#and then disappear when they fight in the war peter style

[usafphantom2]

Of course the Sabre was the most important Cold War aircraft, here’s why

Hush KitSeptember 27, 2022

The Cold War took a brief rest between the early 1990s and the 2010s, but serious tension between the largest former Soviet nation and the West has now returned. At the forefront of the original Cold War was air power, and this fearful age sired a multitude of incredible and often long-lived warplanes. In the second of a series of articles written by pilots and subject experts, we consider the question of which Cold War military aircraft was the most important. Let us turn start to Peter E Davies case for the F-86 Sabre.

In 1954 the massive Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, later to host Red Flag and other spectacular USAF training activities and projects, was already an exciting place for new pilots. It hosted the F-86 Sabre, the world’s premier fighter at the time and one which became a seminal influence on most subsequent fighter designs. Sabre pilots had roundly defeated communist MiG-15s over North Korea, and many of those wartime pilots (including seventeen aces) were now instructors at Nellis. For new trainees the chance to join that exclusive fraternity was compelling. The Sabre’s reputation as the West’s first true jet dogfighter was well established. Before technology took over the combat cockpit it was also the last fighter in the tradition of the Spitfire and Mustang in which the pilot had full manual control. During the Cold War the Sabre and its pilots kept alive the dogfighting tradition at a time when caution and cost-cutting in training programs actually prevented many trainee pilots from indulging in realistic air combat manoeuvres. That continuity paved the route for a later generation of versatile air-fighters including the F-15 Eagle and F-16 Fighting Falcon. Conventional late-1950s wisdom advocated aerial combat with large aircraft firing missiles from long distances.

The Sabre’s outstanding combat record was founded in its design’s many technical advances at a time when most designers were still simply adding jet engines to WW II-style airframes. In 1943 North American Aviation (NAA), decided to avoid direct competition with Lockheed’s straight-winged F-80 Shooting Star, the USAF’s first successful jet fighter. The company initiated a new German-inspired wing in 1945, swept at 35 degrees. It was a bold step as the few previous swept-wing designs had exhibited instability problems. Large, automatic wing slats and hydraulically boosted ailerons were the innovative NAA solution, giving superb transonic handling. A unique blown plastic cockpit canopy gave all-round vision unequalled in fighters until the advent of the F-15 Eagle. NAA developed manufacturing techniques for a thin wing with machined-plate, double layer skins. The F-86E version introduced the now-universal powered, ‘all-flying’ tailplane.

Sabres retained gun armament, either the standard six .50 calibre machine gun fit or (in later Sabres) 20mm cannon. Guns disappeared from many other Cold War fighters in favour of missiles, but the Vietnam war showed that to be a mistake. However, the Sabre also pioneered the use of air-to-air missiles in the radar-equipped, all weather, rocket firing F-86D version (added in 1949). It included an early afterburner and a complex Hughes E-4 fire-control system. It became the most prolific Sabre variant with over 2,500 manufactured, pioneering radar-based interception in many air forces of the Cold War era.

Early jet engines of the time were often unreliable, but NAA designers chose the best available option, the Allison J35 in the F-86 prototype which first flew on October 1, 1947 and achieved supersonic flight in a shallow dive the following year as the first service-capable fighter to achieve that speed safely. The engine was replaced by the General Electric J47, also selected for the B-47 Stratojet bomber. It became an outstanding powerplant in Korean combat and effectively proved that jet fighters could be as effective and reliable as their prop-driven predecessors – and a lot faster. Cold War fighter designers throughout the world benefited from that bonus.

When the Korean War began in June, 1950 the small Allied air forces in South Korea relied on WW II propeller-driven aircraft and early, straight-winged F-80 and F-84 jets. None matched the Soviet MiG-15, a broadly similar swept-wing jet to the Sabre. F-86As were urgently deployed to counter this unanticipated threat. Despite the MiG-15’s altitude advantage and its pilots’ proximity to their home bases the outnumbered, but better-trained Sabre pilots soon regained air superiority. It was a scenario to be repeated in many respects in Vietnam over a decade later.

The Sabre’s success and influence are demonstrated by its unusually widespread use. Overall production ran to almost 9,000 aircraft, with licence production in Canada, Japan, Italy and Australia. No fewer than 35 air forces used Sabres, making it the most numerous Western Cold War jet fighter and giving many of those users entry to the jet age. It equipped many NATO nations, including Great Britain, to face the growing Soviet threat following the Berlin crisis in 1949. Some continued in service, and occasional combat until the mid-1980s.The US Navy’s used F-86 derivatives, culminating in the very capable, long-range FJ-4B fighter-bomber. They equipped 22 USN and USMC squadrons up to 1962. In US Navy training sessions a well-flown F-86 regularly beat F-4 Phantom and F-8 Crusader pilots in dogfighting practices.

An F-86 pilot allegedly achieved supersonic flight shortly before Chuck Yeager’s official sound barrier-smashing flight in 1947, but it was the success rate of twelve-to-one against MiG-15s (later to be scaled down to a still creditable 4:1) that lent the Sabre an almost legendary status and reminded future fighter designers that manoeuvrability, ease of operation and gunfighting capability were still relevant in the supersonic era. While some might champion aircraft like the Hawker Hunter, F-4 Phantom or MiG-21 as the most influential Cold War fighters there is no doubt that the F-86’s wide range of ground-breaking achievements in design and worldwide service easily give it that accolade.

Peter E Davies. September 2022, Peter Davies is based in Bristol and has written or co-written 16 books on modern American combat aircraft, including four previous Osprey titles and the standard reference work on US Navy and Marine Corps Phantom II operations, Gray Ghosts.

[angrydebater]

how do i tell my parents that i wanna smoke but not in a pre-made cigs way, but in a watching my 70s gay werewolf boyfriend rolling one and then stealing it from his lips while we sit near the window listening to t.rex?

[spellbook-gayboy]

Cape-Watch Monthly News Bulletin- June 2022

Hey, y’all! I’m your host, Christina Cabello, bringing you the latest roundup of this month’s supe-related news with the Cape-Watch Monthly Bulletin! June has proved quite a surprising month for our spandex sentinels, and we can’t wait to give you the top stories!:

Famous Superhero Found Alive After 30-Year Disappearance

Kicking off this list is a comeback story I don’t think anyone saw coming! Yesterday, the government liaison to the superhero community, Peter Schlottman, announced in a conference that the legendary superhero Frontline was discovered somewhere in the vicinity of the Himalayan mountains. Cape-Watch reached out to Mr. Schlottman’s office for further comment, and received this statement:

“All of us in the superhero community are overjoyed to hear of Frontline’s return; to have such an incredible advocate for superhero ideals back among us again is such an amazing turn of events, and it is my great pleasure to be the one announcing the news. All of us in the office and the wider community wish him a speedy recovery and a swift return to active duty.”

The hero, formerly a soldier in the US Army’s 3rd Infantry Division, made his debut on the battlefields of World War 2, fighting alongside other famous heroes like The Immortal, Red Rush and War Woman as a part of the world’s first superhero team, The Defenders of The Free World. After the war’s end, he then served a nearly 50 year long career as a superhero, doing everything from helping found The Guardians Of The Globe to leading his own team called Breakthrough throughout the 1980s and even helping to found the first incarnation of the Teen Team, all the while cementing himself as an important and influential hero. He was presumed dead after disappearing while on a mission in November 1994, but it seems recent events have since proved otherwise. 

The timing of this news also appears to be incredibly opportune: with much of the world still reeling from the reveal of Omni-Man’s true intentions, perhaps the rediscovery could represent a return to a more old-fashioned style of heroics. Whether or not this ends up panning out, only time will tell.

MLM Superhero Couple Empower LGBTQ+ Youth Worldwide

In other news, Pride Month has once again rolled around, a time for many to express their truest selves openly. A quite surprising example of this is none other than a member of The Guardians Of The Globe, Rex Splode! The hero publicly revealed at the New York Pride Parade his romantic relationship with the popular solo hero Invincible, before simply stating “Oh, I’m bi, by the way”. Seems very on-brand given his reputation, and when Cape-Watch asked for further comment from the liaison’s office, we instead received a statement from the man himself:

“Well, I can’t imagine what else you’d want after that interview we had with you, but sure! In case you didn’t already make it clear to the readers, I like guys. The guy I’m with is Invincible, and he’s great! He’s also got a great ass- I mean a great sense of right and wrong. Is that good enough?”

Despite the less than formal structure of his statement, the couple have received an outpouring of support from many gay rights groups around the country, with a spokesperson of BiNet USA stating the news was an “important step for LGBTQ+ representation in the superhero community, and also provides many LGBTQ+ youth with positive role models to grow up idolising”

My view on the matter? Happy Pride to the both of them! If superheroes can be comfortable in loving who they want, then maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.

Cooking Stream Mishaps Breaks Internet and Raise Millions

On a slightly more comedic note, the more culinary-inclined Guardian Shrinking Rae hosted another episode of her popular cooking show ‘Recipes with Rae’. Forgoing her usual co-star and teammate Dupli-Kate, she instead invited two others for a special charity stream: the new San Diego-based hero Magic Man, and the newest member of the Guardians, the Martian hero Shapesmith. What started out as a simple recipe for fried catfish soon devolved into complete chaos, the cooking thrown aside as they were soon forced to stop a tentacle monster from emerging from the sink. Suffice it to say, the clips of all the madness quickly made their way into many of the biggest social media platforms, being made into everything from reaction GIFs to funny memes. 

Despite the sudden descent into disorder, the stream was successful in raising the funds for the St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, prompting this overjoyed statement from the charity’s scientific advisor, Dr. Maxine Dreyfus, Ph.D.:

“It is events like this that remind us that not only do superheroes protect us from physical threats, but also work tirelessly to help us overcome evils such as cancer, leukaemia and other catastrophic diseases. We at the charity thank Shrinking Rae and her allies for their contributions to our cause, and they can rest knowing that what they have done for us will save lives for many more years to come”

Another great result, it seems. My compliments to the chef!

The Order Dealt Devastating Blow By Hero Coalition

To round off our bulletin, recent reports have revealed that the infamous supervillain group The Order have suffered massive losses as a result of combined effort between Capes Incorporated and The Actioneers. Several of their most notorious members, including the likes of Slaying Mantis and Red-Eye, were captured and transported to the appropriate holding facilities while many of their strongholds around the world were raided by government agents. In light of the news, Capes Inc. leader Commander Capitalism released a public statement detailed below:

“The work was long and hard, but thanks to the support of Sergeant Superior and the others, our combined arms have yielded important results. Now, while I understand if you feel the need to celebrate right now, I must remind you: many of The Order’s members, including Set, Mr. Liu and Octoboss remain at large, and there are many of their bases we weren’t able to locate. If you see them, do not hesitate to report their whereabouts to the appropriate authorities. Rest assured, citizens, that we will not stop until all of their members are behind bars”

And that’s all, y’all! We’d like to thank all of our fans who continue to support Cape-Watch with their donations, since you guys are what keeps the lights on around here! Remember, folks: stay safe, stay hydrated, and tune in next month for more of the biggest superhero stories around!

[creativeashproductions]

A Distant Dream I // Luke Patterson

Summary: In 1994 seventeen year old Luke Patterson had once again tried to ask out the girl that held his heart. With the belief he would see the younger Mercer girl the next morning he decides wait to confess his feelings. Only to have soft music bewitched the reader into an antique wardrobe with lots of history.

Warnings: Swearing, strict parents, missing persons, cops, violence, death, and angst

Words: 3k

A/N: Finished one series, starts a new one then gets hit with a dream of a crossover with Narnia and JATP. My brain needs to stop.

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX/ASK PLEASE!

Masterlist

Patterson Home, 1994

The teen’s hands laced up her boots with her mind stuck on the successful dinner with the boy situated on the couch. His eyes lost in daydreams of the girl he had shared a sweet goodbye with, seeing her at school felt like it would be years. Luke Patterson was slowly building up to ask out the girl of his dreams.

You glanced over at the messy-haired brunette you had known for years through your older brother Alex. A year separated you from Luke and Alex, but it didn't matter to the bond you had with them.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Reggie’s picking us up.” You waved at the seventeen-year-old teenager cupping his cheek in one hand.

Unable to stay seated Luke rushed to tug you into an abrupt hug before just as quickly letting you go. Cheeks dusted pink Luke’s lips parted to form the words that could make one of his dreams come true.

"Would you…" Luke trailed off, feeling the confidence falter at the hopeful look in your pretty eyes, "Tell Alex that he still has that movie?"

The hope in your chest fluttered before it shuddered once more as Luke retreated from asking his question. With a nod, your fingers opened the door to walk down the streets to own home.

With one last wave Luke watched as you disappeared behind the trees in his front yard with the promise he’d ask her out tomorrow.

That chance wouldn’t happen.

That hopeful night in 1994 was the last night Y/N Mercer was seen. The night that it all started to fall apart in Sunset Curve’s lives.

The sword was thrust in the air as victorious cheers sounded over the hillside filled with the war's casualties. Chest heaving from the fight she had won against one of the Boggles in the White Witch's army. Your eyes scoured the battlefield for your friends you had made in the short time you had been in Narnia.

Across a great distance, you found Peter already beaming across at you as the adrenaline of winning overtook you. The happiness wavered when you saw the prone body of Edmund in the grass.

“No!” You shouted racing in the armour to the three remaining Pevensie children gathering around the youngest male sibling. The breath leaving Edmund’s body in the presence of his siblings he had made up with.

Let’s go back a few weeks to when your most significant issue had been the feelings for Luke Patterson. To when your decisions didn't include making battle plans with your new friends and avenging the death of Aslan; the talking lion.

Moments after leaving Luke’s place.

There was something about the night that soothed you from the disappointment in your body as being let down. Alex had been telling you for so long that Luke had feelings for you, but every-time you believed him it didn’t happen.

Once more, you had left the Patterson home with knowing if Luke liked you or not. Continuing to walk, you halted at hearing something. Soft music so unlike what you heard blasting from Alex's room or the gigs you attended to support the band. It was reminiscent of the music box that used to put you to sleep as a child.

"Hello?" You asked, shifting the beanie that slid on down your forehead a little. Your eyes peering around the silent streets.

The music grew louder as it entranced you into following the sound to a dilapidated building situated near older stores. So taken by the music you didn’t question why the door to the store was unlocked nor how a golden light shined from one of the antique wooden furniture.

“Come along.” A voice whispered from inside the imposing wardrobe.

Your fingers shook as you slowly pulled the door open with a creak that blasted around the darkroom. The first thing you noticed was the old fur coats hanging in the small wardrobe. The door closed behind you with a click, the golden glow dying as any suggestion she had been in the store disappeared.

The breath caught in your throat as the temperature dropped and somehow you found snow inside and trees. The crunch of snow beneath your boots surprising you but not as much as your hands pushed the branches away. Vision no longer obstructed you discovered a new world of winter and sunlight.

Standing not too far away you found four bodies of varying height staring around in wonder just as you had. The group turned on their heels at the sound of your boots crunching the snow.

The tallest of the group had honey blonde hair neatly cut and styled off his pale forehead revealing a startling pair of blue eyes. He was at least six feet tall as your estimation. His own widened at the sight of you before you took in the three other people with him—an older brunette girl standing over a younger brunette female. Set a small distance away was a young teenage boy appearing standoffish.

“I don’t suppose that is another one of your friends, Lucy?" The teen asked glancing down at the youngest of the quartet.

"No, but Peter maybe she's friends with Mr. Tumnus!" The little girl exclaimed already making her way to you when the other girl stopped her.

The next thing you noticed was their odd choice in clothing, the older boy Peter wore a light grey button-down with his dark slacks held up by suspenders. Not a single piece of clothing you recognized on people in your life.

“Lucy, she’s a stranger in a strange place.”

“This is Narnia.” Lucy stressed pouting, “Susan, it’s not polite.”

Susan's hand loosened at the reminder of manners, but with that, Susan pushed her little sister behind her. Peter stepped in front of his family to walk over to you.

"Hello, are you from around here?" Peter asked, coming closer, "I'm Peter Pevensie. This is my younger sisters Lucy and Susan. The boy over there is my little brother Edmund.”

The scowl on Edmund’s face twister further, “I’m not your little brother! I’m thirteen. Lucy’s the baby!”

“Edmund!” Susan admonished with a furrowed brow before stepping up with Peter, "What is this place?"

"Look, lady. I was walking home from my friend's place and heard this music. It's a little foggy, but I followed into an antique store." You spoke glancing at the winter wonderland that made you question if you had taken drugs.

“You’re American!” Lucy gasped rushing closer, “Why did you come to England? It’s it safer from the war in America?”

You stepped back in confusion, “I’m Y/N. War? In England? When did that happen?”

All four of the Pevensie’s stumbled back in shock at hearing that someone of your age being unaware. Susan finally took the time to take in your appearance a stark contrast to the modest, loose red and green tartan knee-length skirt. Instead, you wore a mid-thigh red plaid skirt over sheer black tights, but the most scandalous part of your outfit for Susan was your high neck black top that revealed your midriff.

“Are you daft?” Edmund questioned, stepping closer, his dark eyes pinning his angst on you, "We got evacuated from London because of it!”

Your eyebrows raised in response to the very posh accent berating you even as he was shoved back by Peter.

“You really haven’t heard about it?” Susan asked, confusing you further, but slowly it came together in your mind.

As a Mercer, you had expectations placed upon your shoulders to keep your family’s reputation in place. One of the expectations was academic excellence for your parents to boast about among their friends. To get them off your back, you studied hard with Alex in order to get away with the way you dressed and Alex being in a rock band.

Your eyes scanned the individuals' outfits before you while calculating the years London, England, was evacuated by war. A faint memory of sitting in your history class sparked on the action to evacuate mostly children. Operation Pied Piper. World War II.

"Can we go to Mr. Tumnus?" Lucy inquired, bringing her older siblings' attention to her shivering in the cool air.

“But we can’t go hiking in the snow dressed like this! Let alone Y/N in her clothing.” Susan protested also rubbing her cold arms. Peter simply strode back into the wardrobe, grabbing an armful of the coats still hanging in there.

“No, but I’m sure the professor won’t mind us using these.” Peter spoke, handing out a coat first to his siblings before turning to face you with a smile, "Would like you to join us?"

Your eyes turned to the tree hiding the door of the wardrobe to the place you knew. To return to the Mercer household where it felt stifling under the watchful eye of your parents. To a house that judged you for your dreams that went further than your parents' plans. To a boy that threatened to cradle your heart or shattered it to pieces with only a few words.

"I'd love to join you." You spoke sealing your fate by grasping a coat, but Peter stepped around to help you put it on.

The feel of his hands pushing the collar further rose a dust pink blush on your cheeks at the care he displayed. His blue gaze held firmly with yours before he shook it off with a throat cleared.

