”

“That explains nothing,” Bucky deadpans, “Literally nothing.”

“I showed her a picture,” you cry indignantly, moving to shuffle through some of the old t-shirts sitting on top of the bin, “Relax.”

He moves to plop down, crossing his legs beneath him. He decides to let the topic die — again, for his own self-composure more than anything. The compliment, though vehemently denied by the worst part of him, is tucked neatly in the homes of his heart. The idea of meeting you, before now, is a little intoxicating. What would it have been like?

Would you have even spared him a dance?

Bucky rubs his cheek. Poke meows and buts the door open with his head.

You’re wrist-deep in the bin when you speak. “He’s obsessed with you, y’know.”

Poke has already taken up a post in Bucky’s lap. Bucky smiles, petting Poke gently with his vibranium hand. The cat seems to like the cool metal. Bucky mumbles softly down to the calico, scritching his cheeks. “I like him, too.”

You pause long enough to try and remember the sight.

Bucky’s eyes find yours, and you’re quick to turn back to the bin.

“Here we go,” you exhale as you pull out the shirt you’d been looking for.

It’s a long-sleeve button-down, one that you can distinctly remember Jaimie wearing to his engagement party’s after-party — a real typical night of Jaimie being Jaimie. It’s black with a barely-there red floral pattern. It’s flashy enough that Bucky won’t look horribly out of place.

The only problem is Jaimie was a little smaller than Bucky.

“Try this on,” you mumble as you dig around trying to find something else in case it doesn’t do the trick.

Bucky catches the silk shirt and gives it a once over. He raises an eyebrow, and deciding against debating this, he simply nudges Poke off his lap and stands.

He moves to your bed, laying the shirt out. On your closet door is a full-length mirror. You want to snap it in half when you accidentally catch a glimpse of Bucky hauling off his black, cotton t-shirt and anxiously fumbling with the buttons on Jaimie’s old shirt. You have to breathe — and remind yourself that that’s Bucky.

Your Bucky. Your best friend Bucky.

When he calls your name, it sounds far away. You’re busy angrily sorting through old clothes.

“I look ridiculous.”

When you turn around, the first thing you notice is that it’s a little tight. Not in a bad way, but the buttons are gapping along his chest, and it’s tight around his arms.

Your eyes widen a little and you swallow. You tilt your head.

Bucky’s frowning.

“Let me see,” you offer gently, standing and moving close, “It’s not that bad.”

“You don’t sound too sure right now,” he mumbles as you enter his personal space.

You’re nimble with undoing the top three buttons — it gives him enough room to move his shoulders, though, and the dip of the shirt along his sternum brings dog tags into view. You reach, momentarily entranced, and read them to yourself.

You smell like vanilla and sugar.

Bucky shifts in his boots.

“Y’know,” you say, moving to the sleeves, “I think this works.”

You roll the sleeves, stopping at his forearm.

When you step aside, Bucky can see himself in the full-length mirror. He looks less than enthused.

It’s not an entirely bad look — he’ll admit that much — but he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s too much chest and skin and… Christ, this shirt is tight. He does, though, look like some of those trendy folks he sees at Izzy’s bar every now and again. Hipsters.

“I look like a douchebag.”

“That’s the point,” you chirp as you close the box and shove it back into your closet, “Now the outfit matches the personality.”

He swats at your head on the way by. You laugh.

You’ve got boots in your hand, and you land on the bed with a bounce. Bucky is busy fixing his hair in the mirror while you zip up the thigh-high boots. When he turns around, you’re about three inches taller. He blinks, yet again entranced by the outfit.

Then, you’re muscling on the jacket.

It’s neon pink — and shaggy and cropped. It falls just above your waist and swallows you whole. But, Bucky’s attention is mostly on the back.

There’s a large, white embroidered Playboy bunny there, with RABBIT written across the shoulders in a chunky, blackletter typeface.

His brows are high on his face when you turn around.

You freeze.

“...What?” you ask, “Something on my face?”

“Playboy bunny, huh?”

You could smack him. “Weren’t you busy being a frozen dinner when Playboy came out?”

“I’ll have you know,” he says tightly as he follows you out of your bedroom and to the living room, “The Russians enjoyed their fair share of editions.”

“The Russians? Sure, what’s that saying? There’s no sex in the USSR?” you chide, “You can just say Bucky Barnesenjoyed his fair share—”

The tips of his ears are red. You notice. It makes you split into a grin that worsens the pink shade that’s crawling up his neck.

He coughs. “Have you ever considered never opening your mouth again, Rabbit?”

You nudge his arm. “Nah. Bothering you is more fun.”

He shrugs on his jacket, sighs, and decides that keeping quiet is just easier.

However, that’s not entirely your plan — and you speak quickly as you pull your purse over your shoulder. You’re rummaging quietly, stacking your wallet and phone inside. You glance up at him.

“You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he mumbles, bending to pat Poke one last time as you move to the door of your bedroom. He watches you flick all the lights off, and before you leave, you double check the calico’s food and water. He’s got enough for a few days. Bucky leans against the door frame, “Care to run me through the plan?”

Nodding, you move to open your front door.

“It’ll be easy,” you explain as you make room for him, “If we play our cards right—”

Bucky’s stopped, though, and is digging in his back pocket as his cell phone rings. You watch him exhale tightly, eyes on the screen the entire time he squeezes by you and starts down the hall. You make careful note of the delicate scowl on his face, only before you catch Miss Bonnie out of the corner of her eye.

