#blender is such an unfair song...

[kidconsky]

This profile believes in Toya Aoyagi's supremacy!

[canonicallyanxious]

Got a lot of free time on my hands rn [who could say why...] so i put a bit of effort into this year's top 10 lists by which i mean i stole canva's assets for myself and rubbed my gay little hands all over them pls enjoy

absolutely did not have braincells for a proper movies/shows list this year but i will have a special shows-adjacent list out at... some point idk

Full lists along with notes/ramblings under the cut:

Favorite 2023 Album Drops

10. Cherish - Vacationer

9. Phone Orphans - Laura Veirs

8. Praise a Lord Who Chews but Which Does Not Consume; (Or Simply, Hot Between Worlds) - Yves Tumor / this album is gender and no i will not be offering further explanations at this time

7. Red Moon in Venus - Kali Uchis

6. My Big Day - Bombay Bicycle Club

5. Metro Boomin Presents Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse - Metro Boomin, various artists / specifically the deluxe version which has some personal faves the og doesn't, like take it to the top and infamous

4. Unreal Unearth - Hozier

3. The Age of Pleasure - Janelle Monae / full disclosure this one is so high on this year's list because watching them perform this live did rewire my entire brain

2. The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We - Mitski

1. Javelin - Sufjan Stevens / the vinyl for this album comes with an art booklet made by Sufjan that includes 10 mini-essays about love, and reading them for the first time felt like putting my heart in a fucking blender. [you can also read them all here for free if you feel like doing that to yourself tonight]

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

SOS - SZA / the greatest mistake of my life was leaving SOS off my 2022 album list and it will forever haunt me. unfortunately it was also a big grower for me and was released too late in the year for me to realize its genius in time. can't put it on my 2023 list either but pls know it is number one album of the year. in my heart

Soft Machine - Arlo Parks / i think this could have ranked higher had i managed to get around to checking it out when it actually dropped but unfortunately my dumb ass didn't catch it until v late in the year so there you go

House of Groove - Roche Musique / compilation so technically there's a bunch of artists on this record, found this one a little late in the year but wanted to shout it out bc i really enjoyed every track i heard off of it, no small feat

Sorry I Haven't Called - Vagabon / i have no excuse or explanation for this exclusion, there were simply too many records i loved this year

Favorite 2023 Song Finds

(note: per tradition, not confined to 2023 releases, just bops i listened to for the first time this year)

10. So I Danced - DPR IAN (2023) / i forgot to include the year in the graphic and i am too lazy to change it soz

9. Angelina - Milo Korbenski (2021)

8. No Good - Young & Sick (2019)

7. Better Now - SebastiAn, Mayer Hawthorne (2019)

6. Liquid Love (Mr Jukes Remix) - Billie Marten (2021) / one of those remixes i like better than the og, and to be clear i like the og quite a lot. also as i was putting together this list i learned that Mr Jukes is actually the name of the solo project of Bombay Bicycle Club's lead singer so like the more you know!

5. Hair Receding - Xenia Rubinos (2013) / i heard this song for the first time in December which usually would put it at an unfair disadvantage compared to songs that i've had the full year to get attached to but listening to it shook my molecules so vigorously i had no choice but to put it on this list

4. Zero (JID Remix) - Newjeans (2023) / look i am fully aware this song is a blatant kpop ad for coke zero and the chorus literally translates to "coca-cola is tasty / coca-cola is tasty" but that doesn't mean it isn't a BOP. another remix i prefer to the og, i think jid's verse and subtle production tweaks really elevate it to something i never want to stop playing when it comes on

3. Been Thinkin' - Hikes (2019) / or: my most played song of the year! don't examine what this probably reveals about the state of my psyche too closely!

2. I'm Your Man - Mitski (2023)

1. Bruises - Angel Haze (2015) / though i was genuinely v surprised this one did not make it onto my spotify top 5, considering every time it came on this year a fugue state did overtake my whole body and did not dissipate until i had played it at least another four or five times

[snackzimmerman]

Nursey leaves poetry all over their room.