“Anyway Susan, if you think about it logically, we’re not even taking them out of the wardrobe.” Peter finished shoving the very last coat to Edmund to draw out the young boy’s discomfort.

"But that's a girl's coat!" Edmund whined offended at the fur pushed into his torso. His offended feeling rising at Peter's confirmation that he knew that too.

A cheeky smile expanded at the interaction that reminded you of Christmas mornings with Alex on who got to open the first gift. The sibling fighting that was never really as vicious as they felt like at the moment.

“To Mr. Tumnus’!” Lucy exclaimed skipping ahead of the group with Edmund trailing behind.

The Mercer home, 1994

Luke woke up with a feeling that last night had been his last chance to admit his feelings for his best friend’s sister. It felt like something had drastically changed from the previous smile he saw from you before you turned that corner. He made himself a promise he wouldn't break to shout his love from the rooftops just for you.

He couldn't wait for Reggie to pick him up, so he quickly grabbed his backpack to race out the front door. His plate barely in the sink before he was racing down the streets to Alex and your place. The grin of excitement faltered at the sight of a police car parked at the Mercer house's curb.

Mrs. Mercer sobbing in her husband's neck as a forlorn man, held his hat in his hands as he continued speaking. Luke's world lost colour for a split second before he found the blonde drummer collapsed on his knees, clutching his hair in his hands.

Then the colour leeched from Luke’s life as the once thought impossible happened.

"Alex, what's going on?"

“You!" Mrs. Mercer shouted, hearing the voice of the teenager that had taken something from the woman, "What did you do to her!”

Luke stumbled back at the heated glare from the mess of a woman so unlike the posh made-up woman. Alex was quick to push by his parents to stand shakily next to his best friend with splotchy red skin and swollen eyes.

"Luke didn't do anything! I saw her on the way home when I went to dropped that movie off at Luke's place." Alex smoothly lied to his parents saving Luke the exhaustion of a police station, and it would be the one lie that would go to their graves with them.

“My baby.” Mrs. Mercer screamed hands digging into the perfectly mowed green grass uncaring of the stains on her once immaculate elegant pearl satin slacks.

Turning robotic Alex ushered Luke down the street to the Wilson home they had turned into the band centre. Luke followed like a puppy into the open garage where Alex promptly collapsed into a fit of sobs and heavy breathing.

"She's gone." Alex cried, leaning into the sudden body hugging him with soft whispers in his ear, "Luke, Y/N didn't come home last night. None of her friends have seen her. My little sister’s missing!”

And just like that the world no longer made sense to the seventeen-year-old guitarist. The next year dragged by with running away from home. When Luke wasn’t writing music or sleeping in the studio, he was on the streets.

Clutching his favourite picture of you as he walked the streets asking if anyone had seen you while avoiding his own missing person’s poster.

Cair Paravel, Narnia

The sun rose over the land you had come to love and protect for as long as you could remember. Sometimes you hoped you’d see Aslan in the distance, but he had been gone ever since the coronation. The feeling of missing him shifted to something, no someone else you missed. It felt like a dream, and when the dream started to become clear, a hand brushed against your hip.

"Hello, darling," Peter spoke brushing a kiss on your cheek before his silky hair shifted on your skin to rest atop your own head.

A soft smile overcoming your features as his ring clinked against your own and you turned in your private chambers to stare up at him. Your hand brushing the stubble that had grown. Your eyes taking in his tanned skin from riding in the sun. For a second you swore his blue eyes flickered to hazel green.

Sometimes when you slept, you dreamt of a time where everything was different from what you knew here. Of a time when your heart fluttered for a man with hazel green eyes and a curtain of messy dark brunette hair.

“Are you alright?” Peter questioned leaning back to scan your features. It wasn't often, but he was sure you wandered off in mind.

“I’m feeling perfect.” You replied turning to wrap your arms around his shoulders, “I’m standing the arms of my King-“

“You looked beautiful tonight.” For a second, your personal bed-chamber melted away into a large room with poorly made decorations and lines on the floor of different colours. Instead of standing in Peter's arms, you found yourself moving to the music in another's arms. The same faceless person in your dreams.

"Maybe it's time we give Narnia an heir." With Peter's words, the world returned to the way it had left a bitter taste in your mouth, "What do you think of the name Luke?"

The name choked you with emotion.

Alex jogged into his sister's room, huddled over her white desk reciting information of her exam the next morning. His blue eyes lit up as he hurried to your side.

"What do you want, Alex?" You sighed turning to look at your brother with disinterest only wanting to ace this test. That way, your parents could rub in in their friends face on beating Sarah with the highest grade.

“I joined the band.” Alex beamed bringing your attention fully on him in surprise, “I’m tired of pretending to like classical music and wearing a suit that chokes me. I’m tired of having to play dress up in fancy clothes when what I want is that big pink sweater from that thrift shop. I’m tired of looking like they think a Mercer should look like. I wanna look like Alex, like myself.”

Your lips turned up at the passion ignited in Alex at the mention of three friends that had quickly become family. In welcoming Alex, they had welcomed you into the group as well. Luke being the closest friend you had that didn't care what you wore or what you said.

"You should come. You've never stayed to listen to them rehearse. Luke would love it if you came." Alex teased poking your side in the pale pink silk blouse and white knee-length skirt.

You were tired of pretending as well. You wanted to be the girl wearing a band shirt and ripped jeans. You want to wear what you wanted instead of what your parents expected. Instead of voicing a reply, you moved to the walk-in closet of designer clothing. At the very back hidden from sight was your chosen attire. In seconds you changed into one of Alex’s old band shirts tied in the back for a cropped shirt and your favourite pants.

A swipe of rebellious red lipstick to finish the look you followed Alex to his room with the large tree. You had no clue if the feeling of butterflies was from rebelling against your parents or seeing the teenage boy slowly stealing your heart.

“Not Luke.” You whispered to the man you had matured from an angsty sixteen-year-old to a twenty-five-year-old.

“Lucy may think we named him after her.” Peter joked retreating as the door to the chambers was knocked on, “I believe we owe Edmund a birthday feast.”

“I’d rather not live another year of his complaining.” You moaned lifting the skirt of your long midnight blue dress to exit the room. All thoughts of a former life disappearing like smoke once more.

King Peter and Queen Y/N took their time to the dining hall where the rest of their family was patiently waiting. Susan and Lucy sharing a smile at the topic that had been flooding the kingdom since the royal wedding two years ago. Narnia was wondering when High King Peter and his Queen would proudly show off their firstborn.

"About time. I thought we'd enter another hundred years before you two came." Edmund spoke from his chair, but instead of the same tone as the boy that first entered Narnia, it was teasing.

"Shove off and eat your cake." Peter laughed, keeping his hand encased in yours. All of them at ease with the only worry on the conflict that threatened the royals from the Ettinsmoor nation.

Part Two

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[lemonprick]

lampposts (part 4)

People spread rumours about Peter, ones they don’t even believe in themselves.

Though he acts the same way he did before the war— same proud gait and puff in his chest, the very air of an eldest sibling— they whisper about the uncanniness of his voice, and in it a certain quality that made people do things. Mr. Davies pardons his late assignment after an especially thrilling account of him losing his paper to the sewers. The warden lets him leave his lights on despite his roommate’s grumbling. “He doesn’t speak much anymore,” his roommate assures, “but when he does, you’d better watch yourself.” Boys who sought fights follow him to his fencing practices, indignant at the power the unassuming boy seemingly holds. On these occasions, such as this one, their demands aren’t met.

“Come on, Pevensie!” Only a year above him and already twice heavier built, the boy grins brutishly and waves his hands in front of Peter’s face. “I thought you liked punching people.” Peter ignores him, and the boy reaches for his shoulder.

“I said, leave.” Peter echoes, leaving everyone shocked and strangely calm and trembling nonetheless. Leave. The word doesn’t have that metallic reverb, the way a discipline teacher’s harsh scoldings clang around the halls, and the walls seem to have disappeared. Everyone is plunged into the hallowed ruins of an abandoned castle, the view of a crashing sea from the clifftops just beyond reach. Though they cannot see him, Peter’s voice thunders in all directions, seemingly stretching for the eastern waters and the western forest, the northern clouds and the southern light all at once— a lonely brass waiting for an ensemble that never joins in. They suddenly feel as if they were trespassing.

Then Peter’s sabre clatters onto the gym floor, and they are hastily reminded of where they are. The boy stops in his tracks; the gravity behind Peter’s solemn stare unsettles him. But he folds his arms to hide his pounding heart. “Tch! What’s the matter? Have you become a coward, or is it just your sisters?” Peter picks up his blade. For a second, a thought crosses their minds that he might just run the boy through with the sabre; but they see his hands, steady as steel, and the smoke from a long-extinguished fire clouding his eyes. They know he doesn’t plan to attack just yet.

Then again, Peter’s changed so much since the war. “Funny you should say that, given what happened to your mother.” He passes the boy, whose jaw hangs agape, as he makes his way to the storage room and mounts his sabre in place. The jarring silence seems to prompt him. “My condolences.”

The boy nods and walks out the door, on his face a single tear about to fall. The others crowd him. “That was cold, Peter. Surely you needn’t have gone that far?” He shrugs. “Why not? He insulted my family.” His sincerity washes over them like a warm ocean. Of course. He had insulted Peter’s sisters. It was within Peter’s right to defend them. It makes perfect sense. The almost despotic kindness in his words drives them under a sense of safety, as if it were a soft blanket, and they are on the verge of falling asleep. Peter is right. Why wouldn’t Peter be?

No one believes the boy when he later insists Peter has become like his brother. “My cousin used to be in his class— said he was the worst bully he’s ever seen. It runs in the family.” But when they see Peter’s smile, kind and benevolent and not at all cruel (after all, why should he be?), they realise it bears a striking resemblance to those depicted in leaflets and posters during the war.

They cover their ears and divert their gaze elsewhere whenever he is in the room.

(a/n: all four siblings done and dusted! i don't know what a writing style is anymore)

part 1

part 2

part 3

[angst-fairygodmother]

One Fair(e) Day - WAAAR!

A/N: This is the most obvious, self-indulgent, taken-from-real-life chapter. Because a lot of the rules/spiel included here are taken directly from how we do it at my faire/the group I work with (often I am in the role filled here by “Peter”). But also, I couldn’t not include this particular game. Word Count: 812

“No matter how we split it, with me included, it’s three versus four,” you pointed out. “If I sit out, we can split you three and three.”

“But…” Vanya protested. 

Lucy laughed. “You’re one of us, Y/N. You don’t have to play by the rules. Just free-float to the team that needs the most help.”

“Fair point. I’ll jump in on whichever team sucks,” you taunted. “I always knew I’d be the reason you didn’t all die.”

“Alright,” Peter said, calling everyone’s attention back to him at the center of the field. “Now that that’s settled, do we have any team preferences?”

Almost in unison, Luther and Diego declared themselves on opposite teams, and you and the rest of the siblings shared a glance and rolled eyes.

“Do you want to be team captains then and pick the rest of your team, dodgeball style?”

“Oh Christ, no,” Klaus declared. “Don’t give them power, or worse, leadership. We’ll never hear the end of it.”

But it was too late, and the two men nodded enthusiastically, competitive glares obvious as they faced off for a coin flip to see who chose first. Diego won.

“Five, no question,” he said. The smaller man smirked and moved off to the side of the field.

“Allison.”

“Of course you’d pick her,” Diego snarked. 

Then he looked at his two options left on the field and hesitated, debating which of his remaining siblings he wanted: the distracted or the passive? He imagined either one would be useless. Klaus would get offended and whine for the rest of the evening if he was picked last. Still, Vanya was a musician and that required control, which just might translate, hopefully, to the field.

“Vanya,” he said after a long moment.

“Fine. Then I guess we’ve got Klaus,” Luther snapped, trying and failing to hide his disappointment. 

“Oh I see how it is,” Klaus pouted. “Really feeling the love here.”

“Alright, teams to your sides. Scatter!” Peter called, giving them all only a moment to duck behind the various hay bales and fence panels before raising the cluster of extra arrows above his head.

“In case you all forgot in all the excitement,” he called. “This is a seven minute round of simulated murder and it will begin in three…two…one…shoot each other in the face!” 

He tossed the bundle into the air, letting them fall where they may and jogged to the sideline as the scorekeeper flipped over the hourglass and the game began.

It didn't take long for foam-tipped arrows to be flying everywhere, the air filled with thunks, thuds, twangs, and scrabbles in a comforting cacophony. Both teams were doing surprisingly well, with Five being the only one who hadn't run at least one lap of shame from being hit. 

'Time to fix that,' you thought, stepping casually into position and loosing three shots in rapid succession. 

They thwacked in a rhythm against the backs of his shoulders, and you waved your fingers, smiling winningly and leaning on the hay bale as he turned around to glare. Then, before he could respond, an arrow smacked into your jaw, momentarily dazing you. You turned with a gasp, watching as the last swoosh of Vanya’s new dramatic hat and feathers disappeared from view.

“Klaus, avenge me!” You cried dramatically before jogging off to run your lap.

As you moved you watched Luther’s team score three more points, with Allison being an unexpected ringer, and you paused at the tent, considering the time and scores. Then you rejoined, sliding into place beside Diego with a wink. As you popped your head up to take a shot, you heard a gasp of mock shock. 

“Traitor!” Allison called, laughing as she dodged your projectile and fired one back. 

“This won’t be forgotten!” Klaus added from somewhere behind a barrier.

“Less talking, more shooting!” Luther bellowed. “We’re never going to hear the end of it if they win!”

~

By the time you all exited the field of battle, after the longest seven minutes of any of your lives, you were exhausted, sweaty, covered in dirt, and laughing. The final scores came to 21 to 17, one of the highest you had ever seen in a fair fight, with Diego’s team winning.

“I’ve half a mind to accuse you of cheating,” Klaus drawled with a pointed look.

“I didn’t need to. That was all skill,” Diego smirked. “Cus I’m awesome.”

Luther snorted. “Over half of those hits were Five and you know it.”

“He’s got a point,” Vanya added with a small shrug. “Not that it matters, since we won. Right?”

Diego opened his mouth to argue when you draped an arm around him, the other curling over Luther’s bicep.

“Gentlemen,” you interrupted. “You were both excellent generals in a war fought well. It is almost time for final revels! Are we going, or not?”

[dontasktheradiodemon]

Ghosts and Guns (4/23/2021)

Alastor a.k.a. Leal @usedhearts and Alastor a.k.a. Astor talk about their experiences seeing ghosts when they were alive, which is a great conversation.

And then they talk about how Astor keeps getting stuck third-wheeling with Leal and Alastor a.k.a. Alexa, which is not a great conversation.

usedhearts

He'd popped around a couple places in the hotel, looking for Astor, and finally found him. Leal stepped out of the shadows into the mini makeshift greenhouse.

"You remember when we talked about ghosts? Back when you taught me about the internet? I've been thinking about that lately!" Yes, no preamble, no hello, just straight into it without announcing himself. But he DOES have two thermoses in his hands, wonder what's in there. Probably something for Astor.

"I brought soup!" Definitely something for Astor.

dontasktheradiodemon

"Oh, delicious!" He held out a hand for a thermos. Who needs a preamble? Clearly this show has been broadcasting all day and he only just tuned into the middle.

Astor himself had been in the turned-sideways ship annexed onto the hotel, where he's been keeping his garden: a grand total of two okra plants and one bell pepper plants. They really don't need a whole lot of fussing at, but he feels neglectful if he doesn't do a bit of fussing anyway.

But it certainly left him time to entertain a guest. "Yes, I vaguely recall! Why?" He opened his thermos to inspect the soup.

usedhearts

Upon inspection he'd find Creole style Yakamein soup, with extra meat. Leal summoned himself a chair, settling into it. He gave his own soup a sip before he started.

"You told me abou your experiences with spirits when you were young and it got me reexamining some of my childhood and I think I may have been seeing ghosts before I was haunted personally!"

dontasktheradiodemon

Ooh, delicious. He sipped at it like it was just a cup of coffee.

"Really!" His brows went up. He wasn't surprised to learn his alternate was more sensitive to spirits than previously thought, but he *was* surprised his alternate was figuring it out so long after the fact. "Well, do tell me about them!"

usedhearts

"I think the reason I never noticed was because I would _see_ them but with my attention span, I wouldn't think anything strange about it. I remember a few incidents clearly though-- like this one time when I was out in the bayou when I was a child, I came across a gentleman who I now know was wearing a confederate uniform. He was just staring off into space. I asked him if he was alright and he didn't respond-- so I just turned and left."

Leal shrugged, taking another sip of his soup. "The things children will overlook, huh?"

dontasktheradiodemon

“The man lost his cause and has been dredging the bayou for it ever since.” He scoffed derisively. “Now, that’s interesting, though! I only rarely ever saw them! I almost always heard them—that was usually how I could tell the living from the dead, I didn’t see them.”

usedhearts

"Yes, that's why I think I mistook them for living people! All the times I remember, before I was being haunted personally, they never spoke. I only saw them." He  shrugged.

"Perhaps that's one of the key differences between us, the way we experienced hauntings."

dontasktheradiodemon

"Perhaps so!" He paused thoughtfully. "Or maybe you were also surrounded by invisible ghosts you couldn't hear and I was surrounded by silent ghosts I couldn't see? Maybe we both had twice as many ghosts as we thought we did! Hah!"

It wasn't easy to drink noodles out of a thermos, but by god he was finding a way. "Did they ever approach you? Interact with you?"

usedhearts

"Hmm..." His head tilted and he took another sip of his soup-- sluuurp there goes a noodle of his own.

"There was one time a woman approached me, and seemed to be trying to ask me something, but she had no voice. I tried to help her and I ran to get a pen and paper, but when I returned she was gone."

dontasktheradiodemon

"Only once? Huh. The rest must have realized you wouldn't be much help to them." Huff. "I wonder if she's one I ever met. Did she look like she might be a relative?"

usedhearts

"Only once that I recall so far, who knows what else my memory will dredge up!" Leal laughed, then tilted his head. "She did look vaguely like Maman, but there were a lot of women in the neighborhood that looked vaguely like Maman, so..." He shrugged.

"Now I'm wondering if I saw any during the war-- one would think that would be a hotspot for hauntings, hm?"

dontasktheradiodemon

"Oh, was it ever! I tried to talk a couple of fellows into spying on Jerry and reporting back! They said they were officially off-duty and they weren't going to fight any German ghosts for me." He laughed. It was the laugh of somebody who had taught himself through deliberate effort to find this funny.

"I had a friend named Joseph who died on the first day of shelling. He stuck it out the week with me before moving on. Now that was a dependable pal."

usedhearts

That caught him off guard, and Leal blinked. "Wait, Joey? Didn't he die on the last day of shelling?"