Her door is half-cracked across the hall, and she’s watching.

She offers you a smile.

Bucky keeps walking.

You wave, lock your door, and jog to catch up to Bucky.

“Hey,” you call, “Earth to Mr. Claw Machine?”

His head snaps up. “Sorry.”

“Who was that?” you ask carefully, nudging his arm with yours, “Falcon?”

“I wish,” he mutters as he muscles the cellphone back into his pocket, “I wouldn’t feel so bad sending him to voicemail.”

“Yeesh,” you wince, “Lemme guess, was it the owner of the coral lipstick that was all over your face on Tuesday night?”

Again, that temptation to feel jealousy flares up in your heart. But, he’s here, isn’t he? With you. Ignoring her calls. And probably texts judging by the guilty look that’s on his face. You feel a little bad — but at the same time, Bucky’s a grown man. Maybe a grown man who needs to create some more transparent lines of communication with the poor woman, but still.

“Bingo. I mean — it’s not that she wasn’t great an’ all but…”

You raise both hands. “I’m not judging.”

He sighs raggedly as he bounces down the apartment’s stairs. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“What?” you ask with a laugh, “Dating? Yea, it’s pretty fucking terrifying, Buck.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

You hold the door open for him and slide him a pitying look.

“Because I am.”

The walk to The Glass Cannon is spent walking Bucky through the plan — and for the most part, he makes a point of nodding along and listening. His only real anxiety pops up at the mention of Alexei, which is relatable to say the least.

It’s dark, the streets are relatively quiet, and the spring chill has pricked your skin. Your heels click against the pavement, and you stalk along. Shoving your hands in your pockets of the pink, shag jacket, you huff.

You’re starting to feel the anxiety.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re both approaching the blue glow of the storefront.

Computers & Stuff was a family-owned and operated computer shop from the 90s that was taken over by a lesser-known hand of the Russian crime family in New York, the Gardzovs. Alexei’s father is the formal owner of the shop, and his son runs the lucrative activities of the underground club that lay beneath the graphics cards and motherboards.

Bucky, as you both near the entrance, speaks quickly. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Just follow my lead, okay?” you whisper.

The bell above the door dings when you pull open the glass door.

The lighting is sterile and if you’re real quiet, you can hear the dull hum of the fluorescents. The store is empty, save for one man behind the register.

You almost duck out the entrance at the sight of him.

Igor has been a bouncer at The Glass Cannon for as long as you’ve been a patron — and he’s also one of Alexei’s dogs. This part of the plan was something you’d considered only briefly, and for a second, you’re thankful you worried over the million and ten ways this would play out for days.

“Well, if it isn’t the little bunny.”

It’s said with malice. Igor’s tattooed hands land on the counter as he leans.

You, however, hold your head high. Bucky watches as something changes in your posture.

“Good to see you, Igor.”

“Is it?” he growls, stalking around the counter and quickly encroaching on your personal space, “Because I’m pretty sure you’re not welcome here, bunny.”

Bucky gets a good look at the man now — clearly an enforcer. He’s got prison tattoos, a shaved head. The long beard is a weak spot. Doesn’t seem to be armed. Blue eyes flick to you and the way you don’t even flinch when the man leans to breathe right in your face.

You just smile.

“I thought you’d say that,” you mumble, moving to swing your bag to the front and dig your wallet out, “But, I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

Suddenly, there’s a hundred-dollar bill slipping from your well-manicured nails into the vest pocket of the bouncer. There’s a tense pause, then, while the two of you size one another up.

“Fucking your way through college paid off, huh?” he hisses.

You stay quiet.

Bucky, though, moves between you both with a quick shove. Immediately, Igor’s attention goes to Bucky as he sizes him up — he laughs. His nose is nearly touching Bucky’s.

“What’s wrong, pretty boy?”

“You should watch your mouth,” Bucky says evenly, “Or I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

You’re careful to hide your expression; the feeling the words stir isn’t one that you’re happy about. This sudden protectiveness, though, makes you feel some sort of invincible.

Igor settles back on his heels.

He steps back.

He gestures to the back room with his head.

You keep walking when he calls out: “Careful, bunny, the dogs are going to be looking for you.”

You grit your teeth tightly and push through the fabric curtain.

He barks, taunting you.

Bucky is by your side in an instant, gaze still rooted over his shoulder at the hulking bouncer. He waits until you’ve settled down until you’ve said his name. His eyes fall to you, then to the stairwell before them.

Above it, in curled neon tubing, reads The Glass Cannon.

The windows are blacked out, but from his spot at the top of the stairs, Bucky can feel the rattle of a deep bass vibrate his ribs.

“Come on. We’re on a time crunch now.”

“Alexei?”

You nod as you lead the way down the stairs. “Word travels fast. We need to be quicker. Stick to the crowds. Remember, we just need to find Kiwi — then we bail.”

Bucky nods tensely.

Then, you open the doors.

Immediately, his eyes adjust to the darkness — neon and strobes and the pulse of purple and pink LEDs make his vision swim. It’s warmer down here, and the stairs leading down into the sub-basement is lined with people sipping drinks and chattering over the loud music. It smells like piss and beer and tobacco.

Again, Bucky watches as the person he knows melts away.

The Rabbit in front of him is different.

You reach, as if on reflex, for his hand.

When you turn around and flash him a smile, he has to swallow down a sudden rise of sheepishness.