This wouldn’t be A Big Deal (even though a year ago, there would have been a reckoning so great that not even pie could smooth it over) except for the fact that it’s.  Well.  The sappiest thing Will has ever read.  He hasn’t brought it up yet, but -

“It’s weird, right?” he asks, fidgeting with a pencil.

Chowder draws another shark doodle in the margins of Will’s notes.  It’s a small price to pay.  “We’re seniors, dude.  I’d write lovestruck poetry over Cait, if I thought it would turn out well.”

“Your poetry is terrible,” Will informs him, and is promptly hit in the face by a notebook.  “I’m saving your relationship!”

“I’m just saying, graduation makes people sentimental!”  Chowder retorts.

Will rolls his eyes.  “There’s plenty of time until graduation.”

“Dex,” Chowder says suspiciously, “you’ve started your senior thesis, right?”

“Yes,” Will replies, because he has.  Kind of.  He’s got a rough outline.  “I’m not Bitty, Cap.”

“No, you are not.”  Chowder sighs, both in relief and disappointment, and waves a hand at him.  “Now make me some pies, Bitty replacement.”

“Technically, the captain made pies last year.”  Will grumbles, but he climbs off Chowder’s bed and leaves him alone.

“Nobody wants me to make the desserts, Dex!”  Chowder calls after him.

Considering the poetry is Nursey’s, it’s pretty good.  As far as Will can tell at least - words have never been his strong suit.  He can’t even consistently string sentences together in his own head.  His roommate listens to classical music and musical theater and songs that have messages instead of easily repeatable choruses.

What is the point of listening to something that takes you hours to memorize.

Will thinks the issue is that Nursey and romance have rarely been linked together in his mind, because all he seems to do is date someone for a few months, avoid introducing them to anyone on the team, and then get dumped.  Then Will and Chowder have to throw him a pity party, which Nursey inevitably seems to enjoy more than the relationship.

Those are the facts.

However, the newest fact is that Nursey is writing sappy poetry, which he’s never done before, and there’s been absolutely zero mention of anyone new - secretive weirdo.  He’s always at least told them there’s someone, in the past.  Will knows for a fact that Nursey would be pissed if he pulled this kind of shit.  Probably because he has.  Last year.  Whoops.

“Seriously, Dex, I think six months is enough time to tell us!”  Chowder complains, crossing his arms in an attempt at anger.  The pout he’s sporting ruins the effect.

Nursey throws another eraser at him.  Will is fairly certain he bought a new pack just for this purpose, which is cheating, because now Will can’t steal one of those erasers every time he needs one.  “Chyeah.  Very unchill.”

“The word chill has lost its meaning,” Will says sagely, and the offended look Nursey gives him almost quells his urge to murder.  “But we broke up.  End of story.  I’m telling you about him now.”

“Why not before, though?”  Nursey sulks.  He’s not even throwing his eraser.

“Oh, like you can talk.”

So.  Interrogation it is.

“Nursey.”

“Dex.  Chowder.”

Muffled whispers.  “He didn’t leave me with anything to say.”

“Stick to the script, Chow.”

“I really don’t see why the cop light is necessary,”  Nursey speaks up, unimpressed.  Wordlessly, Will switches it off.

Chowder slams a stack of papers down on the desk.  “Derek Nurse, as your captain, I demand you tell us who you’re writing about.  There are papers everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” Nursey frowns.

Will pulls another few papers from his pockets, slapping them down one after the other.  “Dining table.  Blender.  Couch.  Shower.  Oven.”

“How did those even get in there?”  Nursey mumbles, and Chowder presses his index fingers to his lips.

As much as Will wishes he could take credit for stashing them in enough places to create a problem, Nursey’s done that all on his own.  Chowder being on his team just outweighs the distress at baking a pie that came out covered in flaming paper.

Possibly out of guilt, Nursey had fearfully eaten an entire piece as Will made aggressive, angry eye contact.

Will grabs Nursey’s face in his hands and shakes it.  “Please.  I have read so much more than I ever wanted.”

“You’ve read them?”  Nursey yelps, at the same time Chowder points out “Nobody’s making you read them.”