He was a little shocked that they'd known, possibly, the same man. But they _were_ the same person, he really shouldn't be surprised. "You know, I probably saw tons but never registered it, because anyone covered in blood and staring into a middle distance would've just looked shell shocked to me!"

dontasktheradiodemon

Astor gave him a surprised look. "Joey Landry? Never stopped talking about his fiancée what's-her-name, started with a D? No. First day. At least, in my spin on things." But if Leal knew who he was talking about, Astor doubted it had been different.

"That really was what it was like. I heard so many screams I couldn't locate, I never knew if I was hearing the dying or the dead. Sometimes I had to ask if anyone else heard that scream too, and they'd ask, 'which one?' It's the only time I ever wished I couldn't hear spirits."

usedhearts

Leal snapped his fingers, his brows shooting up as he pointed at Astor. "Yes! That's him, the very one! Joey Landry with the fiancée! Oh, always felt for that poor girl after he died....you SURE it was the first day?"

He stroked his chin as he thought. "I saw him around but he got real quiet after the first day....didn't jabber anymore. I just thought he was shell shocked at the time, not shell _dead_. But then he disappeared."

Leal took a breath and then another sip of his soup. "You know....I think you're right."

dontasktheradiodemon

Astor nodded. Yes, he was sure it was the first day. “He spent the next week grieving for himself. He made me write down a whole list of things he wanted me to do on his behalf. I think I only did three or four of them. He dictated a letter to his girl, I made sure she got that.”

usedhearts

Leal's smile tightened and he looked down, arms crossing over his chest. His thermos floated next to him, as if he never let it go.

"Well, that puts a whole new spin on things. I didn't do anything for him, I didn't even know he was dead until he disappeared at the end of the week. But now I definitely know that I saw ghosts on the front. A lot of them. Maybe I'd repressed some of it before this, but I sure do remember it now."

dontasktheradiodemon

“Well, you didn’t do anything, but on the other hand you didn’t promise him a dozen things and then break three-fourths of your promise, did you?” He laughed ruefully. “Did you repress it or did you just not understand it? Everyone saw hellish things out there, after all—if you don’t have experience with ghosts, how do you sort them out from the rest? I imagine most times they looked better than their corpses.”

usedhearts

"Exactly-- I saw so much horrible shit, how was I to sort through it to find that some of the shit was actually from cows instead of pigs?" That was a messy metaphor, but it had been a messy time.

"I think I'm only able to sort through it now, some hundred years after the fact, because so much time has passed." He took his thermos back from the air and took another drink of soup. That helped, good food always did.

"I think I fired on some German ghosts, too. I remember a couple shots that I _knew_ were dead on, but there wasn't confirmed hits...."

dontasktheradiodemon

He let out a genuine laugh. “Oh! Those fellows were having the worst time out of anyone! Imagine being one of those boys: not only are you on the frontlines, not only are you *dead,* but some stubborn doughboy is *still* shooting at you! Some days you just can’t catch a break!”

usedhearts

Astor's laugh made him laugh too, a surprised noise at first, and then a few more natural noises. "Oh, yes, that would be terrible wouldn't it? They think they're out of it and then ZOOM! There's a bullet whizzing through their ghost-head!"

dontasktheradiodemon

“Just when they start thinking, ‘Well, at least it can’t get any worse’...!”

His laughter slowly petered out. “It’s a pity you didn’t get the nice side of seeing spirits. I’m surprised Ma didn’t raise you with that.”

usedhearts

"Well, it was hardly her fault-- Catholic school does that to a boy." He snorted and shook his head.

"After a year of that, I didn't want to hear anything about _anything_ spiritual. She did teach me things, but I made it clear that I didn't want to hear about that. She, being the loving mother she was, agreed to not talk about it with me." He sighed.

"Nowadays, I wish I had let her."

dontasktheradiodemon

He nodded deeply. “That’s right, I remember you mentioned that. Funny, the big differences little changes can make. Spirits were just a fact of my life long before I started school. Even if I *had* been turned off of religion like you—well, what does religion have to do with the fact that great-grandma sang to me when I couldn’t sleep, or that my father’s kin thought my French sounded funny and old-fashioned because in between visits I practiced with a spirit? To me, the difference between a ghost and the Holy Ghost was as big as the difference between a bite of flesh and a communion wafer. But would that have been the case if I’d only seen them instead of hearing them?” He shrugged.

usedhearts

Leal nodded in turn. "See, I never had that. No one but Maman sang to me, no phantom voices talking French. I had things a child's mind wrote off as 'weird but whatever'. It just goes to show that maybe if I _had_ heard them, I might've trod a path closer to yours."

He sighed, finishing off the last of his soup. The thermos disappeared into a portal as his head cocked.

"I don't think I've shown you the rifle, have I? Not after our...tense chat. Here." He flared a bit of magic, and pushed it into the ring hidden beneath his glove, and-- poof! There it was, a lovely, alien, magic sniper rifle. He held it out to Astor. "Here, hold it, it's got a good weight."

dontasktheradiodemon

Tense chat. His smile wilted slightly. Right. He’d nearly forgotten all about that.

All the same, he accepted the rifle. “Well, now, that’s an interesting contraption, isn’t it?” He hefted it up. “This is one of those ones built to shoot people a mile away, isn’t it?”

usedhearts

Leal noticed that wilt. He made a note of it. "I haven't tried firing it THAT far but it does get good distance! The way you fire is that you charge it up with your magic and then just shoot it out! Makes reloading a hell of a lot easier."

He took a breath. "And, apparently, you _can_ make it non-lethal. I didn't know that at the time, and my magic tends to make the 'bullets' rather explosive. Hence, why I didn't want to fire it at you."

Another breath. "I'm sorry, again, for not being clearer about that. I didn't mean to muck things up, it all just happened so fast. Have you spoken to Alexa about it?"

dontasktheradiodemon

“We’ve talked.” He offered the rifle back. “Magically charged. What do you know, a gun that makes the gunman do all the hard work! Still, interesting concept for a magical focus. And I’m sure you can do some interesting tricks with the ‘bullets’ that way.”

usedhearts

That didn't offer Leal much in the way of _what_ they talked about. "Talked like our talk that happened right after, or a talk like we're talking _now_?" Might as well ask for clarification.

"Yes! I've got the 'explode on contact' thing down, I've been trying to see what else I can do with them." He took the gun back and dismissed it back to the ring.

"I also wanted to apologize if Alexa and I have made you feel...awkward, when around us."

dontasktheradiodemon

“We talked about it the day of.” And Astor didn’t intend to offer Leal much in the way of what they talked about. It wasn’t his business to share if their alternate hadn’t shared it.

His smile thinned further. “Yes, well. Unless being a pest is my goal, I don’t particularly enjoy feeling like my presence is the only thing preventing my current companions from doing whatever it is they’d rather be doing.”

usedhearts

He glanced down, his own smile thinning, his hands folding in his lap. "I know it was never _my_ intent to make you feel like that. And I doubt it was Alexa's either."

Leal took another deep breath. "I like having you around, I like being around you, you're my friend, and Alexa and I should have thought about that before....thermoregulating around you like we do. We're an odd bunch, us Alastors, but I think _that's_ probably a little odd to see, even from us." He laughed humorlessly.

dontasktheradiodemon

A long, slow blink. “‘Thermoregulating’?” Let’s just get that out of the way first.

usedhearts

Oh. Yes, there was that. He hadn't explained it yet, had he?

"I run hot, Alexa is always cold. When we....." God, he didn't want to say the word. "_Cuddle_, it evens us both out. It's nice."

dontasktheradiodemon

Another, slower blink. “And... short sleeves and long johns weren’t solutions you thought to explore first?”

usedhearts

At that, Leal rolled his eyes. "Why do you think I toss off my coat at the drop of a hat? It's not just that, it's...." He huffed a bit.

"You know that feeling, when someone touches you and your skin wants to jump ship? With Alexa, there is no _that_ feeling, at all. It's just....it's nice." And he crossed his arms again. Don't mind that blush dusting his cheeks, he's not embarrassed at all.

dontasktheradiodemon

“So, the ‘thermoregulating’ bit is a convenient excuse to cuddle without openly admitting that you want to cuddle.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “It’s actually very obvious that what you’re doing is cuddling. There’s... I’m afraid there’s really no ambiguity.”

usedhearts

"It's more an excuse for cuddling and the reason we started cuddling in the first place. But that's what we're calling it, our Thing, thermoregulating."

He took a breath. "We've both agreed to stop doing it around others, though. It was--" He gave a brief nod toward Astor. "Making things awkward and neither of us want that. So next time all of us are in a room together, me and he will be on our best behavior, I swear." He held up his hand, the other over his heart.

dontasktheradiodemon

Their *Thing.* Astor nodded. “Well, I’d hate to impose on your Thing! Particularly if this means that you’ll be spending dinner parties wishing you were somewhere else where you felt free to cuddle?”

usedhearts

"No, it's not--" Leal took a breath again. "You're not imposing on us, Alastor. Both of us _like_ spending time with you. We just....got preoccupied. It's our fault, not yours."

dontasktheradiodemon

A nod. “All right.” Like he doesn’t quite buy it. “Whatever you two feel is appropriate.”

usedhearts

Leal stated at him, eyes narrowed just a tad.

"Are we...okay? Do you want to, I don't know, share your feelings, or anything?"

dontasktheradiodemon

His brows knit. “*Share* my *feelings*—? Who in the world have you been talking to?” That was some therapist shit right there. “You’re still invited to the holiday potlucks, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

usedhearts

Oh look at that, the blush is getting worse, his smile twitching.

"Good, good. I'm going to still send you fresh seafood and bug you, too, you know. We're still _friends_."

dontasktheradiodemon

Astor studied his alternate’s face critically. What *was* all this?

He’d always taken it as an unspoken given amongst alternates that getting cagey meant *back off.* They were entertainers, not journalists. If an interviewee balks at a question, a good talk show host redirects the conversation to something more free-flowing that the audience can enjoy; he doesn’t prod deeper and drag out more tight-lipped answers while the audience loses interest. A half-assed answer *is* an answer: it says *change course.*

And any alternate of Alastor’s ought to know that. So why was Leal pushing about Astor’s *feelings*?

Neutrally, he asked, “Would you like to share *yours*?”

usedhearts

Leal's brow furrowed-- he hadn't been expecting that. Share _his_ feelings? There was nothing in the world he wanted to do _less_. He just wanted to be sure that things were alright between him and Astor-- maybe Val was rubbing off on him.

"Not particularly, no," He said, giving a wry chuckle.

"I just...want you to be reassured that you don't have to--" He shrugged. "-- sit out or anything when I invite others into shenanigans. I'll be sure to be clearer about things in the future."

dontasktheradiodemon

He gave Leal a meaningful look—yeah, well, there you go, nobody wants to talk about their feelings.

"Duly noted." Noted and discarded. He couldn't imagine attempting that again.

usedhearts

"Good." He took a breath and stood, his chair disappearing.

"Then I think I'll be on my way. If I remember more ghost encounters I'll be sure to let you know."

dontasktheradiodemon

"Do! I'd be interested to hear more about your experiences." Finally back to a safe topic—but he feared the damage was done.

"Oh! Do you want your—?" Alastor held out the thermos he'd been drinking. About a quarter of the soup was left.

usedhearts

Leal held up his hand, shaking his head. "Oh no! You keep that, it's fine."

Leal gave a little nod. "So long, Alastor! Until next time!" And he melded back into the shadows whence he came.

dontasktheradiodemon

"And to you, Alastor." He tipped his thermos to Leal.

And then he was alone. He sighed and sipped at his soup. He had the sinking feeling that could have gone better.

[mysterioh]

The Ignorant Beauty and The Beast of New York - Ch. 13

PAIRING: MOB!STEVE ROGERS X READER

SYNOPSIS: Y/N is an exhausted bio major. Steve is danger with a capital DANGER. She thinks he’s a sarcastic prick with an impressive knowledge of art history. He thinks she’s cute even if she’s only running on one brain cell. All he wants is a single date, but she’s adamant upon denying.

A/N: This one’s for the girls who feel underappreciated. Love you all! 💗 

W/C: ~5k (kinda long this time)

Masterlist

Insert Very Cute Very Soft Title

“He’s so fluffy!” you fawned, squatting down to the dog's level, hands pressed against your cheeks as you looked at the fluffy cotton ball in complete awe.

Lucky sat on his bottom, smiling and panting with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, unaware of the effect he was having on you. He sat relaxed but ready to pounce on Steve if he let him. You squealed, shaking your head back and forth, and the mob men find it amusing.

"Don’t be rude Lucky, shake hands," Steve chuckled behind you.

“Hello, Lucky,” you placed your hand in front of him and he placed his paw on top. “So cute!” you screamed in awe.  Steve pays close attention to the way your fingers sift through his luscious white fur. "Oh my god, you’re so soft!"  

“She really likes Lucky," Bucky chuckled.

“I never knew she could be that nice," Steve shakes his head. His confusion and shock slowly morph into envy by the way you're playing with Lucky. "I can’t believe I’m jealous of a dog.”

“Hey, at least you know she isn’t a gold digger," Sam said. You're too busy with the dog that you don't pay them any mind. "She completely ignored this giant mansion filled with priceless treasures."

"Would you shut up?" Steve asked annoyed. "She's literally right there."

"She's gone, bro," Bucky crossed his arms. "She's not coming back anytime soon."

"You guys are finally here," Nat said, strutting towards them from the hallway. "I was wondering where you were."

You stand up as the redhead walks towards you. "And you brought a friend," she smirks at Steve. He looks away with an irritated blush creeping on his cheeks.

"Hi, I think we met at the restaurant," you extended your hand for a shake. "My name is–"

"Y/N," Nat shakes your hand. "I know. Stevie's told me a lot about you."

Your face flushed warm and you turned towards him with a wicked grin.

"Is that true, Stevie?"

Steve gulps when you tease him, it's like a sweet blaze burning through his veins. Steve's lips form into a pout before clicking his tongue.

"Alright, it ain't that funny," he said pointedly at the three snickering mischievously. "Sam, Bucky, Nat, in my office now," he ordered firmly, but it didn't phase them. "Peter stay here with Y/N."

"Aye, aye, Captain." He saluted.

He walks up to you and scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "I gotta have a quick meeting. If that's okay with you?"

"No problem with me," you shake your head.

Steve smiles brightly. "Thanks, it won't be too long. Make yourself at home," he turned on his heel. "If you need anything just ask Peter."

You chuckled. "Don't worry, I'll be fine, Stevie," you teased.

Steve shakes his head with a blush staining his cheeks. "Stop," he said in an attempt to sound serious but trails off into a flustered chuckle.

You turn to look at Peter. “So what do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugs, “how about we sneak around and do something illegal?”

“In the kingpin’s house?” you smirked. “I love that idea.”

“Great,” he beams, “Let’s—” Peter’s ringtone goes off and digs his hand into his pocket for his phone. He pulls it out and sighs. “It’s my girlfriend.”

“Why must your girlfriend so conveniently call when we are on the brink of a major discovery?”

“I don’t know,” Peter chuckled, “I shall answer and find out,” he takes a skip towards the living room for some privacy, leaving you alone with Lucky.

You crouch down to his level. “Well, Lucky, I suppose our mystery gang is down to two,” you said, cupping his cheeks. “What do we do now? Got any embarrassing pictures of your old man we can go through?”

Lucky barks and rushes off somewhere. He returns not a minute later with a ball in his mouth. He places the ball on the floor in front of you and pants heavily.

“Ball?” you asked, “Are you even allowed to play ball in the house?” You shrugged, taking the ball into your hand. “Well, Steve did say to make ourselves at home. So that means— catch !”

Lucky scrambles after the ball, slipping along the shiny marble floor of the foyer and into the hallway. You wait patiently for him to return, observing the interior of the mansion’s foyer. The house was styled in an old French Country Style with worn and ornamental wooden furnishings and soft tones of warm colors. In the middle of the foyer was the staircase lined with shining mahogany banisters that narrow at the top and grow wide downwards. The walls are decorated with various paintings. All matching perfectly with the decor.

You snorted while placing your hands on your hips. Of course, he’d have paintings in his house. It’s not like he couldn’t afford it.  

You realize that a couple of minutes have passed and Lucky still hadn’t returned with the ball. You walk down the hallway calling Lucky’s name quietly. The low tone of conversation comes from one of the rooms and you tiptoed towards the door, cracked open just enough for a beam of light to peer through.

Crouching against the wall, you crane your neck towards the door to listen to the conversation inside. You were never one to eavesdrop but you had a lot of questions about Steve. A lot of questions he probably wouldn't want to answer.

You squeak at the feel of something soft brush against your leg and turn to find Lucky sitting next to you, ball in mouth. He drops the ball drenched in his slobber into your hand. Slightly disgusted you smiled at him. “Where have you been?” you whispered before turning back inside.

"Those men were either Rumlow or Chicago, we're not exactly sure."

"We'll find out."

"Chill out, Stevie, the girl's fine."

"It's not something to chill out about, Bucky," Steve countered, "She could've gotten hurt."

There's a genuine sound of worry and care in his words and even without taking a peek inside, you imagine what he looks like. Eyebrows knitted loosely in frustration, lips curved downward slightly in anger, jaw ticking, muscles bulging underneath white sleeves pushed up past his elbows, and hands placed flat on his desk as he's hunched over with the most despicable expression on his face. And it's all because of you. For you. You didn't know if it was right or wrong.

Bucky snorted along to the creaking of the chair he was sitting on being balanced on its hind legs. "Not when her prince in shining armor's there to save h–ow! Okay! I'm sorry!" He hollered.

"This isn't a time for jokes, Buck," Nat stated, seriously.

"The clown can't help himself," Sam snickered.

"Screw you, Wilson," Bucky jabbed. Sam was ready to retort but Nat interjected.

"What if it's neither?" Nat proposed. "What if they're all working together?"

"What do you mean?" Bucky asked, clueless. Nat sighed.

"Think about it. The Gambinos work with Lucchese. They're pals. Rumlow’s working with Lucchese and he shows up with this proposition right after Steve decided to nuke the Gambino brothers."

_Wait, nuke who? Nuke as in bomb? He's killing people? _

_All of a sudden, Quentin's highly irritating, fatherly voice twinkles in the back of your head. _

"You mean they're all in this together?" Sam questioned.

"What else am I trying to say?" Nat snapped.

"Woah Sis, better check that attitude," Bucky replied.

"You wanna say that again, Buckethead?" She asked, dangerously low.

Bucky gulps while shaking his head.

"Thought so."

"If they're all working together, who's the head?" Sam said, rubbing his hand across his chin.

"It could be a compromise?" Nat stated. "Working together to take over?"

"No, they ain't that buddy-buddy," Steve counters with a grumble. "There's gotta be one at the top that brought them together."