The sea of people part around you, and Bucky realizes quickly that people recognize you. He can see their painted lips moving, muttering things into curious ears about the pink-clad woman in front of him; there are smiles there and frowns, and shock. You’re slow in your descent, making a show of the arrival — all while Bucky begins to piece together that The Glass Cannon is larger than he originally suspected.

As they near the bottom of the landing, he can see out across the floor.

There’s a square-shaped catwalk around the dance floor, laden with dancers on their designated poles. Tables line the outside of the cavernous room, and the bars along each wall are crowded — even still, these glimpses of his surroundings come in temporary flashes of light. The music coming from the center of the dancefloor is loud. The entirety of the scene is raucous.

He can’t imagine you finding solace here.

He tightens his grip on your hand. You squeeze back.

When both of you reach the bottom of the stairwell, the sea of people swallow you in a current of dancing and drinking and laughing, and you crawl into Bucky’s personal space to shout in his ear.

You’re still holding his hand tightly, pressed to his chest, as you lean upwards to brush your cheek with his.

“Follow me, okay?”

He nods.

You begin the methodical crawl through the dancefloor, working your way to the bar — there, you pause long enough to be served a drink that’s as pink as the glitter on your eyelids. The flecks dance in the lights, and Bucky graciously accepts a shot from the bartender who smiles sweetly like honey at you.

You bat your lashes, thank her, and stand gracefully from the barstool.

You take a pointed swig and scan the floor.

Kiwi would be in one of the private booths, you suspect — she was enough of a high roller here. But, with the crowded club bursting at the seams, it was nearly impossible to get to the other side. You sway a bit on your feet, still tightly gripping Bucky’s hand in your own. You refuse to let go.

For your sake and his.

Bucky is a silent shadow, eyes roaming the club — he watches a dancer dip down low and snag a green bill from a patron. Someone beside him laughs loud, another bumping into his backside as you continue to weave to the outer rim of the room. The music is so loud his heartbeat could be mistaken for an 808, and he feels the thrum in his bones.

If he wasn’t so overwhelmed, if he was drunk, maybe it could be fun.

Finally, out of the haze of bodies, Bucky can breathe.

You’re leaning over again, speaking quickly.

“I don’t see her.”

“I can’t see shit in here,” he calls back, eyes moving along the ridge of the room. He scans the booths set into the walls, set up on platforms, and roped off with velveteen, “Where would she be?”

“Hard to tell,” you mumble, “But I think I might need to go to Plan B.”

Bucky follows your solid stare.

In the booth directly across the floor from you, there’s a man in black — black everything, save from his hair. That’s the brightest blue Bucky has ever seen. He’s swallowed by a harem of men and women who are laughing and drinking and dancing, and he’s entertaining. Ringed fingers wave in the air, face split into a laugh so wide he swears it’s a mile long. He’s got glasses on and they’re tinted blue.

Bucky watches carefully as you move to his booth.

It’s like a prey surveying a trap — you’re careful.

Finally, when you stand before it, you let go of his hand.

“Hi there, Climber.”

The whole booth falls silent. The man stiffens, back turned to you totally. Bucky watches as his hands fall and slowly, the man you’d called Climber turns around.

His expression is stone cold.

His voice, however, is as warm as a hot poker.

“Oh my goodness, is that Rabbit?”

He ascends from the booth, platform boots leaving him to tower over you — he’s no small man, either. Bucky watches as he bends to kiss both of your cheeks and hug you tightly. He, however, doesn’t pull away entirely.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” he hisses, “You want to be roadkill?”

“I need to find Kiwi,” you whisper quickly, expression almost begging, “Please.”

He pauses, dimpled chin wavering a bit. Bucky watches him sniff, push his glasses back, and readjust his posture. Climber licks his lips and his eyes dart to Bucky. He’s thinking, Bucky realizes, and after a quick moment of deliberation, he seems to cave.

“Only because I owe you.”

“I know,” you say, raising your hands, “I know.”

In a dash, his demeanor changes once more. He’s flying over to his harem, waving his hands and blowing kisses and promising he’ll be back in a flash. They whine, they moan, but Climber appeases them with another round of jello shots from strobing syringes that a waitress is carrying by.

“Come on then,” he says, “And stop looking like such a prude.”

He begins to weave.

You follow hand returning to its spot in Bucky’s like a lifeline.

You’re sipping your drink, moving through the crowd easily. There’s a slight sway in your step now, and at one point you and Climber even get noticed by a pod of people who recognize your faces. It’s met with laughing and squealing and in the fray, the both of you slip back into the crowd. Bucky is taking it all in, desperately ignoring the tingle of a panic flaring in the back of his head.

Too many people.

Soon, though, Climber is moving towards a side entrance.

It’s a back room.

Suddenly, the dim lights and neon dissolve, and instead, Bucky is flashed in the face with the abrasive sting of fluorescent lights. It no longer reeks of spilled beer, and his boots don’t stick to the ground. No, there’s quiet chatter back here — Climber continues to lead the two of you through a maze of supply crates full of booze and soda.

Then, a right turn. And a left turn.

Someone is taking inventory.

“Kiwi, I know you’re going to hate me for this—”

The woman who turns around is beautiful. She’s in the midst of eyeing an open crate that looks just like the others but fitted with a hollowed center, marking off what looks like an inventory of burner cell phones. Her brown skin is decorated with glitter, her eyes streaked with the same green shade of her tightly shaved head. The green is bright and it reminds Bucky of summer.