“Also,” Will says slowly, scanning the latest poem.  “If she has hair this short, and she wears flannel, and - is the red hair natural? - dude, she might be a lesbian.  Like, totally not judging, but that’s kind of a style.”

Nursey looks like he wants to die.  Chowder looks like he wants to kill him.  “... how many of these have you read?”

“Maybe…” Will thinks back to when the poems started, months ago.  “A hundred?”  

As Nursey slowly pulls his hoodie over his head, Chowder stares at him with deadened eyes.

Gradually, Will starts to realize that this may have been a serious breach of privacy, in which case he’s a dick.  “I don’t mean to, but they’re in our room, Nurse.  Our shared room.”

Nursey lets out a high keening sound.

“... I’m really sorry?” he tries, and Chowder pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You should be,” he says, and leaves.

Nursey shows no signs of reemerging from his sweatshirt cocoon, so Will hesitantly settles in the seat next to him.  “So.  Freckles?  That’s kind of a lame thing to write so much about.”

“I like them,” Nursey grumbles, and Will feels.  Hmm.  Warm.  His face is warm, that’s gross and he hates it, okay then.

Nursey’s hypothetical person probably has nice, controlled ones across the bridge of their nose.  That’s always cute, even if Will himself doesn’t look for it.  He likes… something else, that’s dangerous to think about.

He rolls his shoulders, as if he can roll the thought out of his mind.  Nursey groans, emerges from his hoodie, and blinks up at Will like he��s mad.  “You suck.”

“What have I done now,” Will deadpans, “beside invade your personal privacy and interrogate you about something I have no business knowing.”

Nursey always looks at him like he’s looking at his whole face, instead of just his eyes.  “Figure it out.”

“Very mature.”

“Chill,” Nursey drawls, corners of his mouth poking up, and Will watches the shift.

Uh.  Okay.  Maybe Nursey and romance are tied closer together in his mind than he thought.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” his mouth manages, and Nursey blinks at him.  Stupid betrayer of a mouth.  “Could I - guess who it is?”

“Oh my god.”

“Do they have glasses,” Will starts, and Nursey pushes him out of his seat.

“No,” Nursey says through gritted teeth, “because they are stupid and take care of their eyes and are you.”

Will blinks up at him.  “Actually, I might need glasses in a few years.”

Then he grabs Nursey’s arm, pulls himself up, and flicks the string of his hoodie.  “I’m ‘like a tiger lily’?  Had to look that one up, by the way.”

“Fuck off my similies,” Nursey moans, and Will links their arms together to prevent his escape.  “I had written a lot.”

“This creates unfair expectations,” Will informs him, “because now I have to code, like, two hundred programs that somehow express affection.”

“Or,” Nursey suggests, “you could just go out with me.”

“Very poetic,” Dex says, and runs out the door before Nursey can tell him that the correct word is ‘eloquent’.  “Meet you at Annies!”

[willowaudreykeyes]

Prompt: myths and chaos with Logan with the line “so apparently microwaving this ancient manuscript isn’t a good way to find out its secrets.”

Remus’ Puzzle Temple Of Friendship And Chaos

Warnings: Baby eldritch thing, tentacles, one eye, vague sexual reference that’s from a song

Platonic Logince, brotherly-and-on-good-terms Creativitwins and Intrulogical of whatever relationship interpretation that you want.

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

Roman

“Remind me to thank your brother at dinner tonight.”

“That’s if we make it to dinner. And you all call me extra; he made an entire temple for us to explore within a week!” He spent a lot of energy on it too. I still remember the shaky finger he pointed at me after the second day of working on this Incan-like temple; slurring tiredly about not going into the space between our Kingdoms and ruining the surprise. He also forced me to carry him to his room as he dangerously swayed on his feet. I’ll have to thank him by working just as hard for his and Logan’s adventure after the two of us finish this one.

“I know; yet I’ve yet to thank him for doing so. And I must ask how long it took to make this language.” Taking my first glance at said language, I recognise it immediately as the first language that Remus and I had known. We had known it better than English at one point, until Patton insisted that we make English our main language so that we wouldn’t confuse Thomas. 