The room goes silent for a few minutes and you can hear your heartbeat bouncing back and forth between your chest and the wall. Lucky opens his mouth to bark and you quickly cover it with your hands.

"Sshh," you whispered with a finger in front of your lips.

"Hydra," Steve stated and your attention returns to inside.

"What?" Bucky asked incredulously, "there's no way."

"No wait a second," Sam stopped him. "The Gambinos were working with Hydra behind our back. Who's to say Lucchese isn't?"

"Sam's got a point," Nat agreed. "Hydra could be the head. They're covering themselves up with the big guys and those dumbasses are falling for it."

Bucky nodded. "Makes sense. The underdog's taking a chance to make it to the top."

"Well they're messing with the wrong mob," Sam snarled. "We'll show 'em just what we're made of."

"But, we can't afford a war," Bucky reminded, "Not when elections are coming up."

War? What does he mean by that? Does he mean like a GANG WAR? OH GOD, WHAT AM I DOING HERE?

"Bucky's right,” Steve agrees.

"For once," Nat quickly replied, earning a grumble from Bucky.

"Here's what we do," Steve started. You notice just how different he sounds. Stately and somewhat dictating, very serious with speckles of something dark. Something that makes shivers crawl down your spine. He doesn't sound like the Steve you knew.

“We wade this out," he continues, “Let it pass until the elections are over and then we hit ‘em."

"You think T'challa's gonna like that?" Nat asked.

"He will if he wants to keep his ass on that chair," Sam retorts.

"We don't make any moves until the elections pass and he wins," Steve re-stated. "Tell everyone working under you to lay low. No fights. No bullshit," he ordered. "We make 'em feel like it was nothing. Ya hear?"

"Got it," Bucky nodded.

You hear them shuffling inside, chairs being pushed, and steps coming towards the door and take it as your cue to disappear. Quickly picking up Lucky, who's heavier than he looks, you quietly run down the hall just as Bucky opens the door.

"And the girl?" Nat asked while Sam helped her put her coat on.

"What about her?" Steve asked, clearing the papers from his desk.

"If you're gonna keep her around, which you probably are, you have to tell her what she's getting into."

Steve sighs and drops his papers back onto the desk.  

"Nat's right, buddy, she needs to know before it gets worse," Bucky agreed.

"I'll talk to her," Steve responded.

"Tonight?" Nat asked her tone stating that he better say yes.

"Tonight."

A haze of smoke dances underneath dim lights, above and around the round table of Sir Alexander's notorious mobsters.

The thick smell of alcohol and cigars mingled with the aroma of day-old pizza inside of Gino's Pizzeria. A few sat around the table playing cards, laughing raucously at another lewd joke. Others lined the bar with the wall illuminated by speckled bar lights shining through bottles of different hues.

It was always a den of debauchery, alcoholism, and the great unwashed of the town. No one came there with anything wholesome in mind.  

Strucker walks past the men, each of them giving their stalwart a greeting nod or word, and into the back. He opens the door, gaining the attention of the men sitting around the table. They look at him with questioning eyes and he gulps silently. His eyes meet the cold ones of the man at the head of the table, sending a shiver down the grown man's spine. Alexander Pierce, the leader of Hydra.

"He got away," Strucker informed.

"How'd you let that happen?" Pierce asked, tapping his finger against the wooden table.

"It was dark," he said blankly.

"Are you fucking serious?" Rumlow asked incredulously. "He's not serious is he?" He points at Strucker while looking at Zemo.

Zemo sighed, slightly irritated by Rumlow. He's been all night. "With all due respect sir, I told you it would've been a bad move to do this," Zemo told Pierce. "But it's not like anyone listens to me around here," he looks straight at Rumlow.

"What the hell are you looking at me for?" He pointed at himself with both his hands. "I had an idea and you all liked it. How is this solely my fault?"

"Everything you ever come up with goes to shit," Zemo stated flatly. "Now the kingpin knows we're sneaking around."

"They don't know it's us," Rumlow retorted.

"But they know it's someone and most likely you," Zemo said pointedly.

"The boss gave me the okay," Rumlow replied. Zemo always had a way of getting under his skin. "So your opinion doesn't matter."

"After begging like a dog for it," Zemo bites.

Rumlow quickly stands, shaking the table along with him. "You wanna say that again?" He threatens with a grisly voice.

"Rumlow, sit down," Pierce stated calmly, unphased by his outrage, but slightly irritated by the three of them. "Zemo, shut up."

The two follow their stalwart's orders giving each other death stares making the older man sighed deeply like a tired mother.

"The Brooklyn Mob is the biggest force in the city. They've got the biggest territory. The best guys. And all the politicians that can do something," Zemo lists. "They got the mayor. Half the police force on their payroll. The best damn lawyer in the city."

"Nick Fury's getting old. He can't do that forever," Strucker said, lighting a cigarette.

"For old Rogers? I highly doubt it." Rumlow guffaws. "You know how much he gets paid for keeping his ass outta jail?"

"But there's always a weak spot," Pierce pointed out, cigar hanging out the side of his mouth. "No great empire lasts forever. They all have a weakness.” he sits back in his chair, hooking his leg over the other. “All we need to do is find one.”

“How are you going to do that?” Rumlow asked, completely confused. “No Brooklyn mobster is dumb enough to go against the kingpin, not like they want to anyway. They’re the cockiest little shits I’ve ever met.”

Zemo shakes his head. “You’re thinking too outwardly, Rumlow. We need someone on the inside, someone close to ol’ Rogers.”

“You mean like Barnes or Wilson?” Rumlow questioned, incredulously. “Good luck with that Harvard man.” Zemo huffs through his nose with a grimace.

"We need something. Something good,” Pierce told them. “Something that'll make the kingpin fall so far that he'll never get back up."

“I think I have something,” Strucker raises his hand.

“Strucker, be quiet, you don’t even have a brain,” Rumlow shuts him down.

“Honestly listen to me,” he persisted. “There’s some talk going on around the city.”

“Well, are you gonna tell us?” Pierce questioned harshly.

“Apparently, Rogers’ got a girl.”

Rumlow scoffed. “That’s news? Who cares about some chick he’s fucking?”

“No, no this may be something,” Pierce counters and Strucker smiles small. “Rogers is a gentleman. He’s sweet around the ladies.”

“Well, whoop de doo his momma taught him some manners before kicking the bucket. So what?”

“Whoever this girl is,” Strucker started. “She’s important to him. Maybe even more than his damn mob. I mean everyone knows the kingpin doesn’t back out of a fight, but this time he did and wanna know why? Because she was there with him.”

“Who is this girl?” Zemo asked him.

“I don’t know. No one knows,” he shrugs, “Probably a civilian.”

“So what do we do?” Rumlow asks the others. “Go after the girl? Bribe him into it?”

Pierce shakes his head with a frown. “No, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” he stood up, looking at his three best.  “Rumlow, you’re gonna stay low.” he pointed at him then at Strucker.

“Strucker, you’re gonna find this girl, get every piece of information you can on her. Every damn thing you hear me?” Strucker nods in haphazard. “But don’t make a move. Not until I say so. This girl may just be what we need,” Pierce smiles devilishly and laughs haughtily.

“And what about me?” Zemo asked with furrowed brows.

“Pack your bags, kid, you’re going on a trip,” he patted him on the shoulder as he walked by.

“What?” he questioned Pierce as he walked away. “Where?”

Pierce stops at the door and turns back with a wicked glint in his eye and the gears in his aged brain concocting a toxic plan.

“Jolly old England!”

“So you live in this huge place all alone?” you asked, sitting on a stool by the kitchen island with Lucky resting on the floor next to you.

The kitchen alone was bigger than your entire apartment complete with granite-topped counters, sparkling clean kitchen items, and that never-ending fridge Bucky was talking about.

"Not really," Steve said, making some coffee. "I've got a penthouse. Smaller. Closer to work. I usually stay there."

"But you're still all alone.”

Steve stops for a second to ruminate on your words. True, he was alone. He didn’t have any family left, except for Lucky. He always tried not to think about it by keeping himself busy, but loneliness had a way of sneaking up on him. He shrugged, pulling out two mugs from the cabinet above him.

"I don't know being alone isn't so bad,” he replied, placing the cups down. “It gives you time to think. About yourself. About what you want in life and what you don't,” You listened while watching him pour some coffee into a mug. “You can use that time to find out something you never knew about yourself."

“I guess,” you replied sheepishly.

He turns with a smile telling you not to feel bad. He places a mug in front of you. "Besides I'm not always alone. I've got my friends."

"Oh yeah,” you chuckled.  “How could I ever forget them? They're kinda hard to miss."

Steve laughs, returning to the counter to get his cup. "Sorry if they're annoying."

"No, they're not annoying,” you shake your head, cupping the mug with both of your hands. "I like them. They seem like a lot of fun."

He snorts. "They can be when they want to."

You take a sip of the hot liquid. A sweet wave of French Vanilla bombards your tastebuds. You notice a yellow sketchbook, sticking out from underneath some junk mail. Without thinking, you pull the book out.

"You draw?"

He turns to see you with his book in your hand. He smiles sheepishly. Why did I leave that there!? "A little,” he replied, turning back to work on his coffee.

"Seems to be more than a little,” you chuckled. "Can I?"

"Hmm, oh yeah sure go ahead,” he said, adding some creamer to his mug. He stops midway when he realizes what book was in your hand. The yellow one. The one no one was supposed to see. Especially the girl who’s picture he drew horribly in it.

He almost drops the creamer as he quickly lunges over the granite top as you turned the page. "W-wait! Not—not that one!" he shouted, as you turned the page to reveal a picture of you. It’s a simple headshot going down to just above your chest.

Steve’s face goes red as half off him lays on top of the table, watching the way you’re looking at the picture he drew. Your eyes move from place to place, taking in every part he drew with attention to detail. Every stroke twisted into a lacy network of pencil lead. The painstaking task of shading to represent the contrast between light and dark. It’s fragile, natural, beautiful in its own way.

It makes you think. How long did he take to make this? How many hours did he erase to get it all right? Every line has been made with care, every stroke with you in mind.

Brushing your fingers along the picture you gasp in awe. "This is me."

"It is," he murmurs. You turn quiet and look at the sketch in wonder. Steve takes your silence as you being weirded out and begins to ramble an excuse.

"I'm really sorry. I just...I don't know what happened to me and I drew this cause I was thinking about you and I know it's really creepy—."

"I like it," you interrupted.

"What?"

"I said I like it. I love it actually," you looked up at him, beaming. "I've never had my portrait done before."

He stands straight and scratches the back of his head still embarrassed. "I'm- um- glad you like it."

"You've really outdone yourself with this. I don't even look this pretty," you remarked.

Steve was taken aback at first then shakes his head with a sad smile.

"I don't–I don't think that at all. I'm still lacking so much. I still can't get that pretty smile of yours right or that sparkle in your eye," lifting up your head, your eyes meet his vibrant, honest ones. "I'll never be able to recreate the things that make you so beautiful.”

Beautiful .

That's something you've never really felt before. Something no one's ever really said before. It's always been the opposite. There are a million flaws you could pick out right there and then, but you take his words as truth.

There's a dry ache in your throat as tears start to bubble at the corners of your eyes. You sniffle as teardrops fall onto the paper.

"What's wrong?" Steve came towards you in a hurry.

You shake your head, wiping away the tears "It's just," you sniffled, rubbing your eye. "No one's ever really said that to me before," you look up with a smile and red eyes. "Sorry, I'm getting your book all wet," you chuckled, avoiding his eyes.

His heart aches at your words, his fingers itching to wrap around you in an embrace. He wants you to feel loved . Feel wanted. He wanted you to know just how beautiful you really were. He wanted you to see yourself the way he saw you.

"That's fine. I don't care," he whispered, gently weaving his hands in yours. "Y/N."

You look up at him and he's left breathless again. To him, you’ve always been an understated beauty. Simple and sweet. Confident and strong. Perhaps that was the reason why your skin glowed. It was your inner beauty that lit your eyes and softened your features.

When you smiled and laughed he couldn’t help but follow along. To be in your company made him feel like he was more than just a mob boss. That he too deserved to be warmed in summer rays regardless of the season.

"You're very beautiful," he repeated and it feels more special the second time.

You chuckle while shaking your head, your hands still in his.

"If you're tryna get in my pants, kingpin, it’s not gonna work," you jabbed playfully.

He rolled his eyes, his lips curling in a playfully peeved grin.

"Can't I say something just for the sake of saying it?"

You smiled sheepishly, slipping off the stool and standing. "I guess you can."

Before he could even say another word, you pull him down to you and kiss him straight on the lips. Not on the cheek. But on the lips and it catches him completely off guard.

It's quick and chaste but it's something Steve's been dreaming of for a long time. Those pretty plump lips against his felt softer than heaven, sweeter than honey. When you part just a split second later, he feels lonely but content with the promise of another meeting.

You giggle sweetly, your breath mingling with his, tickling – teasing his lips to come closer for more.

"I should really get to bed," you said, standing a bit back. "I've got an early class."

"Yeah, of course," he nodded with a beaming smile. "Let me show you to your room."

Pulling you by the hand, he leads you out of the kitchen and towards the staircase. Everything seems so perfect at that moment. The dim light of a chandelier twinkling above, your hand perfectly intertwined in his, and his deep, soothing voice rambling that sounded more like the hazy tune of a sweet melody.

Never in your dreams did you think you'd get to share a moment like this let alone with a man like him. Dangerous for sure, but sweet and humble, generous and caring. All the good things about him seemed to outmatch the one bad thing. So what if he had a bit of notoriety? The world wasn't perfect and neither were you.

Sometimes you find the things you want most in life in the most unexpected of places. You found yours in him. Though small at the moment it could blossom into something more. And for that "what if" you were more than willing to stay.

“I think Lucky wants to sleep with you tonight," Steve chuckles as the puppy pushes his way through the door and your legs.

"I don't mind," you smiled at him making his way to the bed.

You reached on your tiptoes and gave Steve a kiss on the cheek. “Good night.”

Steve smiles sweetly not really wanting to leave. He plants a kiss on your intertwined hand, igniting a blazing fire across the skin of your arm. “Good night," he wishes.

Quentin stood by the science building on campus as he did every day, waiting for you to drag yourself to school like you did every day, but this time he finds something he didn’t expect. His jaw drops at the sight of you driving up in the passenger seat of a sparkling silver Corvette. It’s only until the car stops by him on the side of the curb does he really believe that it’s you.

"Y/N! What are you doing with him?!” he shouted with an accusatory point.  

“Oh, hey Quentin," you got out of the convertible not really paying attention to him. You turn towards Steve. "Thanks for the ride, Steve and for letting me stay.”

“You spent the night with him?!” he hollered, waving his arms around.

“No problem, sweetheart," Steve chuckled sweetly.

“Don’t call her that!” Quentin shouted, standing next to you.

Your eyes are completely fixated on Steve and don't notice Quentin glaring at you. “See ya around sometime?”

“Yeah, I’d love to," the blonde agreed with a smile.

“Stop ignoring me!” Quentin huffed putting his hands on his hips.

“Do you hear that annoying sound or is it just me?” Steve asked, teasingly, earning a giggle in return.

“Y/N, what the hell were you doing with this criminal for an entire night?”

“It’s a long story Quentin I’ll tell you later,” you waved him off.

“I demand to know right now!”

You rolled your eyes with a huff. “I’ll tell you after class," you stated with emphasis.

“Hey,” Steve calls you back. “If anything happens, you call me right away. You hear me?”

“You have his number?” Quentin asked through gritted teeth. He just couldn’t process how you went from hating him two days ago to sleeping over his house.

You smiled with a nod. “Yeah, I’ll tell you don’t worry.” Steve takes your hand and kisses it.

“I’ll see you later then?” he asked again, running his thumb across the ridges of your knuckles and you wanted to melt right there.

“Call me when you’re free,” you told him with a sudden urge to kiss him again. But not right now, Quentin would raise hell if he saw that. As if he wasn’t already.

“What the fuck is happening here?” Quentin questioned. “You stay away from her,” he pointed at the blonde. Steve gave him a snarky smile that said: I do what I want twink ass bitch and it only pisses him off more. “And you stop looking at him like he’s your fucking Romeo.”

“I mean if the job’s open?” Steve shrugged, his Prada sunglasses hanging low on his nose and looking over at you. You chuckled as Quentin pulls you along by the hand.

“It’s not.” he bit back. “So leave before I call the cops.”

You bite your lip, highly tempted to skip class, jump back into his convertible, and have him take you wherever he wants to. Along lone country roads, feeling the wind twirl through your hair as he holds your hand in his, kissing it from time to time as he drives into a tangy orange sunset. You’ll take it one step further, pressing a kiss onto his cheek and along his jaw until you reach those pretty lips.

God, what was happening to you?

"What are you staring at?” Quentin hissed, bringing you back to your senses. He points upward toward the building. “Get your butt up those stairs right now!"

You follow your dad friend up the stairs as he goes off about how out of line you are. You turn around as he pulls you behind him. Your eyes meet Steve’s baby blues, twinkling under the sunlight. You chuckle at him as he waves goodbye.

You press your hands against your lips and send a kiss towards him flamboyantly. He clutches his chest and falls back onto his seat dramatically leaving you a giggly mess. It's a pity that you had to leave so soon.

You shoot one last smile his way before going inside and it's like Cupid's arrow shot him right through the heart.

TAGLIST (OPEN): @ashwarren32 @chuckennuggets1213 @scuzmunkie @siriusement @rootcrop @savedbystark @little-dark-empress @boxofteenageideas @great-goddess-of-sin​ @calwitch​ @achishisha​ @captainchrisstan​ @thirstybunz​ @littlebees-things​ @voltage-my2dlove​ @rinkashirikitateku​ @booktease21​ @harleyscheekheart​ @emptyporsche @imsonick​

[lesbian-deadpool]

A Fresh Start

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Words: 2,074

Warnings: Endgame (dw tho)... crying, sarcasm, swearing... the usual really lol.

Request: For @mythsandfiction for donating to the Australia bushfires. You asked for fluffy moving in... I made this. I really hope you like it :)

Summary: You deserve this.

A/N: Set after Endgame (no one died, bc I said so). I know you wanted fluff, and there is fluff, but there’s also some “soft-angst”. Not proofread. I don’t consider this to be my best work, just an FYI.

(Not my GIF)

***

The war was over.

You won.

You really won.

It was kinda hard to believe. Considering how many times you had run through the battle at Wakanda, during the past five years. Tony, his Spider-Kid, and the wizard guy in space, with the Guardians, that you were yet to meet. The ones you never thought you would. Hell, you were yet to meet the kid or the wizard. Still. That didn’t stop you from feeling the loss for them.

The loss for half of your team, if not more.