Suddenly, her expression sours.

“What the fuck.”

“I know—”

“No,” she snaps, raising her hand and waving to the assistant beside her to take her tablet and make themselves scarce, “You need to get out of here.”

“I need your help,” you say finally, tone heavy.

It’s enough to make Climber sigh. Kiwi watches you, scratches her neck, and swallows.

She meets Climber’s eyes.

Then she breaks.

“Where the fuck have you been, Rabbit?” she asks, worries seeping into her eyes as she pulls you into a rough hug, “We thought you were dead.”

“No,” you shake your head, “But you know I couldn’t be around here anymore.”

“Yea,” Climber snorts, “Not good for your health, huh, love?”

“Alexei still wants your head,” Kiwi chimes in, crossing her arms, “Does he know you’re here?”

“Igor was on the door, so I’m sure he’s heard by now.”

Both of them curse.

Guilt flashes across your face as you screw your eyes shut and nod. “I know. I know, I just… I seriously need your help, Kiwi. It was worth the risk. It’s — HYDRA. I need to tap into the Alexandria Library.”

Immediately, the woman stiffens.

Her eyes flash to Bucky in the corner. He stares back.

“He waits outside.”

“You can trust him—”

“No,” she snaps, “I can’t. And I don’t. And I won’t.”

You give Bucky a pleading look. Between the two of you, a negotiation happens between your eyes. It’s a compromise, and finally, Bucky relents.

“Fine,” Bucky barks, tilting his head and giving you a tight-lipped smile, “Fine. I’ll wait out here.”

“He’s cute,” mumbles Climber as Bucky rounds the corner, long legs carrying him out of the supply room, “Boyfriend?”

“Shut up, Climber,” you mumble, waving your hand, “Just listen—”

“Who is he?” Kiwi asks, eyes still watching the doorway, “And why did you bring him along?”

You sigh, rubbing your brow. “He’s the one who’s trying to find this HYDRA agent. He knew her before.”

“So he’s HYDRA.”

“No,” you snap cooly, “He’s not.”

“So, just handsome, then?” Climber asks, hands waving, “Right. Great. Really making a case for yourself, Rabbit.”

“He’s trying to find a woman named Innessa Sidrova. She was one of the original agents who helped form the American HYDRA cell,” you explain quickly, “I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and… And he’s a good person. He’s my friend. I’m trying to help him, but I can’t do it without you. Both of you.”

Kiwi hums. She sighs. “That explains why you went MIA.”

“Aside from putting Alexei behind bars?” you scoff, “Yea, the GRC played a part in it.”

The three of you are quiet for a moment.

“Fine.”

You look up at Kiwi. Her hands are on her waist.

There’s an immense wash of relief that floods over you at that moment — and from the looks of it, Kiwi can tell. You move to grab her hand, and she grabs back. Both of you smile, and the hug that follows is warm. You’ve missed her. A lot.

“Thank you, Suji.”

Then, footsteps.

That relief is traded in for an anxious backfire of fear in an instant.

It’s slow. Dress shoes on polished cement.

Then:

“Oh, bunny, bunny, bunny. Tsk, tsk.”

Climber and Kiwi’s faces upturn to the doorway and they tell you everything you need to know.

So, you decide at that moment that you won’t be the prey tonight.

You turn around and come face-to-face with a man playing devil.

Alexei Gardzov is a handsome man — a beard and piercing grey eyes. His hair is tightly cropped, and intricate tattoos decorate every inch of his skin. Some of them are new, you realize, and there’s temporary pride that bubbles up at them. They’re from prison.

You almost smile.

Behind him, three goons loom.

“I’ve been wondering when you’d come hopping back,” he croons as he enters the room with the swagger of a man who trapped his dinner, “Well worth the wait, I think.”

His cologne hangs like smog in the air. He strolls up to you, and in a flash, he’s got your hair in a vice grip.

He yanks it back, you grit your teeth.

The barrel of a gun digs into your cheek.

“Climber, Kiwi, and Rabbit,” he sing-songs, “All in one room again like it’s NYU’s 2014 hack-a-thon. Isn’t that cute?”

Kiwi speaks. “Alexei—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, gun moving to flash towards Kiwi, “And stay out of my business, Sujina.”

The gun’s muzzle is cold. He’s rough, and you try to ignore the twinge of pain that comes with his unceremonious yank of your hair. Once more, he tsks. His breath is hot on your face. He smells like cigarettes and whiskey.

“I spent seven years behind bars,” he bites, “All because a’ you.”

“Me? I wasn’t the one trafficking girls—”

“SHUT UP!”

The pistol cracks across your cheek and the cement floor hurtles towards you. The gasp that falls from your lips is from shock; your fingers dig into the cold ground as you try to blink away the blurriness. Your ears ring. Blood drips from your cheek between your fingers.

Again, there’s a hand in your hair.

Now, the fight begins.

Climber and Kiwi are stuck, frozen in fear.

You don’t blame them, because Igor and the others have guns already drawn. One of them, one that’s young and you don’t recognize immediately, has a baseball bat in his hands.

Alexei drags you by your hair as you grimace, refusing to scream. Your heels scrape against the ground as you try to get purchase, but he’s quick to throw you back against the far wall.

“Don’t worry, Bunny,” he smiles, “I won’t kill you. Not right now.”

Then, a kick.

Right to the ribs.

You can’t breathe — you gasp earnestly at the white, hot shot of pain.