“Oh, we’ve always known it. We used to speak it in front of Patton as kids to confuse him and we still use it occasionally whenever we send a letter, or in his case a slab of mysterious leather, between our Kingdoms.”

“So you can translate this?”

“Of course!” I hold the slightly chipped black and red tablet out at arms length, quickly noticing that everything on the tablet makes no sense. No wonder he was so tired after every day in the Imagination; he even made us a puzzle. “It’s encrypted though, so we have to figure out what the cypher is first. And knowing Remus, it could be anything.”

He takes it from my hands and adjusts his glasses for the fiftieth time today before tapping his chin. I doubt Logan realises that he has so many visual tells when he becomes passionate and interested. “He would leave a clue somewhere where we could find it. He’s chaotic, not unfair.”

“Aha!” In a spark of inspiration, I rough up my hair and gain a huff of defeat from the neighbourhood nerd as I do the same to his own. It had dust from the temple in it anyway. “We just have to think like Remus! Now what’s the most logical place to put a cypher for this thing?”

“Where we found it.”

“Okay. Now what’s the opposite of that?”

His eyebrows do that cute thing where they pinch down a bit when he’s confused. I don’t bother hiding my smile as his eyes shift around, taking in invisible words as he tries to find my line of thinking. “I’m… not following. The opposite of where we found it is every room that we didn’t find it in, and we went through forty-three rooms and eight hallways; perhaps half or less of the entire temple judging by the size and spacing between each room.”

“And only twelve not-too-tough traps, which is less then his usual quota…” Probably because of the exhaustion, but I should have figured that out earlier. I’ll up the level of hazards in his next one as a double thank you for his hard work. “Anyway, we must think chaotically if we are to beat the chaotic one!”

With a silent nod, he attempts to fix his hair as I take in our camp and the temple before us. It’s very reminiscent of an Incan temple in design yet is mainly made out of pitch black obsidian; with intricate wall carvings engraved with pure ruby, emerald, moonstone and diamond; and a whole lot of animal and human skulls that are packed tightly into every ceiling. And I must say, adding the creatures from both of our Kingdoms as the wall carvings is a nice touch. 

Except I won’t say it out loud because the majority of them are of naked people, naked cannibals and of naked murders. 

At least our camp has some more class to it! Logan wished for something realistic, but was soon swayed by my enchanted Harry Potter tent that’s magically large enough to have a working bathroom and still look like a ‘regular’ camping tent from the outside. I do like regular camping, but I prefer to have a shower after a tub of Thomas-knows-what is dropped over us and getting into every uncomfortable crevasse. Just thinking about that disgusting concoction makes me shudder.

“... Perhaps our microwave?”

I snap my gaze back to him, beaming at his rather shy sounding remark. He always sounds shy when he says something that deviates from his path of logic. At least he’s opening up a little more. “Perfect! I knew you’d think of something!”

“It was the first usable thing that I saw. Were you daydreaming again?”

“Nope- Using the microwave to solve a cypher sounds like something Remus’ mind would think up. He did mix sardines, lettuce and one of your ties in the blender before drinking it once.” I mumble the last half -I probably shouldn’t out Remus just yet for drinking Logan’s tie a few months ago- and put the tablet in the microwave and set it to three minutes. Three is the magic number after all.

“Did you say something?” 

“Mumbling ideas to myself is all!”

The microwave suddenly glows a bright purple and I manage to drag Logan in close before blocking something from hitting the both of us with my summoned shield. With a pop, crackle, fizz and several loud noises that sound like tearing metal; I risk peeking over it in perfect sync with Logan. The sight of three large tentacles wiggling out of the new holes in the camp's microwave brings out a sigh from me. A very loud sigh. Remus could probably hear it and currently giggling to himself from the comfort of his bedroom.

“It may be best not to touch those. Or the microwave.”

“But the tablet!” Logan pushes by my shield and barely escapes my reach before I am able to pull him away. With a straight posture and a quick slick back of his hair, he opens it and nearly jumps into my arms Scooby-Doo style from the loud pop that occurs. I’m in front of him again within a moment, but the usual feeling of hostility that Remus puts on his dangerous creatures as a warning is lacking. At least this thing won’t try and face-hug me like that faceless chicken that guarded the temple did.