Sam.

Bucky.

Wanda.

T’Challa.

Shuri.

They all vanished. Turned to dust- Ash. Right in front of your eyes.

And it was all because of that purple fucking giant, Thanos.

You were there that day.

That day, you were finally there. And that's what you got for it. Watching, from your place, beside Natasha, literally rooted to the ground, as he snapped his fat fingers, and the world around you disappeared.

You hadn’t been there for when Ultron had risen.

Nor for the so-called Civil War.

But for this. This, you were able to see. Only helping to solidify your assumptions that the world liked to fuck with you.

The next five years passed as slow as they had when you were a child.

Steve left. As did Bruce, Tony, Thor, and Clint was nowhere to be found.

I mean, you couldn’t really blame them for leaving. There were times that you wish you could just up and leave, to start anew. But you never did. You stayed at the compound with Natasha. There wasn’t a chance in hell, or high water, that you would leave her. You couldn’t even bare the thought of Natasha being left all alone in the large compound, with the only thing left to keep her company being her thoughts.

So you stayed.

You stayed by her side for five painfully long years.

However, along the way, you and Natasha got closer.

You weren’t really all that close before, I mean you we’re friendly sure, but you never sought each other out, the way you did with the other Avengers.

Natasha preferring to spend her time with Clint, Steve, Wanda, and now and again Tony.

And you, choosing to hang out with Tony, and Thor, more so than anyone else.

Most of the time, you wanted to kick yourself for not seeking Natasha out more than you did before- Or at all. You liked spending time with her. She was fun, even in her depressed and overworked state, so it was only left to your imagination to what she was like before Thanos.

It had been a whole year since the battle at Wakanda when everything changed.

You had walked in on Natasha in her office, which was really just the dining room, that she had commandeered for her workspace, with a bottle of strong liquor in hand. She had been crying before you entered, you could tell that much by her red and puffy eyes.

Giving her a tight-lipped smile, you started to drink the remainder of the day away. You might have had a bit too much to drink... okay, you had a lot too much to drink. Because the next morning you woke up to a blinding headache and a naked Natasha beside you in bed. It didn't take a detective to figure out what had happened the night before.

Your relationship progressed over the next four years. From a friends-with-benefits type of situation. To spending every night with each other, not even having sex. Natasha had told you she had fallen in love with you, a little over two years after the snap, as the media liked to call it. You, of course, were surprised but had returned her confession. Who wouldn’t have fallen for the red-head? By the time of the ‘Time Heist’, you were in a long-term committed relationship.

There had been some trial and errors throughout the heist.

Losing the Tesseract. Steve kicking his own ass. Having to re-work a part of the plan, and travelling to the 1970s. Thor having a crisis. Nebula having her memories stolen. Natasha...

When you found about Natasha, you had no reaction. Everyone around you was crying, sobbing. They at least had a tear in their eye. But you? There was nothing. Pulling yourself from Clint's grip, and walking away.

No one knew where you had gone, as they were left to reverse the snap on their own. Only coming back to fight against Thanos for the final time.

You definitely didn’t leave to go drink and cry over the ring you had bought.

Yeah, that's exactly what you did.

The battle was the first thing that had moved fast for the past five years. It was over in no time. This time Thanos had vanished before your eyes, along with his army.

You were in Tony’s lab with him, after his “funeral”, talking about the prosthetic arm he was making for himself when it happened.

Peter -the Spider-Kid- had burst through the doors, gasping for air and pointing behind himself.

“Jesus kid, you almost gave us a heart attack,” Tony said, holding a hand against his chest, “What’s up? What’s got you so bent outta shape?”

“Mr Rogers... he... stones... back... old...” he said panting, “Miss... Romanoff-”

“Natasha? What about her?” You jumped up, as you felt the anxiety flowing through you like tidal waves at this point. Patiently waiting for Peter to finish what he was saying, with bated breath. But, he never got the chance. As the moment he opened his mouth, to continue speaking, he was interrupted, once again.

“Y/N?!” A voice you would recognise anywhere, called down from the top of the stairs.

“Natasha?!”

You rushed over to where you could see her, with tears trailing down her face, yours falling to match.

One second you were peering up at Natasha from the base of the stairs, and then suddenly you were enveloping her in a tight hug. One that she returned ten-fold, crying into your shoulder, as your own tears dropped into her soft hair.

“Marry me,” you said in a tearful voice.

“What?”

“Marry me? Please?” You reached for the chain hanging around your neck, tugging it harshly, causing the clasp to snap. Letting the chain fall to the ground, you offered Natasha the diamond ring.

More tears ran down her cheeks as she nodded. “Yes.”

Her lips tasted of salt. Yours were probably the same. But it was no less as sweet as the kiss you shared when you first confessed your love for one another.

Soft whimpers are what pulled you apart.

Looking to the side, you saw Tony and Peter crying beside each other. Peter, the whimpering one, dabbing at his eyes with the sleeves of his t-shirt.

“You had that hanging around your neck?” Tony asked, with tears in his eyes, as the kid bubbled beside him, now using Tony’s shirt to wipe his eyes.

“Yeah.” You nodded. “I’ve had it on me for months now. And I put in on the chain when...” you trailed off, not wanting to finish your sentence. But everyone understanding you anyway.

It’s true, you had charged into the final battle, with the ring hanging around your neck. Keeping it as close to your heart as it could possibly get. With it being one of the last things you had of Natasha, even if she never got so see it, hold it, wear it, say yes, thanks to the compound being destroyed. You wanted- Needed something that reminded you of her.

You had agreed later that night, that you were both going to retire, and finally, live the life you two always wanted together. You had saved the world, too many times to count. Brought everyone back. And saved the universe while you were at it. You both considered that to be enough for you to live peacefully, for the rest of your lives.

After all! If Tony Stark could do it. Why couldn’t you two?

***

“Hey, guys!” Peter called, walking onto the house, carrying two boxes stacked on top of each other, blocking his view as they towered over him. “Where do you want these?”

“Well, what do they say on them?” You asked.

“Umm... ‘bedroom’!”

“Then it goes in the kitchen, where the fuck- Ow!” Your sarcastic quip was cut off thanks to Natasha punching you in your arm.

You rubbed your throbbing arm as you watched Natasha walk up to Peter and taking a box from him so that he was able to see where he was going.

“Come on, I’ll show you where it is,” she said, leading him out of the room, “Then you can pick out your room.”

“I get a room?”

“Of course you get a room.”

“Thank for helping up, Petie!” you yelled to him.

“Welcome!”

“Oh yeah, he gets a thank you, but what do I get?” Tony muttered entering your house, a box in his own arms.

“Well, I was about to thank you, too. But now that you’ve said that. I won't.”

Tony whined at you as you walked away, to start fixing up some lunch for everyone. Making you smile at his childish antics.

***

“I still can’t believe the way you proposed to me,” Natasha spoke from the other side of the room, that you were both busy painting.

“Well, give me the ring back, and I’ll do it again differently.” You beamed over to her, noticing the yellow paint smudged against her face and arms. Yellow wasn’t yours or Natasha’s style, but it was for the guest bedroom, and you both wanted that to be a bright place. So, yellow it was.

“No,” Natasha said hastily, pulling her left hand up to her chest, and covering it with her other hand.

You let out a small laugh. “See. I knew you loved the way I asked you to marry me.”

“I’d love any way you’d propose to me because it’s you doing it.”

“Soft.”

“Shut up.” She smiled, picking up her discarded paintbrush again, and throwing it at you.

A large splodge of thick yellow paint spread across the upper part of your t-shirt. Spots flecking across your neck, jaw and shoulder.

A gobsmacked look overtook your face. Slowly, you turned to peer at your red-headed fiance.

“Oh, you wanna play that game, do you?”

“Yes.” Natasha nodded. “Because I know I’d win.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see about that.”

***

“See, told you I was right,” Natasha smirked over at you in the shower.

“That’s ‘cause you fight dirty.”

And she did.

Once the paint had run out, and the room was covered in the stuff, and not just the walls like you needed. The majority of the paint had coated the floors, luckily, you still had to put down the white carpet. Natasha ran out of the room, in search for more ammunition. Flour, shaving foam, whipped cream, water, and even milk, covered you. Before you and Natasha hopped into the shower together.

“It’s not dirty if you win,” Natasha replied, as she scrubbed her hair.

“No. It is dirty. But you still won.”

“That is the perfect description of me,” Natasha joked, causing you to burst out laughing, at the accuracy of it.

“Yeah.” You nodded. “You’re right there.”

***

The first night in your new house sure was something. Nothing “spectacular” happened. It was nothing but calm.

After your shared shower, you cooked dinner together. Well, mainly you, because Natasha couldn't cook for shit. As the red-head kept you company and occasionally stirred the pot of pasta.

It was later that night, when you were laying in bed, Natasha curled up by your side, with her head upon your chest, as the tv played in the background when Natasha spoke.

“We needed this.”

“What?” you asked rubbing your hand along her arm, “An early night?”

“Early?” Natasha asked in return, leaning up to look at you like you had grown another head. She was right, it was currently one A.M.. Fixing up the house really was long and hard work.

“-er, than we have in the past week,” you corrected yourself, before shaking your head, then getting back on track, “But what did you mean?”

“I meant this. Retirement. A house. A fresh start.”

You smiled as Natasha got comfortable on your chest once again.

“Yeah... we did need this.”

[whydoyouwantmyname]

Well at least it wasn’t Wilson

“Madam.” One of the Dora Milajes started as she approached you in the square, a basket in hand as you wandered around looking for groceries for the hut. Your head rising from the plums that you requested to be delivered as you looked at her, “How many times must I tell you [Y/N] is just fine.”

“I have been requested to escort you to the palace.” She replied as you lifted an eyebrow, for T’Challa never demanded your presence, and even when he did require the presence of you or your boyfriend, he came to the hut.

“Why?” You placed the plums into the basket as you handed her the amount you had both agreed on

“It will be explained when you arrive.” Her face was stone as you nodded, and followed her all the way to the palace.

Upon entering the courtyard, you saw a familiar quinjet, your feet stopping in their tracks as you looked at the shiny Stark quinjet. The ramp was already down, and several hundred feet away were the backs of the people you hadn’t seen for years. However it was the blonde haired, broad shouldered back of your best friend that brought the tears into your eyes. The basket dropped as you took in the sight of the man you hadn’t seen since the war of the Avengers, when he brought Bucky to Wakanda, and asked if you would stay with him.

You never knew though that the reasoning behind that though was because Steve knew you and Bucky both had feelings for one another, and figured he would want to wake up to the face of the girl he had slowly started to fall for.

At the sound of the full basket falling, which you didn’t realize was so loud, he and the team turned, and you were met with the shining aquamarine eyes that knew all your secrets, shared in your joys and sorrows over the past few years, and was there for you in every way. His lips pulled up in a pained smile, because you both knew he was there due to an oncoming doom, because over the past two years of you being there he hadn’t come to visit. But even the pained smile, or the unknow war that was coming didn’t stop you from racing towards him, and launching into his arms, your arms constricting around his neck as his arms held you to his chest, your legs wrapping around his hips as he held you there. For that moment it was like the world slowed down, and a single tear slowly dropped down your face as you buried your face in his shoulder.

After serval moment of this bittersweet reunion you slowly unhinged yourself from the super solider and looked upon his face, “It has been too long.”

“I know, but you have to wait a little longer for a catch up.”

“What do you mean?” You asked, your eyebrow raising as he looked at his feet, knowing you would be upset with the news, but this was what Bucky told T’Challa he wanted, and Steve agreed.

“I will just let Buck tell you, we have to go prepare, but it was good seeing you.” He smiled, as he leaned forward and kissed your forehead softly, before turning to T’Challa, “Shall we?”

And with that everyone you missed, and wanted to catch up with followed the king into the palace, leaving you to stand there with just Bucky and Sam, who quickly said, “I’m just going to go patrol over there, [Y/N] just holler if you need my help kicking his ancient ass.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You joked as he walked past you, leaving you to stare at the man you woke up to this morning, his normal farming outfit replaced with a uniform of dark grey and black, and his back was strapped with a automatic, “When is war?”

“Soon.”

“I will go get ready then.” You sighed, going to turn before he voiced, “Doll.”

The tone of his voice stopped you, looking at him slowly, you could see the pained look in his face, and slowly exhaled as you replied, “James.”

“I asked T’Challa to get you a quinjet arranged, they are going to take you back the headquarters.” He whispered, “When this is all over I will come get you, I promise.”

“You are sending me away?” You asked

“Yes.” He replied, “And I hope you will just cooperate.”

“You are really going to send away someone who can probably be one of your best assets, one of your best marksman. I didn’t get to be a level 7 agent by just batting my eyelashes James, and right now you need all the help you can...”

“[Y/N]!” He cut you off, he knew you would put up a fight, it was in your independent spirited nature to do so when you felt like your skills or independence was in question, and your stubbornness was one of the things Bucky found so appealing in you, but right now was not the time to fight with you, “Doll, listen, I need you to go, I am pleading with you. I don’t know what is coming, all I know is it is bad, and there is no way I am losing you. So please just this once, will you listen to me? I will never send you away again after this, but I need you to trust me.”

“And what if I lose you, you really think the guilt of knowing I wasn’t there to protect you won’t eat me up inside, you really think that the fact that I listened to your bullshit plead won’t haunt me for the rest of my life if something happens to you.”

“Nothing is going to happen to me.” He smiled, his cockiness normally made you giggle, or at least crack a smile, but right now all you wanted to do was slap him.

“And what if you’re wrong. What if I get on that quinjet, and I fly off into the horizon and you never come home. What if this is the last time I see you, you don’t know what the future holds James.”

He took a few steps closer, his body almost pushed against your, as he looked down at you with his lagoon colored irises, his minds sketching every detail of your face in his memory as he lifted his hand and brought it to the side of your head, his fingers hiding themselves in your hair as you looked at him, your own eyes reflecting back held in tears and a slight frustration, “You’re right Doll, I have no idea what the future holds, but I do know one thing.”

“That you need me.” You replied

“Always, but I also know that our future is filled with a shit ton of more kisses.” He whispered before leaning forward, and allowing his lips to met with yours, a unknown need clear in the way he kissed you, and as you kissed him back with the same need you released a small hiss, the sound of the empty needle that once held a setative hit the concrete as he used his now free hand to prevent you from falling. He then picked you up bridal style, and carried you into the quinjet, and as he set you down he whispered, “I’m sorry Love.”

Your eyes hurt as you slowly started to wake up, the bright, white fluorescent lights caused you to slowly raise a hand and shield it out, your head felt foggy as you heard someone rush to your side, and smelled the light floral notes of a perfume that was quite familiar to you.

“Pepper?” Your voice was light and confused, last you remembered you were in Wakanda, agruing with Bucky, but it almost felt like a dream.

“Hey [Y/N], listen don’t move too fast, I think Hap said it would take a couple minutes to wear off.”

“Wear off?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Wakanda?”

“No, you arrived in New York roughly an hour ago. Happy said whatever they used to knock you out was pretty powerful.”

“Knock me out?”

“Yeah, they sedated you, James...”

“Bucky.” You corrected quickly, even drowsey, you knew that you were the only one allowed to call him James, and was a privilege you valued.

“Bucky told the captain it was the only way to get you here safely.”

“What?” You asked

“Just rest for a minute, the drowsiness should wear off soon, I’ll get you some soup, I am sure Rhondey has some stashed away in the fridge.” And with that you heard her footsteps fade away, as everything slowly came back to you.

Once she returned, you demanded she fill you in on everything you had missed over the last several years, and what this whole oncoming war was about. She told you the basics, her and Tony got married, and she was sorry that she didn’t invite you. You withheld that you knew that you would probably never get an invite to that wedding, just because of who your plus one was. She told you about the team breaking out of prison, about how Tony had taken Peter Parker, aka the chatty spider kid under his wing, how she really didn’t have communication with anyone else from the team anymore, and then told you that Tony was on an alien spaceship. You just quietly ate and listened, and then you asked, “So aliens are coming to Earth again?”

“Yes, and if they sent you out of Wakanda, then chances are the battle was coming to them.”

“Why would he send me from Wakanda?”

“I don’t know, the details of that were not shared with me. However if you were to ask me, he probably did it because he loves you, and thinks he is doing it to protect you.”

“I can protect myself.” You replied

“I know, but something in the masculine ego thinks that they still need to protect woman, even if they are badasses.” She replied, before Friday alerted, “Mrs. Potts, Miss [Y/l/n], breaking news, it appears that half the population has disappeared.”

Hours later, you heard Friday alert the compound, “Mrs. Potts, it appears Mr. Rogers and the team has arrived.”

Your feet carried you into the dark lawn, a slight chill ran through the air, as you watched the ramp lower into the grass. Pepper and Happy appeared behind you as Bruce slowly exited the quinjet, and slowly the rest filed out. Your mind mentally noting that Sam, Wanda, and Vision were missing from the group slowly filing out, and that several new faces had joined the line up. One of them was familiar to you though, but Thor’s normal smile was replaced with the straight lips, and a fiery in his eyes as you watched him push past you without a word. Pepper and Happy followed Rhodey inside, which left you alone in the field, waiting for two more people to come out, as the seconds ticked by your anxiety rose, and then a small wave of relief overtook you, as Steve come to the ramp. A small yet guilty smile pulled at his lips as he descended towards you, and once he was on the grass the ramp slowly retracted, your hand flying to your mouth as a sob rose. Steve quickened his pace and engulfed you, his hand cradled the back of your skull as you leaned your forehead into his chest, not a word spoken between you.

Five years later

“You’re late.” You replied as the door to your shared room in the compound closed, his chuckle floated into the kitchen as you cooked

“Sorry, the meeting ran late, maybe if you would come with me, you would know why.”

“And sit in a small circle and talk about how life has changed, and cry a few tears, no thank you.” You turned, your apron slightly twirling as you turned towards the super solider, “Just be glad I started dinner late, otherwise it would be cold.”

“Did Nat say if she was going to join us?”

“Nope, she once again thanked me for the offer though.” You answered as he took a step forward and softly kissed your temple.

“I’ll go talk to her after dinner, maybe if I offer her a peanut butter and jelly she will take it.” He replied, before getting a plate from the cabinet and started serving up his own dinner, as you leaned back on the counter and watched him.

“Stop looking at me like you are about to pin me to the bed and have your way with me.” He replied as you blushed slightly and smiled, “If I wanted to do that Steve, I would just ask.”

Neither of you intended on this happening, you knew he was in love with Peggy, just like he knew you were in love with Bucky, but one night of drinking two years after the snap lead to you kissing him on your balcony, and after that everything just fell into a comfortable rhythm. He never asked you out, and you never required him to, he moved into your mini compound apartment a month after the kiss happened, and slowly you both got more and more comfortable with being a couple, even though you both knew you would never truly love each other as deeply as you did Peggy or Bucky.