“Get up.”

You’re not listening, you’re too busy trying to catch your breath.

“I said,” comes a growl as he reaches, hand in your hair again as he drags you up the wall. Your legs buckle, and you try to hold your chin high as you stumble upwards, “Get up.”

Then, there’s a hand around your throat.

Tight. Too tight. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t get his hand off your neck, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t fucking think, can’t stand, can’t see, can’t breathe —

“Boss!”

A new voice.

The pressure is relieved for a second.

A new face has run into the room — he looks frazzled, hair askew and gun out. He’s eyeing the scene before him in a moment’s pause.

“Can’t you see I’m a little bit busy?” Alexei snags as you gasp, clawing at his hand. He swings his head to the figure in the doorway with an annoyed bark, “What is it?”

“The cops, boss,” he stammers, “They’re here.”

“What?”

“They’re here for her, boss.”

A slow turn to where his finger is pointing. His gaze lands on you. Alexei laughs.

“Well,” he says as the goon disappears, “Isn’t that just peachy, bunny?”

The choking starts again.

Then, a metal hand.

Vibranium.

You watch it swing, you watch it grab Alexei’s throat.

Suddenly, you can breathe.

Suddenly, Bucky Barnes enters the fight.

You make friends with the ground again as you duck, just as Alexei is rammed into the wall above your head by his throat. As you cough while Kiwi calls your name — you can hear a fight. But everything’s moving slow, and it’s not until the first gunshot that you’re kicked into action. It’s loud. Your skin pricks alive.

Someone screams.

You stumble to your feet, eyes finding Bucky’s form moving quickly between the three goons — the gunshot had come from the pistol that had somehow found its way into Bucky's flesh and blood hand. One of the men is on the floor, suit pants stained with a bullet wound through the thigh. He’s wailing. Bucky doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care. Maybe both.

His face is cold.

Another gunshot is fired off, this time richoting between you and Kiwi and Climber and embedding itself into the cement wall overhead. The three of you scream, ducking reflexively.

That’s when Bucky snaps.

“Now would be a good time to go!”

Kiwi’s hands are on your arm as you quickly break through the doorway through the storage room. Climber is following, checking over his shoulder at the carnage that Bucky begins to reap in the room.

He’s hysterical, trying to jog in his white platform boots. “What the fuck, Rabbit!”

Your voice is hoarse. You’re clutching your ribs. “Not now, Climber!”

“I’m parked in the back,” Kiwi says, ducking through plastic flaps as she helps you through the back of the club, “Come on, we’ll go through the trucking entrance.”

You hear Bucky call your name — he’s jogging to catch up, gun drawn in his hand. Seems like he made good work of the others, sporting nothing more than a split lip. You turn, pausing for a moment to take inventory of his well-being.

And that’s all it takes.

Alexei Gardzov, limping, steps in front of you and Kiwi and Climber at an intersection in the hallway.

There’s a gun in his hand.

The first thing you feel is the impact.

Like a truck slamming into you at full speed. For the fourth time tonight, you have the air robbed from your lungs. It’s instant confusion.

Then comes the pain. Hot. Hotter than the sun. Hot like white flames. It tears through your shoulder and all you can do is gasp; you’re sent into a stutter step — and while the world around you continues to move, you’re busy reconciling with the fact you’ve just been shot.

A bullet flies by your head.

Alexei Gardzov drops.

You’re grasping at your chest, staggering, when Bucky breaks into a sprint — but you’re okay. You’re okay, it’s just your shoulder, it’s just your arm, you’re okay, you can feel your fingers and you can breathe and the pain is nearly unbearable but you’re okay.

Then, a baseball bat.

It clocks Bucky directly in the skull. He’s clotheslined.

It’s Igor.

The gun from Bucky’s hands clatters across the ground to your feet, and you’re too busy trying to get to Bucky to realize — but, you’ve got tunnel vision and adrenaline and at that moment, you think a good sidekick doesn’t need anything else in this life.

Igor goes to swing at you, but you duck. Your stiletto crushes through the top of his shoe. He screams and in a flurry of pain and panic, you manage to snag the bat quick enough to turn and clock him under the chin with a roll of the wrist.

His teeth clack together and he falls backward, unconscious.

“God, I really wish you could have seen that, Buck.”

You spit. Blood paints the ground.

The bat clatters to the cement as you fight through the pain. Kiwi and Climber are by your side in an instant.

“No, no!” she screams, “We do not have time for this—”

“I am not leaving him,” you snap, nearly screaming at the woman, “Come on and help me with him. Now.”

After a sigh of resignation, Kiwi shoves the gun she’d snagged from the ground into the back of her jeans. You’ve got your hands around Bucky’s ankles as Kiwi and Climber take his torso — and the four of you make a break for the back entrance. You can hear the cops outside now, and there’s the chatter of Russian following you into the back parking lot.

“Hurry up!”

“He’s not exactly light as a feather, you know!”

“Shut up, Climber!”

You’ve got Bucky halfway into the back seat of Kiwi’s white Cadillac when another bullet whizzes by your head.

“Fuck.”

Kiwi hops into the driver’s seat as Climber scatters to hop the hood and throws himself into the passenger's seat. You lean, clinging to the door of the backseat as Kiwi peels out of the parking lot. It swings wide open and you curse loudly. You can see Alexei’s men watching from the back entrance, shouting in Russian — so you muster all your strength to pull back and throw the door closed as Kiwi’s car bounces over a speed bump and rams through the parking meter’s gate.