Inside was a brown-black-blue ball of tentacles, with three longer than the others that retract out of the newly-made holes in the microwave. My heart stutters as a singular, goat-like, boysenberry coloured eye opens from one of the many seams in the creature; just to quickly dart it’s vision between the two of us before landing it’s creepy gaze on Logan. “Huh. So apparently, microwaving the ancient manuscript isn’t a good way to find it’s secrets- but a great way to hatch an eldritch abomination.”

“If you’d hand me a blanket, perhaps bringing it with us would be advantageous in future explorations.” Of course he wants to bring the nightmare creature; he always does. I hand him the nearby dish towel instead as I don’t feel like leaving this thing alone with Logan would end nicely.

“As long as you're carrying it.”

“Of course; you’re the one with the sword and shield.” I’m rather sure that that means that he would make me carry the disgusting creature if I wasn’t the one with our only ways of defending ourselves; and I don’t know if I should dramatically put my hand to my chest in horror or just pout.

I go for the pout.

Only for it to be rather rudely ignored as he cradles the little beast in its new home, wrapping it’s longer tentacles around Logan’s hands and attempting to remove his watch for a moment before I manage to grab it before they do. Logan’s too busy holding it in one hand and going through his cue cards to notice though. “And I shall name it as randomly as I can; since Remus seems to name all of his creations.” 

“Why?”

“It’s only polite to follow custom; and the custom for Remus is to name his creatures.” I hate everything about this -plus the tablet is just full on missing or destroyed now too- but Logan seems enraptured by the little thing. I roll my eyes and put on my backpack as Logan already begins walking up the temple steps. We just had lunch, so we have a chance of leaving before dinner, but I highly doubt it.

Despite not being able to see, the creature manages to grab out one of the cue cards from Logan’s hand before letting him snatch it back. With a quick smile after reading it, he pockets them all again before getting a better hold of the thing before it runs away and eats a whole deer or something. “It’s name shall be Anaconda-Do-Not.”

God-fucking-dammit Remus. I frown at the thing as we enter the fire-lit entrance, glad that its eye is hidden under the dish towel. Sheep eyes have always kind of creeped me out; especially on things that aren’t sheep. “You’re not allowed to hang out with Remus, Virgil or Janus anymore if they keep giving you those weirder cue cards.”

“This one’s from Remus. It’s a metaphor about-”

“I KNOW WHAT IT IS!” A light pain follows my facepalm, but I ignore it and march onwards. Hoping to get rid of this thing as quickly as possible. “Let’s just… go shove it into a keyhole or something already.”

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

By the way, I really hate that stupid Anaconda song and so I know that it’d be perfect for Remus. Hopefully the ending is alright because it was the only bit I really had issues with ^^’

Oh and Remus definitely fell in love with the new Eldritch creatures name.

@ladyedwina @5am-the-foxing-hour @sparrowofsong

[starshineandbooks]

Come away with me, one last adventure?

Chapter one, in which Logan is woken up

Words- 1058

AO3

ship -Logince

summary- Faced with going to diffrent colleges Roman decides to borrwo Logan, at too early in the morning.

Trigger warning -None that I can think of!

Inspired by This post by @tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors

Logan groans loudly in protest as he looks at the man on his doorstep.

Roman Lopez-Muniz-Crowne, Logan’s childhood friend, and eternal gay love of his life, stands on Logan’s doorstep. Roman wears a pair of light jeans and converse paired with a cherry colored hoodie Logan had gotten him. The hoodie is a personalized hoodie to have the Dear Evan Hansen logo on the back.

Logan raises an eyebrow, groaning louder, brain relaxing and slowing at the realization that he’s with Roman.

“Come on one last adventure with me?”

“What?”

“Come on one last adventure with me before we have to go to college.”

“Roman- I don’t- It’s- What the fuck time is it?! If it’s between one and six in the morning I won’t forgive you.”

“Three fifty eight.” Roman supplies, looking up from the watch Logan had given him for his fifteenth birthday.

“I hate you.” Logan’s voice is harsh as his lips quirk up.