After that dinner everything changed though, Scott came back to the compound, soon daily nightly dinner was canceled. Instead you both were set on helping figure out the time hopping however you could. You all traveled back to get the stones, and after going back Steve looked at you differently. And finally you just asked, “Did you see Peggy when you went back?”

“Why would you...” he looked up at you from the couch

“Cause you are looking at me like you wish I was someone else, besides Tony admitted that you both went back to 1970, to a S.H.I.E.L.D facility she just happened to work at.”

“You know me too well babe.” He sighed, as you sat down next to him, and took his hand gently into yours, “Do you want to end this?”

He was silent for a while, the few minutes felt like hours to you, unaware if this would cause you to lose the biggest support system you had, your best friend, and finally his eyes met yours, they were glassy and with that you assumed this love story fantasy you were both living was now over, but then he whispered, “No.”, before leaning forward and kissing you with a need you had only felt the last time Bucky kissed you.

But everything did change after the battle, you didn’t see him the entire fight, unknowing if he was actually there or if Bruce’s snap didn’t really bring everyone back. Your face was littered with cuts, and your body bruised, but that didn’t stop you from going to where Tony laid, and dropping to a knee. Then you felt a presence beside you, and expecting to see Steve, you turned your head and was met with a thick curtain of dark brown hair, his body dressed in the uniform you saw him in the last time you saw him five years ago, and at the realization that he was back, your eyes started to water, your function to breath momentarily halted. As though he knew you were looking his face turned towards you, and a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. And once you all stood, he whispered, “I told you nothing would happen to me Doll.”

With those words, you let out a breath, and smiled, a tear falling down your check, your arms quickly engulfed him, his own pulling you close to his chest as you both cherished the reunion you were both sharing. You were so caught up in the reunion that you didn’t notice the stranded smile of a watching Steve Rogers, who was now faced with accepting his comfortable relationship with you was over, something he always knew would happen upon reversing the snap,but he didn’t know just how unprepared he would be for it to happen.

That night after you and Bucky excused yourselves from the reunion, Steve went to his own skeleton compound apartment, the only thing in the dusty space was the furniture he left behind when he moved all those years ago, all his clothes were stored in your closet and dresser, personal belongs were scattered across your living space, his shower essentials were all in your shower, but he didn’t feel right going back to the home you had both created over the past three years, not now that Bucky had returned. With his dirty uniform he flopped onto the couch, and immediately sat up, coughing as the thick layer of dust flew up around him. His fit of coughing interrupted however by a knock, and somehow in between coughing he managed a “come in.”

“Steve, are you okay? Are you hurt?” It was your sweet concern that met him, to which he managed a nod, and you quickly tried to pull him up, and led him outside the room, “Breathe.”

Once he was done coughing, he looked at you, taking in the fact that your hair was still damp, and that your cuts were treated, “Stupid dust.”

“Well what did you expect when you walked into a untouched apartment?” You joked as he noticed your soft grip on his arm, and the concern in your face, it made his heart skip a beat for a second, and then he replied, “That it would be spotless.”

“Why did you even come here?” You asked, your eyebrow raising as you looked at him.

“I figured you and Bucky would want...”

“And you look like shit, now, March your ass into our apartment, and clean up a bit, when you are done come out before you put your clothes on and I will patch you up.”

“Won’t Bucky...”

“Steve, don’t question, just do please.” You instructed as you followed him to your empty apartment, “where’s Bucky?”

“He’s in the kitchen, he used some of your shampoo and shit, and I lent him your sweatpants, I hope you don’t mind.”

“So he...”

“Yeah, he knows.” You exhaled

“And.”

“I’ll just let you talk that out with him.” You whispered, before leaning up and kissing his cheek, “Now go shower.”

It was in the shower that he realized he had the motivation to set the plan in motion, since the day he saw Peggy he was dreaming of going back, and even when he sat on the couch that night he was ready to tell [Y/N] his plan, and just when he got the courage to tell his best friend his crazy scheme, she hit him with the question, “Did you see Peggy when you went back?”

And all the courage went away, the tone of your voice when you asked the question sounded lost, heartbroken almost, a ping of sadness, that he hadn’t heard in so long lingered on the words you spoke, and with that he decided he couldn’t leave you. You might not have been Peggy, but you were [Y/N], you were his best friend, the one who would stay up with him all night when he first came out of the ice, who treated him like a normal person instead of a dinosaur, you were always inviting him to coffee, pizza, willing to train with him, run laps with him. He told you all about Peggy, and when he was done, instead of telling him to move on, or offer to set him up, you looked at him and whispered, “I hope one day to find love like that.” You were the one to bring him whiskey at Tony’s fancy parties, or offer to dance with him instead of the girls who just wanted to pressure him into spending the night with them. He was the one you confided in when you started liking Bucky, you stood by him through everything, and he was even convinced you would have taken a bullet for him if he let you. If he left.... you would have lost the two people who meant the world to you, and he couldn’t be so selfish and leave you in this time broken, even though he knew you would be the biggest supporter of the plan, and wouldn’t have let him stick around if he told you he wanted to go back to be with Peggy. And as he shut the water off, he thought of Bucky too, he had just gotten his girlfriend and his best friend back, but now he was leaving him alone in a world that thought he was a murderous terrorist... but then he exhaled, because Bucky wasn’t alone, he had you, and that is all Steve needed to settle his mind, you both weren’t alone, you had each other.

When he opened the bathroom door, he was greeted by Bucky sitting in the arm chair you had in the corner, as you sat on the floor in front of the couch, your arms resting on your knees as you talked to him, Neither noticing he was done as he ease dropped on the conversation.

“Listen, things happened, and do I regret it, no. We both were hurt when the snap happened, and those two years before this all happened, we were each other’s support system, and it started on a drunken night. I kissed him and after that it just turned into a causal relationship, but we both knew that we would never get married, or have a family, or be any more then what we were, we were two people who wanted human companionship, and found it in the only other person we trusted. “

“Why would you never get married? Steve has always...”

“Because we are hopelessly in love with other people, and I can’t speak for Steve but there is only one man I want to marry.”

“I always knew Steve had a thing for me.” He joked, his smile caused Steve to smile as your laugh filled the air.

“I mean he might, he wouldn’t be a bad companion if you decide to leave me for him.”

“Never Doll, the only thing I wanted the whole time in the void was you, and I can’t blame you for dating while I was stuck there, I mean for all you knew, I might hve never come back. And at least you dated the loser version of me, instead of some asshole.”

“Language.” You replied, as he smiled again, and with this Steve walked into the room, during this whole transaction he had gotten dressed, and moved his finger to his mouth to signal Bucky to be quiet as he tried sneaking up behind you, and just as he was about to jump over the couch your voice cut through the air, “Don’t even think about it Rogers.”

“You should know by now Rogers, the woman is part bat.” Bucky replied as Steve rounded the couch and flopped down on the cushion beside your body, as you grabbed the first aid kit beside you, and turned to immediately start working in patching him up, and as you gently touched his skin he looked up to watch a tense Bucky, who would never let you know that the fact you were intimate with his best friend really bothered him at this time. With that knowledge he started the conversation, and as you worked he told both of you how he wanted to go back to Peggy. Both you and Bucky were very quiet as you listened, and then he stated, “And I know I don’t have to worry about either of you, because you are back together, and that is all you guys need to face the world.”

“You’re right.”you responded as you finished up, and as you put the last steri strip away, you rose and stated, “Beside you deserve happiness too.” Before walking away and closing the bathroom door, to let the news of your best friend leaving sink in.

Steve’s POV

As the bathroom door closed, I looked at Bucky, “You gotta make me a promise.”

“What?”

“Propose to her at Coney Island like you wanted to, treat her right, don’t let what happened after the snapcloud the love you have for her. She was truthful when she stated we were never serious, we just had a label and that was it, cause the love she had for you would never compare to the love she had for me. Even with the label, all she wanted was to get you back,and now that you are, you can’t let the betrayal you feel make you think that she stopped loving you.”

“I know she didn’t, I just wish it wasn’t with my best friend.”

“I think if it was some random guy though, we won’t be having this conversation, and I would somehow be bailing you out of jail for manslaughter.”

He started to chuckle, “That’s why I wish it wasn’t with my best friend.”

“Well at least you know it was with a guy you trust, and I know what I am doing is selfish but...”

“No it’s not,it is what you deserve. Your whole life you have been selfless, you want to do anything you can to help, I mean just look at the last five years, [Y/N] told me you started a support group, you became an avenger, and sacrificed your life to save the world, you are not being selfish at all, you are being rewarded finally for being one of the best human beings I know. And I can never repay you for taking care of my girl.”

“I mean I guess all I can ask for is that you forgivie me for kissing your girl.”

“That’s doable, beside I guess there is a plus.”

“Which is?”

“At least it wasn’t Wilson.”

[angrydebater]

if you listen to another one bites the dust by queen and don't think about james potter singing it before quiddicth matches, even though the song was released in 1980, don't talk to me.

don't talk to me also because i'm emotional right now, i'm thinking about james potter

[arandompostarchive]

SALEM - Ch. 10

SAVED WORK

Summary: In all the centuries of your existence, you had never been dragged out of hiding by another god, put in a superhero team and forced to save the universe. But it seems your luck has run out.

_____________

10 Days Left

The longer you were gone, the worse Peter felt.

It had only been half a week, but he had already skipped a day of school. Tony said he was working on some sort of tracker for you, focusing on your abilities and the power you gave off. But Peter knew that’s harder than Tony made it sound. Unfortunately, if you were in Tartarus, the same place as your siblings with similar abilities it was like trying to find a needle in a bunch of other needles. And the quinjet prototype, wherever it was, wasn’t giving off a signal, so Tony’s efforts to track it had all been futile.

Peter was trying to do school work. Keyword trying. He couldn’t focus and was sketching plans for a new kind of tracking device. It was basic, something Tony would’ve scrapped in a second normally, and although he was sure that Tony was so desperate he’d take anything, Peter kept the idea to himself.

It was small, and a bit complicated. The basic idea was that if he just found Tartarus, he could track you from there. Sure, he didn’t know how big hell itself was, or where you were in it. But hey, it would let them now where in the universe you were. He kept sketching, and over the course of that day, he may or may not have stolen a small amount of material from Bruce’s lab. Bruce and Tony spent most of their time in Tony’s lab, so maybe he wouldn’t catch on quite yet.

The small sketch was almost done. He was writing on his science textbook, the same one he was supposed to be studying right now. But he wasn’t planning on going to school tomorrow. 10 days until you got back. He hoped. He didn’t know if he could wait longer than 10. And you left that note behind. One he had tried to open himself, even though it never worked. If you weren’t back, did that mean you were dead?

He shook the thought out of his head. He couldn’t think about that right now, not when he was doing something important. Especially not when he was doing something this important.

He finished writing out an equation or two, trying to figure out how much power he would actually need for this thing to work. It definitely didn’t look pretty. It didn’t have Tony’s style, or the elegance of everything he created. But for once, he didn’t think about that. He didn’t really care what Tony would have to say about it. It might work. That’s all he needed.

***

That voice.

You know that voice.

That deep sound that sent a shiver down your spine. The temperature lowered, and you could feel Loki’s grip around you tighten as you turned around.

“Sister, dear.” He said. “Was that really necessary?” His voice crackled and popped, like lava bubbling below the very rock you stood on.

Oh.

Oh.

Doom. She meant Doom.

He walked closer to you and Loki stepped to your side. Your brother stepped closer. You could see ice creep along the floor, stretching toward you. You turned to Loki who was entirely unphased by the change in temperature.

“Loki, we have to fight him too.” You said. It’s not like you were excited, but he wasn’t a good guy. He just wasn’t. You were certain Loki could sense the hesitation in your voice. It was more of an attempt to convince yourself you needed to fight, rather than share the information.

“If you’re fighting, I’m fighting too.” He replied. You weren’t expecting him to leave. But you didn’t think his answer would be so confident. You glanced towards the still wrapped wound on his torso, but nodded and jumped forward, swinging downwards with your staff’s blade.

“As kind as that is, you have much more important problems.”

Doom himself. Moros. Your older brother (unfortunately). Not a kind man. Quite an intimidating one actually. You could hardly make out his face, you never could. He was taller than you. Much taller. Accompanied by a large axe on his back.

“Moros what are you doing?”

You could feel Loki’s hand on your shoulder, a small unspoken sign. It’s okay. You needed that about now.

“What I’m meant to do. We have a purpose, sister. Our mother’s purpose is to create darkness just like Ker is meant to kill. You are meant to fight, just like your friend is meant to lie. I am meant to destroy. And destroy I will.”

Moros seemed to pause a bit, almost waiting for your reaction. He wasn’t one to attack you with one swipe. He’d kill you much slower than that.

You felt Loki directly behind you.

“I hate to say it, but I don’t know if we can win this fight.” He said, manifesting both his daggers at once. He was right. You may be a war god, but Doom doesn’t exactly go down easy. And, much worse, if he came to fight you single handedly, does he think he can win?

And if he thinks he can win… what trick is he planning to pull?

Loki started speaking before you could express your concern. “I know you won’t like this. I know you want to prove children of Nyx aren’t evil, but I think there are exceptions to that rule.” You considered what he was saying. There may be no way out of this one.

“If we even win,” Loki continued, “which I find rather unlikely. We’ll have to kill him.”

You shook your head. “There are other ways, Loki.” You couldn’t let two people die today, especially not by your hands.

He sighed, stepping next to you and preparing for the fight ahead.

Moros reached for his axe, swinging it down hard and cracking the rock below you. Steam seeped out from below the crack, clouding the metal of his axe. He moved out of the way as the steam spread a bit.

You looked around at your surroundings, not much of anything. Nothing to grab or hide behind, so, you opted to draw your weapon, a bladed staff. Looking from your staff, which was a bit shorter than you over to Moros’ axe, one that had to be at least as tall as him was slightly worrying.

He took his first swing, charging toward you and swinging into your side. You dodged out of the way, barely avoiding slamming into Loki. Loki took that opportunity to run towards Moros and you followed him, trying your best to talk to Moros.

“We don’t have to be the bad guys. We can just exist. Earth is nice and about 70% of Earth’s population would appreciate if you didn’t kill them.”

He seemed slightly confused before shaking his head. “We have a purpose. This is mine. This is the start of something beautiful, sister. Something dangerous.“

He took another swing at you and you jumped back. Loki ran around him, landing on his other side and taking a swing at Moros. The second Loki moved you saw him grip his side as subtly as he could. He couldn’t keep the fighting up, not while wounded like that, so you ran to his side.

You grabbed his arm, pulling him towards you so you could talk quickly before Moros decided to swing again. “Just distract him, you can’t keep swinging with a wound like that.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but the sudden jerk of your arm pulling him out of Moros’ way made him reconsider. He nodded, jumping towards Moros and dodging at the last minute.

You took the opportunity to try and knock Moros off his feet, Swinging your staff into his leg. With Loki’s distraction, you managed to land that blow. You saw the pitch black blood slowly roll down his calf, before disappearing completely. The wound disappeared faster than it should’ve made you stare at it for just a second too long. He knocked you back and you struggled to stay on your feet.

“Was killing her really necessary?” He said. You felt Loki’s hand on your shoulder. You couldn’t see him, but you understood the message, it’s okay.

In all honesty, Ker’s death hadn’t processed. You were sort of expecting her to pop back up and try to fight you again. But when gods kill gods… those gods stay dead.

“You could’ve taken her back to that planet with you. Maybe just injured her. But death was your first thought.”

You didn’t kill her. You know you didn’t kill her. She did that to herself. But there’s still that small nagging voice in the back of your head, you could have stopped her. Stopped her easily. A thought you really didn’t like. Loki’s grip on your shoulder tightened, with the same message.

***

[thysparrowsdrew]

I won’t post this on AO3 until the whole fic is done, because I’m sure I’m gonna go back and need to add/change things after writing the ending, but I finally have a full draft of the second chapter

They end up at a 1950s-style diner with the best patty melts in the state. Movie memorabilia lines the walls; above their corner booth, an actress stares out from a glossy poster, pistol in hand. Dean, Castiel, and Sam are piled into one bench, leaving the opposite to Margarita. The table puts two and a half feet of distance between them: not enough for Benjamin, but he bears it without complaint.

The Winchesters take charge of the discussion, reviewing everything they know so far. It isn’t much. Did Mirabel have any enemies? None living. Were there any witnesses to the attack? Same answer as previous. Have there been any other attacks that might be linked? Mirabel is the first angel to die in Arizona in two years.

The first time Castiel addresses a comment directly to Benjamin, Margarita answers for him. There isn’t a second time.

And, Margarita notices, Benjamin isn’t the only one avoiding speaking to Castiel.

When Castiel first rebelled against Heaven, the rumor -- though neither Benjamin nor Margarita believed it -- was that he was trying to claim the Michael Sword for his own use. After Armageddon was averted, the rumor changed: Castiel had indeed laid a claim on Dean Winchester, but as something other than a vessel. In the second month of the civil war, after seeing how Castiel rebuked a soldier for insulting Dean, Margarita decided that the rumor might not be wholly true, but it wasn’t wholly false, either. After the first time Castiel vanished mid-battle to rush to Dean’s side, Benjamin drew the same conclusion.

Dean’s sway over Castiel had been the civil war’s worst-kept secret. Now, the man sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Castiel, pressed closer against his side than propriety allows for-- and at the same time, he pointedly avoids speaking to Castiel except through Sam. Margarita idly wonders if it’s any less bewildering for Castiel than it is for bystanders.

“So what now?” asks Dean, around a mouthful of hamburger. The disgusted look his brother shoots him is either unseen or ignored. He was the Michael Sword, destined to bring about the end of the world, and Margarita is watching him rudely stuff his face at a diner in Phoenix on a Tuesday afternoon. “We got no leads and no witnesses.”

“We do have a witness,” says Benjamin, reluctantly. “Mirabel’s vessel.”

“Didn’t we rule that out at the morgue? She’s dead, and she ain’t coming back.”

“To this plane. You’ve only been dead a few dozen times, so you’ll be shocked to learn there are others.”

“You’re talking about visiting her in Heaven,” says Sam.

“No, I’m talking about visiting her in Tahiti. Unless anyone has any other ideas?”

Margarita feels Benjamin hope that someone will provide an alternative. No one does.

“He’s right,” says Castiel. “This is our best option.”

“Is one of you gonna...?” Dean waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the ceiling.