In the rear window, the front of the club is surrounded.

Red and blue lights illuminate the street — but Kiwi is quick.

No one follows.

And when she finally makes it to the Manhattan Bridge, you exhale.

Bucky’s head is in your lap. He still hasn’t come to — there’s blood coming from his nose and you’re worrying. You lace your fingers into his thick, brown hair and chew your lip.

Kiwi’s voice pulls you from him.

“When were you going to mention the vibranium arm, huh?”

You laugh. It’s more of a breath of air than anything. Your head rests back against the seat. Your shoulder is still on fire. You’re hot, but cold. You’re bleeding still. Your ribs aren’t right. You know that.

“I can’t believe he shot you,” Climber mumbles, “He fucking shot you.”

“And your boy toy shot him,” Kiwi says, sparing you a look in the rearview, “So you better pray he’s dead.”

You ignore the commentary.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” she says, accelerating into Manhattan, “Where I can get you those files and you can keep your head down.”

Sounds like a plan.

Better than the one you had, anyways.

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #bucky x you #BOY OH BOY THE FORMATTING I WANNA SCREAM

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qyllenhaal · 3 years ago

Text

Muse

Pairing: Artist!Steve x Reader

Summary: Steve’s an artist, and you’re secretly his muse. 3rd POV. WC: 3.5k

Warnings: smut (18+ only, MDNI), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex. Fluff. Friends to lover.

Steve knew it was a risk to quit his job and focus full-time on being an artist. His boss laughed in his face when he turned in his letter of resignation and asked Steve how much he thought his "little paintings" were going to make him. Steve didn't just face this scrutiny from his boss, but his friends too albeit not as harsh. Many of the people in his life didn't understand his passion for something that might leave him struggling, but Y/n was always there encouraging him.

"You may struggle for a little bit, but I think it's great Steve! Only one day into your new life as an artist and you already seem happier!"

Steve has known Y/n for almost a decade. They met under odd circumstances that some would consider a meet cute. She's still so sweet and bubbly just like she was the day he met her. It wasn't hard for him to fall head-over-heels for her. She always has a kind word and an open ear even during times of distress.

Sometimes he blushes when she gives him a compliment. She claims to not know anything about art, but every time he shows her something new she always has something stark to say that sticks with him. Maybe it's because it's coming from her.

His time spent alone in his studio is sacred. He converted a room in his apartment into a makeshift studio and he finds so much solace in those four walls. He has wanted to dabble in painting live subjects, maybe even a nude model or too, but he found himself getting real shy about it. He'd love to have someone to pose and to capture the way the light perfectly hits their face. That someone he imagined was often Y/n.

He was shocked when she allowed him to make her his subject. It started with him asking to paint a few photos of her she had lying around for "practice." Y/n was more than happy to help her friend Steve, only under the condition that he show her the final product. Steve found no problem in showing off the pastoral setting paintings he created, but it was much more harder to show off paintings of the person he thinks is the most beautiful person in the world.

Just like he couldn't muster up the confidence to ask anyone else to be his model, Steve could never ask Y/n to model for him in person. He found himself becoming too shy whenever the question was on the tip of his tongue. It would be much better if he were here in person with him, but he opted for photos of her clipped to his easel for reference. He'd finish a painting in one day and send her a photo via text of the finished product.

“I really look like that? It's amazing Steve!”

But eventually he ran out of photos. He tried to reuse some old ways and paint in a different style, or play with the colors, but it was beginning to become stale. Steve needed something new, but he didn't want to let go of Y/n as his subject.

"So you need new pictures?"

"Yeah — it's fine if you don't have any more," he tries to play it off as if he doesn't have 10 canvases in his studio of paintings of her that he hasn't shown her.

"We could take some more. Do you still have that digital camera you got a few Christmas' ago?"

"No. I think it got lost when I moved."

"Oh. Well I think Sam has a camera we can borrow. It's one of those fancy ones, right?"

Steve agreed to ask Sam to borrow his camera, but he honestly wishes that he had just bought his own. The amount of teasing he had to endure when he explained to Sam exactly why he needed the camera made his skin heat up. He couldn't stop his cheeks from becoming rosy when Sam asked when is he finally going to tell Y/n how he feels about her. Steve doesn't want to ruin what they have just in case Y/n rejects him. He'd much rather wallow in his school boy crush than put a strain on their friendship.

"How do you want me to pose?"

Y/n sat on the lone couch in Steve's studio room. It wasn't the best quality but it was still useful.

The curtains were drawn to shield the sun that was nearly set. The lighting in the room was dim save for the soft light coming from a small lamp pointed at her. It casted a warm, yellowish light onto her skin. She wore a white dress and kicked her shoes off at the front door.

"Whatever comes natural to you," his voice is weak as he responds. The atmosphere of the room is slightly romantic and he can't shake his nerves. Everything feels extremely intimate.

Y/n is almost as nervous as Steve. She's never modeled for someone and it feels a little bit awkward. She's always comfortable around Steve, but she can't help but get a little nervous when she sees Steve with the camera in his hands.

"You look perfect like that," he compliments the half-asses pose she's doing before snapping the first photo. He looks at the preview before the camera's screen could go dark.

"Let me see." He shows her and she just nods her head, "let me adjust myself," she whispers.