“I doubt that.”

Logan laughs gently, “Get in here, let me grab clothes and tell mom and dad.”

"God you’re the best.”

“Coffee pot’s empty, start some now.”

“Anything for you specs.” Roman smirks, but his voice is softer than he meant.

“Except letting me sleep.” Logan grumbles, slipping back up the stairs.

Roman makes it to the kitchen before he groans, cursing himself and pulling down the pre-ground coffee to make a pot that he knows Logan will drink all of but the bit Roman steals. Roman needs a moment, so he takes a sit down once he has the coffee pot set up.

He sets his face in his knees and groans again slowly, it’s so unfair. Logan is so pretty, and perfect, and Roman really would like his heart to not throw itself into a blender when Logan is even thought of. Logan shouldn’t be able to brighten and ruin Roman’s days with a simply look at him.

Logan returns, twenty minutes later, “Hey Ro, ready?” Roman doesn't respond and Logan sighs, setting his bag on the ground and moving about the kitchen, grabbing to go cups and making coffee to their desired sweetness and creaminess.

Logan takes his bag and the coffees to Roman’s car, setting things in the trunk and the cupholders before he returns, picking Roman up, cradling the older man in his arms closely.

Logan kisses Roman’s forehead softly, then he begins to carry the elder man out the door, knowing Roman’s been sleeping horribly lately. Logan struggles, but manages to get Roman into the car's passenger seat to then lock up his house. Logan takes the driver’s seat, starting the car with the keys he’s gotten off of the counter, pulling away from his house.

Roman sleeps soundly as Logan switches on the radio, humming along gently to the fallout boy song humming along, eyes scanning the road.

“I’m in love with you,” Roman whispers, sleep talking, again.

He does that a lot. Logan swallows hard, nodding as he takes a left, following the directions taped to the dashboard. Logan can’t help it, singing along as the song changes, lulled into safety by the lack of listeners.

“I've been reading books of old, The legends and the myths,

Achilles and his gold, Hercules and his gifts”

Logan has read a million books, and then some probably. He’s going to school to be a doctor, he studied the myths more than he should have perhaps, because it made him happy. He liked them, he’d always admired the idea of the greek heroes. Even though they generally had problems of their own. The song makes him smile softly, Roman loves this song, he’s always telling Logan about how much he wants something like the song. There it is, admiring a song and Roman comes to mind.

“Spider-Man's control, And Batman with his fists

And clearly I don't see myself upon that list”

Logan never had seen himself on that list had he? Someone worth loving, someone extraordinary. Not even a little, he never has been. Logan will never be the kind of person Roman wants. Logan crosses that off the list of things to think about, he needs to let go of this stupid fantasy. After all, Roman and Logan will have their own soulmates, it won’t be each other. When Logan turns eighteen he will wake up with a mark on him that is black, assuming he isn't a soulmate less, that will tell him where his soulmate will first touch him after his birthday -Also assuming he is the younger person in the relationship. And the universe would never give Roman someone like Logan, Roman deserves so much better.

“But she said, where'd you wanna go?

How much you wanna risk?”

If Logan lets himself fantasize, as he sees no harm in it while Roman lay sleeping and no one watches him but the stars and the moon, he’d go anywhere with Roman. Logan would risk it all if he got a single chance, soulmates be damned.

“I'm not lookin' for somebody With some superhuman gifts”

Logan has never needed a whole lot from anyone, he’s always been self sufficient, he likes it that way.

“Some superhero, Some fairy-tale bliss

Just something I can turn to Somebody I can kiss”

Logan knows full well happy endings aren’t what they seem, and you have to work at anything, especially relationships. But he would like someone he knows will always be there for him. Someone like Roman. Logan bets Roman’s lips are soft, if a little chapped. Logan chides himself, that’s not what to think about right now.

“I want something just like this”

Logan looks to Roman, the boy’s face pressed against the window, slumped to the slide and drooling a tiny bit where his mouth hangs open. Wrapped in a large hoodie still, face lax as he breathes slowly. The stars and sky above, his best friend at his side, the simultaneous flood of tight, warm flutters paired with claws and teeth in his heart aside, this is a moment Logan would live even with the rush of emotions gladly over and over. In this one moment, everything is right, and it’s enough to dull the vortex of fears with his impending soulmate, and Roman in general, and starting a new college in a new state, and anything else that might be wrong.