/I was hoping to avoid this,/ says Benjamin. /If we were closer to the portal--/

/I know,/ says Margarita. If they had twenty spare hours to drive to the portal, or if Benjamin’s wings hadn’t burned, he would take her with him to Heaven. But they don’t have time, and he doesn’t have his wings. /I’ll be fine. Will you?/

Warmth floods Margarita’s veins as Benjamin fills them with extra grace. /As long as I have you to return to./ Out loud, he says, “It has to be me. From what I understand, Castiel is unpopular in Heaven at the moment. I can’t imagine why.”

“Benjamin--” starts Castiel.

“This shouldn’t take more than an hour.” /Volveré pronto a ti, amiga de mi corazón./ Benjamin tilts back her head, opens her mouth, pours out of her in a radiant cloud of shimmering blue-white, and disappears through the diner door.

The comedown hits like a hammer to the skull. It always does, no matter how hard she tries to brace herself, no matter how many hundreds of times she’s been through it before. The physical world jolts into sickening focus: the lights are too bright; the booth is too hard; the air is too cold. Margarita slumps over, elbows on the table, a headache building behind her eyes. Tightness burns in her chest. Oxygen: her body again needs oxygen. Her lungs stutter before finding their rhythm, in-out, in-out.

Benjamin’s grace swells up to soothe her headache, but she pushes it back. Mirabel’s killer is still out there somewhere. If anything happens before Benjamin comes back, Margarita will regret wasting grace on something as small as a headache. Despite herself, Margarita half-expects to hear Benjamin scold her for this: You’re in pain, he would say. That isn’t small. But his voice doesn’t come, and the silence is as deafening as standing inside a church bell.

She has it easier than most, she knows. She could be one of the many vessels whose angel never eats or drinks. A more careless angel might let her wake in a strange place, no way to get home, thirst scraping her throat and hunger clawing her insides apart.

Castiel inhales sharply.

When a vessel is inhabited, their thoughts are shielded from other angels. Margarita is no longer inhabited. If she connects that line of thought to the sound Castiel made, she’ll throw up, so she instead focuses on building a shield in her mind. She pictures a game of Tetris (never one of Benjamin’s favorites, but always one of hers). She pictures a J-block falling. In her mind, she moves the block to the right.

“I apologize,” says Castiel, his voice sad and lost. “You don’t need to do that.”

His tone startles her into looking at his face; his expression makes her look away. It’s wrong, that tone in that voice, that expression on that face. Too human. The last time she saw Castiel in this body, he was a granite-eyed whirlwind of flashing silver, cutting down soldier after soldier (vessel after vessel) to keep the relics of Saint Demetrios out of the hands of Raphael’s army. The fight left sixteen pairs of wings burned into the red carpet of the Patriarchal Cathedral in Bucharest. Castiel, God’s Chosen, was responsible for eight.

“Do what?” asks Sam, confused.

She’s focusing on positioning the block, not guarding her words, and so she answers Castiel in blunt Enochian: “I have no reason to trust you."

Seven years ago, Castiel put out the clarion call for angels to join his war for free will. Eight months later, Margarita was in Bucharest, feeling her hands sink a blade to the hilt in Ammiel’s chest. She remembers light pouring from Ammiel’s eyes as angel and vessel both died. Remembers glass raining down. Remembers a voice shouting, and Benjamin spinning just in time to parry--

An O-block appears at the top of the screen. Left. Left. Her headache throbs behind her eyes. Again, Benjamin’s grace swells to soothe it; again, she bats it away. Sam is asking another question, she thinks, but the words don’t reach her.

Two booths over, someone’s knife scrapes against their plate.

Margarita’s feet answer without consulting the rest of her. The Tetris game falls apart. Before she knows it, she’s standing, heart pounding in her ears. Her head throbs and throbs. “Need some air,” she manages to say. “I won’t go far.” A bell rings as she pushes the door open, high and tinny. The sound digs into her like a scalpel.

A wall of desert heat hits her the moment she steps outside. Palm trees dot the parking lot; Margarita takes shelter in the shade of the nearest, sagging against it, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. Without Benjamin, her body is no different from the body of any regular mortal. Sweat forms beads on her forehead and dampens her palms.

The voice that saved her in Bucharest didn’t belong to one of Castiel’s soldiers, but the vessel of one of Raphael’s. He took control just long enough to shout: Kill me.

His name was Rémy Samson, Margarita learned later. His body was returned to his family (who would never learn how a librarian from Ottawa wound up dead on the floor of a church in Romania), and when his wife and three children buried him, Margarita and Benjamin were there, hidden from sight. One of Rémy’s daughters had an undetected tumor in her bone marrow that would have turned into stage four lymphocytic leukemia within a year. Benjamin cured it with a touch, and Rémy’s mother’s arthritis, and another daughter’s torn ACL.

After his family left, Margarita laid flowers on Rémy’s grave with the same hands that killed him.

He prayed for death, Benjamin said, staring down at the hydrangeas and gladioli. Why do I regret granting it to him? I don’t understand. Rita, please, help me understand.

Benjamin’s grace again rises to soothe her headache. Margarita is less successful at denial than St. Peter; this third time, she allows the grace to do as it will. It brushes against her like a cool breeze; it rinses away the pain like a bath rinses away dirt. The memory of Bucharest doesn’t fade, but the grace blunts its edge enough for Margarita to breathe again.

If she asked him to, Benjamin would take those memories away entirely. He would erase Bucharest, and Zipaquirá, and Marrakesh, and all the others. Every fight he fought with her body, every drop of blood he spilled with her hands-- he would wipe it all clean, if only she asked. He alone would remember, he alone would carry the burden, and he would do it without complaint.

She has never asked.

“Sister Margarita?” asks Sam Winchester’s voice from behind her. The Boy with the Demon Blood, the breaker of the sixty-sixth Seal, Lucifer’s true vessel, is looking at her with open concern. She’s heard enough stories of the Winchesters that his kindness shouldn’t surprise her, but it does, and she feels a twinge of guilt for it. “Are you okay?”

“I will be,” says Margarita, once she finds her voice. “The first few minutes are always difficult.”

“You don’t mind him possessing you?” blurts Sam. From the look on his face, it wasn’t the question he meant to ask.

With her headache gone, Margarita can manage a reassuring smile. She understands why he would be concerned: he was an unwilling vessel to Lucifer for a time, and Gadreel too, if rumors are to be believed. “If I wanted him to leave, he would. I’m his partner, not his prisoner.”

Sam looks thoroughly unconvinced.

“Benjamin is my best friend,” Margarita continues. “You’re kind to be concerned, but you should save it for a vessel who needs it.” More somberly, she adds, “Most of them do.”

Her thoughts go to Josephine, unwilling Josephine, and the vessel who killed her. Was that vessel asleep? Locked in a fantasy world? Awake, watching her hands murder another innocent human, feeling the blade sink into flesh, begging the thing inside her to not make her do it, please, I don’t want to do this, just let her go, this is wrong, stop, no, please--

Sam’s voice jolts Margarita from her thoughts: “Cas said Benjamin was an old friend.” It’s a question wrapped in a statement.

Margarita sighs. They aren’t even a hundred feet from the table; if Castiel isn’t trying to tune them out, he’ll hear every word. “What else did he tell you?”

“Just that they were in the same garrison. From before Cas had his own.”

She takes a moment to compose her answer, knowing an extra ear might be listening. “Castiel was an old friend. When he asked angels to join his war against Raphael, Benjamin answered. He believed in him. He bled for him. And after Raphael was dead--” Wings charred into grass. Be obedient, children, or this will be your fate. In the back of her throat, Margarita tastes bile. “Those were bad days. Castiel broke Benjamin’s trust in ways I didn’t know it could be broken.”

“You need to know Cas wasn’t himself when he did that. He was sick from taking in Purgatory.”

“Was he sick from Purgatory when he made a secret alliance with the King of Hell?”

Sam winces. “He thought he was doing what he had to do. I didn’t like it either -- I still don’t like it -- but he was trying to do the right thing.”

“I know. He was trying to do the right thing when he joined forces with Crowley, and he was trying to do the right thing when he did the same with Metatron.” Two days after the Fall, Margarita woke up in a hospital in Madrid. The doctors told her she’d had a seizure. She could barely hear them over Benjamin sobbing apologies. “Sam, the only reason we’re here is to find Mirabel’s killer. If that requires working with Castiel, then Benjamin will work with Castiel through me. But you need to understand: If there was any bridge left to rebuild after Raphael, and I don’t know that there was, it burned in the Fall. This doesn’t end with them reconciling.”

Benjamin hadn’t been the only soldier left devastated by how the war ended. Margarita remembers a conversation with Jehoel two years ago: even then, she and Benjamin could barely begin to speak about what they’d seen.

Jehoel, who was also part of that original flight.

Jehoel, who would have heard the distress signal.

Jehoel, who lives seven hours away.

“What’s wrong?” asks Sam, but Margarita is already striding past him, back to the diner.

When Margarita enters, she sees that she didn’t need to be concerned about Castiel listening to her conversation with Sam. Dean has moved to the other bench so that he’s sitting across from Castiel, and all of Castiel’s attention is focused on him, glaring with such intensity that the diner is fortunate to still have windows. Uncharitably, without bothering to shield her mind, Margarita thinks of how unsurprised she is to find Castiel occupied with Dean Winchester while angels are dying.

If Castiel hears the thought, he doesn’t react to it.

“--cosmic consequences,” Dean is saying. Margarita is immediately determined to neither learn about nor get involved with whatever he’s talking about. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but--”

“Castiel,” interrupts Margarita, without apology. “What was the last news you heard about Jehoel?”

“I haven’t heard anything since the Fall.”

“When Benjamin talked to her two years ago, she was living in Santa Fe.”

Castiel’s head cants to the side. “You believe something happened to her since then.”

“Santa Fe is a seven hour drive. She should have been here before any of us.”

“People move,” says Dean.

In that conversation two years ago, Jehoel had talked about the house she’d moved into. How she was slowly restoring it with her (vessel’s) hands, just hands, no grace involved. “Jehoel wouldn’t have. Not by choice.” Margarita takes her phone from her pocket, Googles “santa fe” cult murder, and scrolls through the results.

“What’s going on?” asks Sam, approaching the table.

“Sister Rita’s worried about an angel friend,” answers Dean.

Towards the bottom of the first page of results, Margarita finds the article she hoped she wouldn’t. She zooms in on the crime scene photo and holds out the phone for Castiel to see. “I don’t recognize the vessel. Are those--”

“Jehoel’s wings,” Castiel confirms.

Margarita hates to pray standing, but kneeling in the diner would draw too much attention, so she makes do with a bowed head and clasped hands. For the Winchesters’ benefit, she prays in English: “Holy Ishim the Angel, Holy Kadmiel the Angel, hear this prayer. Mirabel is dead, and only Castiel and Benjamin have arrived at the location of the distress signal. Jehoel was killed four months ago. If you’re still alive, please call--” and Margarita recites her phone number, which she’ll have to change after all this is done. “Amen,” she finishes.

“What now?” asks Sam.

Castiel’s mouth is a grim line. “We wait.”

After a minute of drumming her fingers against her leg, Margarita’s phone starts to ring. She answers before the third note of Baka Mitai hits the air. “You’re speaking to Benjamin’s vessel.”

“Why am I speaking to his vessel?” asks a voice that Margarita recognizes as Ishim’s. Even if he wasn’t still possessing the same vessel, his disdain for her, beyond that of anyone else in the flight, would be identification enough. “Put a person on the line.”

Margarita holds the phone out to Castiel. “Ishim wants to talk to a ‘person.’”

“Sounds like a charmer,” says Dean.

Castiel holds the phone up to his ear. “This is Castiel. ... He went to Heaven to ask Mirabel’s about the attack. ... What? When? ... Why didn’t I know about this? ... I would have. I do. ... We’ll be there. Be careful.” He ends the call, the look on his face promising bad news, and hands the phone back to Margarita. “Kadmiel was killed last year.”

Fear clenches Margarita’s stomach. Angel deaths have gotten rarer in the past two years: when a species is nearly extinct, the survivors tend to be good at surviving. And for three of their flight's six members to be killed in that time-- that doesn’t say coincidence. Again, she bows her head to pray. “San Benjamín Ángel, amigo de mi corazón, escucha mi oración. Kadmiel y Jehoel también fueron asesinados hace unos meses. Lo lamento mucho, querido. Ishim sigue vivo. Estoy sana y salva, no te preocupes por mi. Ten cuidado y mantente a salvo. Amen.”

“Did Ishim say anything else?” asks Sam.

“He has a safe house outside the city. He wants to meet there.”

[maaaddiexo]

Chapter Thirteen | Peter Pevensie

[Red Series Book One: Roses]

Synopsis: With World War Two ravaging the world, no one is safe and no one is happy.

Despite their protests, Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie are evacuated from London and sent to live in the English countryside with an old professor. Scared and unhappy, only the youngest Pevensie child remains optimistic and ends up sharing her hope with her siblings in the form of a wardrobe that takes them to Narnia, a different world where they are the only form of hope to bring an end to an evil witch's reign of terror.

Rosemary Bennett has no more hope left in her heart. Her brother and father are off fighting for their country, the former having gone missing months ago, and her mother ignores her, preferring the company of a bottle over her own daughter. Giving up seems the only logical plan of action. But when it finally comes to carrying it out, she's transported to a different world, with talking animals and a prophecy that doesn't involve her. Unsure as to why she is there, she must navigate a new world and ponder the possibility that maybe - just maybe - she doesn't actually want to die.

*Warning: this book deals with depression and suicide. Though mental illness isn't what this story revolves around, the act of suicide and depressive thoughts are intertwined with the plot and act as 'backseat drivers' to the novel.

[Chapter Fourteen] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

What Susan had meant was mounting horses and running around the range. If it was all about tracking, then it shouldn't matter whether it was the target or the shooter that was moving. Right?

Once again, Rosemary was clearly more experienced with riding horses than the Pevensie girls so she spent the first hour simply helping them learn how to ride without their weapons.

When they'd finally called it quits for the day hours later, the sun was halfway through its descent. After returning the horses, the girls headed back to the outside of the camp where the shooting range was. There, Edmund and Peter were galloping through the large boulders and tall grass.

"Come on, Ed! Swordpoint up - like Oreius showed us."

They disappeared behind rocks and hills before reappearing somewhere else. The girls climbed on top of a large rock where they would be out of the way and cheered the two boys on.

"On garde!"

"Now block!"

Enchanted by the sight, the girls leaned forward with big smiles and watched the two boys spar, their swords clanging.

"Peter, Edmund!" Beaver appeared from the direction of the camp, standing up on his back paws. "The Witch has demanded a meeting with Aslan."

"What?!" Rosemary gasped, jumping down off of the boulder. "Why?"

"I don't know, but she's on her way here."

•

By the time the Witch's minions appeared at the edge of the camp, everyone had already assembled at the main pathway and watched silently and angrily as she was carried to Aslan's tent on a portable throne by four ogres.

A dwarf with a knotted beard and heavy fur coat walked ahead. "Jadis, the Queen of Narnia. Empress of the Lone Islands!"

"You can't be queen and empress but whatever," Rosemary uttered from between Peter and Edmund who snickered.

"Don't tell her that. She'll have your head."

Rosemary swallowed and looked back at the Witch, having never seen her before. She was very pale with long bleach blonde hair styled in dreadlocks that had been pulled up into a bun. She seemed extremely skinny, her cheekbones and elbows on the verge of breaking through her skin. A small crown of ice rested on her head. Her dress was extravagant, long, and thick. Rosemary was sure she must have been hot, even though it had short sleeves. Her wardrobe was clearly made for the cold.

People in the crowd heckled the Witch and Rosemary wanted nothing more than to join in with them. But unlike them, she was still scared of the Witch.

From the end of the aisle, Aslan growled lowly. Even he couldn't hold back his hatred for the Witch. As the Witch stood, everyone quieted down and Rosemary inched further back behind Peter. Noticing this, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it softly.

Hidden behind Peter, the Witch didn't have a good view of Rosemary but she could see the Witch in full. She could tell the Witch wasn't comfortable - perhaps not scared but definitely not fully in control. She wasn't in familiar territory and she was greatly outnumbered. If anything went wrong, the Witch knew she would lose within minutes. Nonetheless, the Witch made sure to keep her chin up.

"You have a traitor in your midst, Aslan."

"His offense was not against you."

"Have you forgotten the laws upon which Narnia was built?"

Aslan growled. "Do not cite the Deep Magic to me, Witch. I was there when it was written."

"Then you'll remember well that every traitor belongs to me." The Witch looked over at Edmund. Her smile was one of pure evil. "His blood is my property."

Peter stepped in front of Edmund, raising his sword. "Try and take him then." He just got Edmund back and wouldn't lose him without a fight.

Jadis chuckled. "Do you really think that mere force will deny me my right, little King?"

With a burst of courage, Rosemary stepped forward. "You just acknowledged that he is meant to be King. Doubting yourself, are we?"

The smile on Jadis' face dropped at Rosemary's taunting words. Wanting to return to being in control and debuting her power, she turned back to Aslan as Rosemary pulled Peter back into the crowd.

"Aslan knows that unless I have blood, as the law demands, all of Narnia will be overturned and perish in fire and water." Pointing at Edmund, she yelled, "That boy will die on the Stone Table as is tradition."

•

Rosemary had been sitting on the grass for close to an hour now, playing with the end of her braid. Aslan had demanded he speak alone with the Witch in his tent and no sound had been made since.

"Maybe I should just sacrifice myself," Edmund sighed. "So nobody else has to die."

"He won't let you die, Edmund," Susan assured. "He's so sure of the prophecy he wouldn't let us come so close to fulfilling it only for it to be ruined."

"Thanks, Su," Edmund smiled but it didn't quite reach his eyes. They waited for another thirty minutes in silence before the tent flaps finally rustled and the White Witch stepped out. She stared Edmund down before turning away and walking back to her carrier wordlessly.

"She has renounced her claim on the Son of Adam's blood."

Rosemary smiled, hugging Edmund first but she was soon trapped in the middle of a large group hug. She could hear Susan's relieved breath and Peter's laugh in her ears.

"How do I know your promise will be kept?" Jadis asked, turning to face the Lion.

Aslan released a threatening roar that knocked the Witch back into her traveling throne. Rosemary laughed and cheered, hugging her group of friends. It was about time someone put the Witch in her place. As the Witch was carried away, the cheers only got louder, but Rosemary could still hear Aslan when he called her name.

"Could I speak with you for a moment?"

Rosemary separated herself from the celebrating crowd and walked beside Aslan up the hill. It seemed it was his favourite spot. Celebrations moved to the campfire and Rosemary could see the four Pevensie children being lifted into the air, their laughter carrying up to Rosemary and Aslan.

"Do you know why you are here, Rosemary?"

Rosemary chuckled under her breath, "I've been trying to figure that out since I got here. Hate to admit I haven't had much luck."

Aslan sat down, looking out over Narnia. "You are here because you are important, Rosemary. Not like how the Pevensie children are important. Narnia needs them whereas you need Narnia."