Y/n unbuttons the first two buttons of her dress, exposing more of her chest that only gives a glimpse of her breast. Steve pretended to not notice it as he took another picture of her. Once again Y/n asked to see the photo and looked a little more satisfied with it this time.

"Do you think that I could — nevermind."

"What is it Y/n?" He asks with a soft laugh that makes her want to melt.

"Do you think I could unbutton my dress all the way?" Her voice faltered as she asked. She watched Steve's reaction intently. She hopes the question doesn't make him uncomfortable. "It's just that I was looking up some ideas online so I could prepare and I saw this really pretty picture of this model and she was semi-nude but it was really pretty so I wanted to ask if we could try it," she explained; or perhaps over-explained.

Steve was completely dumbfounded. If Y/n couldn't see it in his dropped jaw, then she can see it in the way he just freezes.

"It's okay if that's too much."

"No! No, it's okay."

Y/n gave him a half smile before she began to unbutton the front of her dress. Steve tried to look away, but how could he not? The more she revealed herself, the easier it was for him to see the swell of her breast. Her skin looks so soft and he feels compelled to reach out and caress her bare skin. But he keeps his hands to himself.

"Is this too much?" The puffy sleeves of her dress were off of her shoulder and her dress was all the way open until the middle of her stomach. It's a lot for him to handle, but he feels blessed to see such a sight.

"No. It's perfect. You're perfect."

Y/n's skin heats up despite the room being cold. She was starting to get a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach. It wasn't a bad one or an uncomfortable feeling, but it was something she wasn't used to.

Now she's half-naked and posing on his couch. The first few photos he took of her like this were awkward as they both had to adjust to Y/n being half-naked.

Steve couldn't ignore the way the cold air made her nipples hard and breast tender. Steve was supposed to be on his best behavior, but he is seconds away from making a stupid mistake with his best friend.

Y/n arches her back which makes her breast jut out at him. Steve pauses to pray that he doesn't get a hard on. He feels a bit like a scumbag for even having this dilemma. It's just his best friend's half-naked body — that looks so soft and tender.

He forced himself to steel his resolve and hurry up and finish the task at hand. He began to treat her more like a model instead of the best friend he has a crush on.

"Try this," he suggests to her to move her body in a different way, which she does, but it's not quite what he wants. He was hesitant to get his hands on her, but he went for it anyway, "a little more like this."

In the process of moving her body, his hand brushed against her nipple. Y/n involuntarily let out a moan which made both of them pause. They looked at each other before Y/n let out a nervous laugh to try to play it off.

"Sorry," Steve apologizes.

"It's okay."

He glosses over what just happened and goes back to moving her body to her liking. He can't get over how good she feels underneath him. The truth is that he was taking his time to be able to have this experience for much longer. He may never have this kind of closeness with her again and he just can't quite let go.

Y/n watches his face as his hands touch her body. He looks so handsome under this lighting and Y/n wonders if she's always felt this way about Steve. For some reason she feels lust swirling inside of her. She hopes she isn't making a mistake when she leans forward and kisses him. Steve freezes under her kiss, stunned by reality, but he lets it happen. Her lips feel so soft against his, just like he always imagined.

She pulls away and places her forehead against his. Steve still has his eyes closed, lost in the dream that is Y/n's closeness.

"You can open your eyes now," she teases him. He obeys her and laughs along with her.

"I've wanted this for so long," he admits.

The revelation is shocking to her. She had no idea he felt this way about her, but now she wonders how much she's been oblivious to.

"Do you want this, Y/n? The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable."

"No, no — I want this Steve. I wanna feel you touching me," her voice became somewhat whiny as desire fueled her.

With her blessing, Steve did not hold back. He kissed her hard, the way he imagined he would always kiss her. Imagine the way his heart nearly stopped when Y/n kissed him back with the same amount of fervor and want. Her hand came up and rested against the stubble on his cheek. They wish they could say their kiss was delicate, but it was not; it was sloppy and their tongues danced with each other.

When Steve pulls away, he's out of breath, but he's happy. The light touches he gave to her body earlier were not a bit rougher. He wants to explore every inch of her body in seconds, but he wants to be patient; he has all night to discover every inch of her.

"Touch me right here, Steve."

Y/n places his hands on her breast with his thumbs in reach of her nipples. Steve's thumb runs across her taut nipples which makes her sigh. "You like that?" He asks with a bit more confidence. She nods her head and her approval emboldens him. “Good.”

His lips ghost across the skin on her neck before he places a wet kiss against the skin on her throat. He can feel her breath hitch every time he places a tender kiss on her flesh. She smells like lavender and it makes him feel dizzy. He keeps playing with her nipples as he begins to suck on her neck. Y/n wants to just lay there and take in the feeling of him spoiling her, but she also wants to hear him moan. She strokes the bulge in his pants with her knee and she feels him groan against her skin. He lightly grinds himself against her knee to relieve all of the tension that built up inside of him. Neither of them are sure who wants who more, but it doesn’t matter to either of them. Knowing that this is an equal exchange of love and lust is enough for the two of them.

“Oh god Steve,” Y/n coos when he sucks on the most sensitive part of her neck. They’ve only just begun, but he makes her feel so good. A part of her is wishing that she had discovered Steve’s crush on her a long time ago, but she has him now and that’s all that matters.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he says against her skin, “I wanna make you cum.”

Y/n can’t help but moan at his confession. She can already imagine how it would feel to have him between her legs.

“Please Steve!”