Masterpost    Chapter two

[maandags]

a tune not quite forgotten (John Shelby x reader)

ITS THE DAY LADS

-- -- --

Summary: You did something stupid--something that took your feelings and threw them in a blender--and now you have to try and sort your life back out.

Word count: 8.6K

Genre: angst/fluff but this time i think i did not do a horrible job balancing out the angst and the fluff

Notes: masterlist - my dudes........ today is the birthday of my lovely lovely LOVELY girl Aticus over @panda-noosh !! man i love you so much!! you mean the absolute world to me; i couldn’t even begin to describe all the ways you’ve helped me through bad days and made me laugh and cry and yell about my godchildren and risk my ass by texting you in class. i had SUCH a hard time not giving you updates on this fic--especially since you were the one that got me into peaky blinders in the first place--and i caught myself multiple times already typing out a message and then going “wait. no” and backspacing everything lololol. I want you to know how much you truly mean to me, and suddenly i can’t use words eloquently anymore. so just read the damn fic and have a fabulous day. xx from your bitch Tay :’)

-- -- --

The last person you'd expected to show up on your doorstep at four in the afternoon was John Shelby, and yet there he was.

You almost shut the door on him, but then realised that would probably be a bad idea, as he was a part of the most powerful family in the whole of Birmingham. So you folded your arms across your chest and raised your brows, waiting for him to explain the cause of his visit.

He looked at you, the cap on his head slightly shadowing his face. "Hullo."

You gave a terse nod, not really trusting yourself to speak. John glanced behind you and coughed. "Can I come in?"

"No."

Maybe you were being unfair, but you were really not in the mood to talk to him. You planned to let him know. "I have stuff to do. What do you want?"

The fact that you were able to get away with talking to John like that was due only to the fact that you had known each other since you were kids–that you'd been friends since you were kids. And now you were angry with him, and you were done with always letting him have his way.

John stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Just wanted to see if you were okay, I guess."

You scoffed, managed to cover it up with a cough. So he had just wanted to see if you were okay. In that case, every second he spent in front of you was a second wasted, and his very presence was aggravating you more than you cared to admit. "I'm fine, thank you very much. I don't need you checking up on me like I'm on my fucking death bed or something."

You pulled the door to your house shut behind you and turned the key. You didn't know where you wanted to go. Maybe you'd stop by Rosetta's, two blocks away. If you were lucky, Rosetta herself would be there and she'd pour you a glass of whiskey and tut when you downed it in one go.

"Y/N–"

You knew what he was going to say. What he was going to bring up. And frankly, you weren't ready for it yet. You didn't want to think about it, didn't want to face the truth of the situation. Because it would hurt even more than it already did, and you didn't need that right now. When you had calmed down a bit, you would go to him yourself and you'd say, It's fine. I understand. It's okay.

When really, of course, it wasn't.

"Not now, John. Please, just–not right now."

And you walked away, ignoring the fact that you hadn't brought a coat with you and the wind was biting at your skin and carding its icy fingers through your hair, and if it was going to rain tonight you were probably going to catch a cold. But it was okay. The freezing air shook you awake when you had been foggy a moment before, and you were glad for it.

You brought your shoulders up to your ears, squinting to protect your eyes from the wind as you made your way to Rosetta's. You weren't surprised–though you were disappointed–when your vision blurred with tears.

Walking into the warmth of Rosetta's cosy pub was like walking into heaven when you opened the door and let yourself in. Behind the bar stood the curvy form of Rosetta herself, and you smiled at her cooing when she spotted you. "Oh, love, do come in. It's been ages since I've seen your pretty face!"

Rosetta called everyone pretty. It was one of the many reasons you loved her. You walked up to the counter and pulled a stool towards you, climbing on it and rubbing your hands together to get some feeling back into them.

"What'll you be havin', sweetie?"

You looked up at her blearily. "Something that'll warm me up."