"I don't understand."

"You know that Narnia called the Pevensies from England because it was time the prophecy was fulfilled. They were needed. You are special. You are here because Narnia believed it wasn't your time to die."

"Oh," Rosemary looked down, fiddling with her fingers. "How do you know about that?"

"I am entwined with the Deep Magic. It tells me what it wants to tell me."

"You're like the man behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz. So Narnia didn't want me to die - for whatever reason. But why would it call me here?"

"Because only the best of us deserve a second chance."

Tears welled in Rosemary's eyes and she let them fall, knowing no one would see them from up on the hill. "I wanted to die, Aslan. And yet something always stops that from happening. Why couldn't Narnia just let me die?"

"Perhaps because it isn't your time to die."

"Isn't it my right to decide when to end my life?"

"It is, but the Deep Magic has a stronger hold on its inhabitants here in Narnia which is why you haven't tried to end your life since you got here."

"I was willing to sacrifice myself, though."

"Sacrifice is different than suicide. Tell me, do you still want to end your life?"

"Isn't Narnia's Deep Magic changing my mind?"

"No, it doesn't work like that. It doesn't change your mind, it is simply trying to stop you from carrying out the action."

"Oh, um," Rosemary squinted as she took a moment to think. Every sense seemed to heighten as she breathed deeply and looked around. The light of the moon seemed stronger, the grass felt softer, and the laughter of the Narnians by the fire seemed louder. She thought about her journey to Aslan's camp - Mrs. Beaver taking care of her, bonding with Susan during the boring parts of the journey, and Peter helping her across the melting river. "I...I don't know anymore."

"These people have changed your mind?"

"When the war began, everything seemed to fall apart. My father and brother left to fight and now Daniel's missing, and my mother drinks all the time and ignores me. I just couldn't live with that anymore - the war and being so alone. But the Pevensies and the people here - they're fighting through war too so I wonder what makes me different. You guys here have lived under the reign of the White Witch for a hundred years and I can't even last five months!"

"No two people are alike, Rosemary. You struggle with the absence of your family because you miss them. Your mindset is understandable."

"But you still don't agree with it."

Aslan avoided answering. "Have the rings on your necklace separated yet?"

"What? Oh. No." Rosemary pulled the necklace out from underneath her dress, taken off guard by the sudden change of topic. "I think Santa Claus made a mistake."

"He didn't. Give it time. You are changing as a person - growing. Perhaps you just need to grow a little more."

"I just want to be happy," Rosemary cried softly. She began to sob again, hiding her mouth behind her hands.

"I know it's hard but things will look up soon. Try to hold on a little longer."

"What happens when I return to England."

"I'm afraid I don't have the answer to that."

"What about your promise to the Witch? What did you promise her?"

Aslan sighed and lay down beside Rosemary, his mane brushing against her side. "I suppose I can tell you - it would be nice to get it off of my chest. But you can't tell anyone, Rosemary. Not the Pevensies and certainly not Peter."

"I promise. But why specifically not Peter?"

"Because his grief needs to be real."

"Grief? Aslan, what did you promise her?"

[Chapter Fourteen] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

[karenninaaa]

Iron Dad Bingo #2- Trope: Baby Stark

I wrote this on a whim while trying and failing to wake up my irondad muse. it’s been so long since i wrote an irondad fic. this idea just came out of nowhere while i was lounging in a coffee shop. you know the drill, not endgame compliant. tony lives. because that’s all i care about. sort of fix it.

title inspired by the lyrics of the song ‘Leaves’ by a filipino indie pop band ben&ben

Summary: A little girl offered Peter a candy to comfort him when Peter was a bit broken inside after the battle against Thanos had been won.

And all will be alright in time.

Peter was crouched down in the hallway of a hospital. The hallway was empty and the strong scent of antiseptic was wafting in the air. Peter lost track of how long he was in that position. It could have been minutes or hours. He didn’t quite remember anymore. The moment the doctors said that Mr. Stark was not in the critical condition anymore, Peter’s feet had started to drag him away, away from Miss Potts –no, Mrs. Stark now and Mr. Rhodes who were visibly worn out from the battle against Thanos and his armies earlier.

He wore a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants and a hoodie. He also did not remember who had given the clothes to him. Because it seemed like his brain was still filled with the adrenaline rush of the battle, of saving Earth and of surviving through. Everything felt like a blur. It felt like everything was moving in a fast forward motion and he was the only one who had remained in a freeze mode. 

He had been staring at that single white tiled floor and all he could think about was Mr. Stark almost dying. Almost. His brain had chosen that moment to keep on replaying in his head. Mr. Stark who was still as a statue, who wasn’t responding and whose heart was about to give up on beating.

Then the arc reactor shut off. The light had vanished and there was this terrible and dead silence that hit them like an invisible wave. It had knocked the breath out of Peter. It had been the longest awful one second of his life. Then there was a portal and Mr. Strange. Mr. Stark was being wheeled into the Operating Room with Dr. Strange in tow.

Then there was the good news.

Yes. Good news, something to be delighted about. But why Peter couldn’t bring himself to smile and instead tears were continuously falling from his eyes. He hugged his knees more tightly as he buried his face at the crook of his elbow.

Don’t get him wrong, it was a huge relief for him that Mr. Stark was alive. It truly was. The tears were for his own heart that constricted and squeezed at the sight of Mr. Stark who had been willing to give everything he got for the universe even if it meant was the expense of his life.

Mr. Stark, who in a short amount of time, had been a huge part in shaping who he should be as an Avenger, Mr. Stark who had filled the gaps of his days. Mr. Stark whom he had looked up to, Mr. Stark who had helped him with the relativistic mass-energy equation. And the thing was the thought that there would be no Mr. Stark in a new world that had been successfully saved, was a scary scary thought.

That was probably the tears were also for.

That he needed to dispense all those scary thoughts so he could finally smile.

“Do you want candy?”

Peter froze. He slowly lifted his head. A girl probably no older than 6 was standing in front of her. He was wearing a pink floral dress and a brown leather jacket partnered with black ankle boots. She had dark brown hair that reached her shoulder. Her brown eyes blinked at him. Though, there was something familiar with her eyes.

Peter blinked back and sniffed. “W-what?”

The girl played with her hair. “Well, my dad always offers me candy when I cried. It’s effective. It makes me stop crying immediately. Also, it makes me feel better. Though, I don’t think mom likes that dad always gives me candy.”

The corner of Peter’s mouth tugged forming a little smile. He cleared his throat. “Well, do you have candy?”

She fished out something in the pockets of her leather jacket. She extended her hand to him holding a wrapped candy. “I was saving it for later but it’s okay. You can have it.”

“Are you sure?” Peter asked.

She nodded. 

Gingerly, Peter accepted the candy. She stared at him, waiting for him to open up the candy. So Peter did. He popped the candy into his mouth. It was a lemon flavor.

“Well?” She tilted her head at him

Peter smiled. The candy reminded him of the candies that Mr. Stark had in a glass jar in the corner of his lab. It was comforting. “You’re right. It’s effective.”

“And you stopped crying too.” She noted.

Peter chuckled. “Did your dad give you this candy too?”

“No my mom did before she had left earlier.” She sat Indian style beside him. “She said she had some business she needed to attend to. I wanted to come because sometimes she let me come with her. But she said that children were not allowed to be there.”

“Why are you here anyway?” Before Peter knew it, he also started to sit comfortably on the floor. 

“My dad’s here.” It was her only answer as she drew circles with her small index finger on the floor.

“Oh,” Peter didn’t want to pry. The little girl frowned. He didn’t want to upset the kid even more.

“Why are you crying earlier?” She looked up at him.

Peter tried to find the right words. He spoke after a moment. “I was scared.”

“Do you want a hug?” She asked.

Peter couldn’t help but smile again.

“Mom and Dad always give me a hug when I was scared. Do you want one? It will make you better too.”

God, this kid was so adorable. Peter couldn’t help but mentally gushed. Instead of speaking, he spread his arms wide.

She beamed at him and stood up. She bent down a bit and wrapped her chubby tiny arms around his shoulder. She gently tapped his back. She spoke. Her voice was oddly soothing. “It’s alright. You’re going to be okay soon.”

Peter’s face crumbled right then. Involuntarily, his body shook when another sob escaped his lips. Then there were tears again.

“It’s okay.” This time, the girl rubbed his back. “It’s going to be alright now.”

Another strange thing was, the little girl’s words were like warm water washing over him. His taut shoulders started to loosen up. He started to deflate like a balloon in her little arms. He let himself believed her words because the war with bad aliens was over. He released the breathe he didn’t know he had been holding.

Peter pulled away from him sniffing again. His eyes were red and puffy. “Where did you learn that?”

Her brows knitted together. “Learn what?”

“Those words. How did you know how to comfort someone?”

“That’s what mom and dad always said and does when I’m upset and scared. It worked like magic, didn’t it?” She grinned at him.

“Your parents are lucky to have you,” Peter said softly.

“And I love them, three thousand.” She raised her three fingers for emphasis.

“Morgan!”

There was a male voice in the hallway somewhere in the distance.

“Oops. That’s me.” She sucked her thumb. “I should go. Bye-bye.” She waved her hand at him as she stepped back.

“Bye, bye.” Peter also waved his hand at her. “And Morgan, thank you.” He smiled earnestly at her as she continued to step back. “Look where you’re going, you might trip!” He pointed out.

She only giggled. “You’re welcome, Peter.” She then rounded the corner and disappeared.

“Yeah-” He froze. “Wait, what? How did she know my name?”

He sprang from his seat and ran to the corner where the kid had gone to. But the hallway was empty as if no single soul had been there a while back.

“W-what the fu-“

Earlier that day was one of the best times of Peter’s life because Mr. Stark had woken up. He was bouncing on his heels as he walked to Mr. Stark’s room together with aunt May. He was holding a bouquet. They stopped in front of Mr. Stark’s room. There was a muffled voice inside then followed by laughter. Peter grinned. He knocked and opened the door.

He stepped inside. “Mr. Stark-!”

He froze on the spot. Mr. Stark was truly awake as he beamed at him as if nothing life-threatening had happened earlier at the break of dawn, as if they hadn’t gone to a battle and fight for their lives. The upper part of his bed was slightly raised so he was in a half-sitting position. The burn on the side of Mr. Stark’s face was still fresh. There was a red bionic arm where his right arm used to be. The prosthetic was glinting under the pale fluorescent light. 

However, what made Peter froze was the kid who was snuggling beside Mr. Stark. His good left arm was wrapped around her. She was now looking shyly at him.

“You-” He pointed wide-eyed at the girl.

The girl only giggled as she snuggled closer to Mr. Stark’s chest.

“Oh, you’ve already met Morgan?” Mr. Stark’s eyes lit up.

“Y-yeah. . .” Peter answered slowly. “W-who is she again?”

Mr. Stark looked around to the people in the room. Pepper, Happy and Rhodey was there. “No one had bothered to tell him that she’s my daughter?”

“Daughter.” Peter echoed.

“In our defense boss,” Happy said. “We didn’t know that they have already met.”

Morgan looked up at his dad. “I gave him a candy daddy because he was crying.”

“Oh,” Mr. Stark’s gaze fell on Peter.

“Sweetie,” Pepper called Morgan. “Come on, let’s buy some cheeseburgers for dad.”

“Cheeseburgers!” Morgan gasped dramatically as she sat up abruptly. She immediately hopped down the bed. 

“God, you’re as bad as your dad,” Rhodey muttered.

“I heard that.” Tony pointed out. “And I take that as a compliment.”

Soon, Tony and Peter were the only people in the room as if their company had an unspoken agreement to give the two some alone time.Morgan blew a kiss to Peter before sauntering off holding her mom’s hand.

Peter remained on the same spot he had been earlier when he had first entered.

“What? You’re going to make me come to you?” Tony asked. “As you can see I’m quite indisposed as of this moment. Come here squirt.”

Peter stiffly walked towards him. He sat on the vacant seat next to Mr. Stark’s bed. Peter needed to sit. He looked down at the flowers on his lap.

He knew without looking that Mr. Stark was staring at him.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too,” Peter mumbled.

“Pete, look at me.” Mr. Stark said pleadingly. “I still couldn’t quite believe that everyone who had been dusted was back. I need some validation that you’re here.”

Peter looked up at him.

Mr. Stark smiled. “There you go. You’re here.”

“Don’t scare me like that ever again,” Peter said.

Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow at the hardness on Peter’s voice.

“You almost died.” He choked out.

“That’s part of my job.” Mr. Stark said.

“Then just retire already,” Peter said. 

“Oh, I plan on it. Besides, I have to take Morgan to school because Pep will probably be busy being the boss lady of the company.”

“I can’t believe you already have a daughter. “Peter said disbelievingly combing his hair with his hand. “It’s kinda hard to believe that years had already passed in here when it felt like a blink to me.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Mr. Stark assured him. He was looking softly at him. His eyes were bright, the side of his eyes crinkled. He had more white hair than Peter had remembered.

“Mr. Stark. . .” Peter swallowed. “Is everything going to be alright now?”

“Let’s allow ourselves to think that yes, it will be. Our world is messy but I’d like to hope that every passing moment that will come will be something worth celebrating for.”

There was the beat of silence before Tony spoke again. “Why did you cry? Did you cry because of me?”

“Because you scared me!”

“Now you already know what I felt when you’re out there donning that red and blue spandex.”

Peter was silent. He couldn’t argue with that.

He spoke after a beat. “So, uh, we’re even now, Mr. Stark?”

And all Mr. Stark could respond was a peal of hearty laughter as he threw his head back.

Peter smiled.

Yes, it’s going to be alright now.

[cinderellainrubbershoes]

Review: The Silence of the Girls Author: Pat Barker Genre: Fiction, revisionism, mythology Revisionist fiction or retellings still fill bookshelves to the brim these days—old fables pop up with shocking twists, we see fairytales shed their Disney-fied formula to give newer nods to their darker roots, and we even come to know stories of antiquity thrown in with “cyber” sensibilities. With the unremitting creativity of writers today, the possibilities are endless. Readers may clamor for something “original”, of course, but I find that there is charm in revisiting familiar narratives refashioned for the modern eyes.

Personally, I enjoy reading reimaginings of classic myths. I was rapt, for instance, while leafing through the story of the tragic Greek hero Achilles and his bosom companion Patroclus in Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles. I devoured Circe, a feminist take on a classic character from Homer’s The Odyssey by the same author, with equal fascination. There is also Margaret Atwood’s The Penelopiad, spun from the decades-long wait of Penelope for her husband Odysseus from the Trojan War. None of these felt old to me. In fact, they gave substantial and refreshing heft to the original materials. Since then, I’ve been on the prowl for modern narrations of old legends.

That’s why when I heard about Pat Barker’s The Silence of the Girls—events of The Iliad, but told from the perspective of a significant female character—I just know I have to grab a copy.

The Silence of the Girls gives a #MeToo voice to the women of Homer’s epic poem, particularly to Briseis, who becomes the “war prize” of Achilles after the Greeks sacked their kingdom. Hark back to your high school required reading days and you may remember that in the story, as a prize of honour, Briseis is the linchpin of the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon. The feud resulted to the former withdrawing from the battle against the Trojans, almost bringing defeat to their side. No more than a “status symbol,” Briseis is virtually voiceless there; we are deaf to what she feels, or what any woman in the story (who isn’t a goddess, for the immortals have a lot to say regardless of gender) has to convey other than grief and sorrow.

In this book, she introduces the readers to the margins of the largely masculine framework of the Homeric poem, swinging the spotlight from swift-footed, angry halfgods and bouts for glory to the harrowing truths that the war’s “collateral damages” must suffer. Barker’s pen made their lives palpable on the pages: we get to take a peek at the “rape camp,” we meet bed-slaves, former queens made to scrub dirt, young girls who get their throats slit to appease the dead or some wrathful deity, mothers who’ve helplessly watched their husbands and children get butchered. There’s blood and spit and sweat and tears, and not just in the battlefield. Barker truly doesn’t pull any punches here.

But true to its title, Briseis’ thoughts remain either in her head only, with the readers as the only witness, or with their small circle of bed-girls. “Silence becomes a woman,” a character reminds her of an adage twinned with their fates for all their lives. The book, in effect, becomes a psychological journey of individuals “muted” by their male-dominated society. “They were men, and free,” Briseis says. “I was a woman, and a slave. And that’s a chasm no amount of sentimental chit-chat about shared imprisonment should be allowed to obscure.”

Surprisingly, the novel is not told from Briseis’ perspective alone. We get brief chapters of Achilles’ thoughts, too, starting in the second volume. The first shift of voices was jarring, and my initial thought is that this defeats the very purpose of the book, which is to give a platform to her experiences. But I think this change is understandable and necessary, as Briseis is absent at the turning point of The Iliad that made Achilles go back to war again: the death of Patroclus, Achilles’ beloved friend. The inserts also provide a helpful crutch to the portrayal of these men, where we see them get fleshed out past the observing eyes of the sidelined victims—they are characters, too, after all, and not just one-dimensional, violent caricatures. Scenes in the battlefield are a welcome change as well. Barker’s descriptive writing is magic, and the readers get treated with vivid images such as this:

“On the battlefield, the Greeks fighting to save Patroclus’s corpse recognize the cry and run towards it. What do they see? A tall man standing on a parapet with the golden light of early evening catching his hair? No, of course they don’t. They see the goddess Athena wrap her glittering aegis round [Achilles’s] shoulders: they see flames thirty feet high springing from the top of his head. What the Trojans saw isn’t recorded. The defeated go down in history and disappear, and their stories die with them.”

While most of the iconic scenes are recreated well (Achilles’ howling grief as he receives news of Patroclus’ demise at the hands of Hector, his berserker’s wrath while dragging Hector’s dead body around the gates of Troy, Priam’s visit to Achilles to retrieve his son’s dishonored corpse), I wished that Barker zeroed in more on the lives of the women at the camp. While reading the book, the Bechdel Test came to mind—will this even pass it? The lives of these girls maybe forever entwined with men, but they have their pasts to speak of, to make them rounder as characters. When Nestor tells Briseis to forget her past, I was hoping for a silent revolt. “Forget,” Briseis thinks of the order. “So there was my duty laid out in front of me, as simple and clear as a bowl of water: remember.” The rebellion seemed to have petered out early.

The writing style would have been impeccable if it weren’t for the anachronisms strewn across the whole thing, modern phrases that stick out. I’ve heard that Barker said this is deliberate on her part to emphasize the tale’s timelessness, but some of them just don’t fit, like pieces squeezed into the wrong puzzle. Still, for the most part, the narrative is a magnificent treat.

Unflinchingly honest, The Silence of the Girls is a significant work of fiction that would be best read right after The Iliad itself.