Steve sits up just to push her dress up. The cotton panties she wears has a pink bow sewn onto it and he finds it adorable. He glances back up at her and he notices that she’s looking away from him. She’s now feeling bashful knowing that he’s going to see her completely naked even though she wants all of this and more. “It’s okay, pretty girl,” Steve pacifies her by slowly stroking her outer thigh. She finally looks at him, her pupils wide with lust. She almost sighs in content when he starts to slide her panties down. The cool air of the rooms only heats her up once it hits her hot sex.

“My god,” Steve whispers to himself. She looks so pretty, but she’s absolutely messy between her legs. She places her foot on the back of his couch to spread herself wider for him. “Good girl.”

Steve lowers himself between her legs and just stares at her for a moment. He wants to remember this for the rest of his life just in case this is the last time something like this happens between the two of them. He would be crushed if Y/n asked to just continue on as friend’s after this, but he would be eternally grateful that she granted him this opportunity. All he wants to do is make her feel good; his pleasure will follow suit, but it’s all about her.

One of his fingers runs along the edge of her folds. Y/n whimpers at the delicate way he treats her body. She feels so lucky to have someone so kind and sweet like Steve. He touches her with care, and love is in every stroke. “You’re so perfect,” he says before kissing her inner thigh. Every part of her body is sensitive but somehow she is able to withstand it all.

The first lick to her pussy overblows both of their senses. She’s sweet like honey and juicy like a peach. Steve’s first instinct is to groan against her pussy which sends vibration throughout her entire body. She feels like she’s on fire as all of the blood in her body goes straight to her sensitive nub. His tongue focuses on her clit and she’s in heaven. Steve’s tongue moves with so much skill and precision, but most importantly, passion. Steve treats her like he truly wants her, and Y/n can’t help but fall for him at this moment.

“You taste so good,” he coos against her slick.

The way he paws at her body while licking her pussy makes her feel like she’s being worshiped. Tears well in her eyes the harder he sucks at her clit. She hopes his neighbors’ aren’t home because they’d probably be annoyed at the loud sounds of her cries of pleasure. He has her on the edge and it just takes him rolling her nipples with his fingers that finally push her over.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Her cries are so angelic to him. And as much as he wants to keep licking her out, Steve needs to be inside of her so bad. He tames himself and pulls his mouth away from her to pull himself out of his pants. His incredibly hard, the head of his cock an angry red as it leaks pre-cum. “This is what you do to me,” his words are haunting. Y/n whines and wiggles her hips from being so impatient.

Steve lowers himself and presses the head of her cock at her opening. She’s so slippery that he pushes into her with ease. His cock is so big that she inhales sharply as she takes all of him inside of her. Her walls are like silk around him.

“So tight baby — oh god.”

Steve feels like he’s going to explode already. Her pussy is squeezing him and she looks up at him with wide eyes as she takes his cock like a good girl. It is the hardest task he’s ever faced in his life to not cum already. She just feels so good.

“Are you okay?” He asks sweetly before dipping his head to kiss her forehead.

She nods her head, “yes, Steve…feels so good,” she manages to speak coherently.

Her legs were thrown over his legs which allows him to fuck deeper into her. She looks so beautiful underneath him. Steve wants to feel her cum on his cock so bad. She flutters around him when he pulls out of her only to push back in seconds later.

Steve can only control himself for so long before he’s pounding into her. The cry of his name on her lips is so saccharine that it gives him a sweet tooth. He sucks on the skin of her neck to satisfy that need while Y/n places her hand on the back of his head as she moans for him.

“I’m gonna cum Steve! You’re going to make me cum!”

The ridges of his cock feels so good inside of her, but what really does it for her is how the head of his cock is kissing her cervix. The stretch of his cock is such a delicious burn that she wants him inside forever. With his face planted in her neck, lips kissing at her skin, Y/n is completely enamored with the way Steve consumes all of her. She is his just as much as he is her.

He feels her sex squeeze him one more time before she’s cumming all around him. She clings to him as her orgasm ravages through her. Steve fucks her through it before reluctantly pulling out of her. Her jerks himself off until he’s cumming all over her pretty tits, painting her body like she’s one of the world’s most precious masterpieces.

The two are completely spent as their limbs dangle off of his couch. Y/n’s heart is full feeling his cum cooling on her chest. She dips a finger in his spent and sucks it off, savoring his taste since she didn’t get a chance to go down on him. Steve almost passes out at the sight.

“You’re crushing my legs Steve,” she laughs warmly. He rolls off of her and off of the couch entirely.

Steve grabs a towel and starts t0 clean up her chest. He remembers what they were supposed to be accomplishing, but after what just happened between the two of them, Steve is certain he won’t be anxious about asking her to be his model again.

“So, where do we go from here?”

The question catches him off guard. He slowly wipes away his cum with the damp towel from her chest. As much as finding the answer to this question is hard, he is happy that she asked it because it means that she’s giving him a chance.

“I don’t want this to be the last time we do this,” Steve admits. He’s quickly become addicted to the way their foreheads pressed together; it just feels so intimate. “I love you too much for this to be the last time we ever spend like this together.”

As much as tonight has been shocking to her after the revelation of Steve proving to her that he loves her, she’s only overwhelmed with positive emotions.

“Then let’s not let this be the last time,” she whispers against his lips.

A wave of relief washes over Steve as he just lays there against, their bare bodies pressed against each other as if this is always how it should’ve been. His only hope is that they can stay like this forever.

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