She raised a perfectly shaped brow. "Little early for that, ain't it?" But one look from you shut her up, and she drew a big long sigh as she poured you a glass.

The first sip brought some warmth into your chest. The second gave you back the feeling in your hands, and then you downed the drink and waited for the alcohol to take full effect and loosen you up.

"You're looking like shit," Rosie remarked subtly, and you glared as you toyed with the rim of the glass. She was right, though; you had barely slept last night and you were fairly sure your hair hadn't seen a brush in two days.

"I'm feeling like shit," you amended finally, plopping your elbows on the counter and resting your chin in your palms, watching Rosie bustle around and serve the few other customers who'd already installed themselves at a table or at the bar. There was a guy a few seats on your right who was stealing not-so-subtle glances at Rosie's cleavage and posterior as she twisted and turned, and you had half a mind to kick him off his chair. It was like watching someone hound after your mother, because Rosie had been more of a parent to you than either of yours had been.

"Poor you," she said, patting your cheek and turning around to serve some other man who was tapping his glass on the shiny wood countertop. You narrowed your eyes, the old protectiveness rising up again in the back of your throat.

It wasn't busy yet, so after Rosie had satisfied her small clientèle she turned back to you, refilled your glass and grabbed a pint of her own. "So. Tell me about what's got you in such a mood."

You swirled the drink around in your glass and said, "Nothing," which was untrue, of course, and Rosie swatted you on the back of your head to show that she wasn't impressed.

"I didn't practically raise you since your tenth birthday for you to lie to me like that," she sniffed, and you groaned.

"It's just–I'm really fucking stupid sometimes. And I do... I do stupid things a lot. And, you know. Then I wake up the next day and realise I've been really, really stupid again. And it makes me feel. Like. Shit." You tapped the counter with the bottom of your glass for emphasis.

Rosie sighed, gave your cheek a tap. "Oh, love. You never were great at sorting out your feelings, eh?"

You felt your neck and ears heat up, and your eyes widened. "I never–I didn't say–"

She threw her head back, brushing her long mane of curls over her shoulder. Her brown hair was streaked with grey, but on her it looked ethereal. No wonder nobody could ever keep their eyes off her. "You didn't say, but I know you, don't I?"

She did. She and her pub had been more of a home to you than your own had been, and you'd practically grown up hanging from her skirts. When you were eleven, she'd let you help out with washing the dishes sometimes, and not long after you'd met John, whom she also immediately took under her wing.

You had a closer bond with Rosie than John did, but she loved him just the same, letting him play with you between the tables. Rosetta's became a second home to you before you'd even left your old one.

She then plunked down her glass, and cocked her head, and gasped, and you jumped, thinking she'd seen a man get murdered through the window–at least. But she was looking at you, and said, "Is it John?" And her eyes were wide, and you scolded yourself internally, because Rosie would not have been fazed in the slightest if she'd seen a man get murdered in front of her pub.

You buried your face in your hands, which was close enough to a confession for her and she let out a "Ha!"

Then she got called away by some prick who wanted a refill, and as she grabbed a bottle he leaned forward and pinched her butt, and she immediately whipped around and loudly cussed him out before telling him to Get the fuck out of here and don't you have the balls to show your fucking face again. You really loved Rosie.

"Love," she said a minute later as if nothing had happened, "I want you to tell me what's happened right now."

You sighed, but you did. You told her about the inauguration of the new and improved Garrison, and how John had invited you–of course he had, you were his best friend–and how, after a couple of glasses and songs and teasing words mumbled from slightly-parted mouths he'd pulled you into a corner and kissed you.

It had been sloppy and heated and kind of a mess, to be honest, your hands wandering, wanting to feel every inch of the other's body and explore after years of built-up tension, and yet it had been the very best few moments of your entire worthless life, leaving you lightheaded and flushed a deep crimson.

Then, of course, he'd pulled away for air, and you'd laughed, chest filling for the first time in years–maybe ever–and he'd mumbled, "Wait here," and squeezed your hand before disappearing into the crowd.

And you had waited. You'd waited for what felt like hours, but he'd never returned.

So you'd left. Your clothes were only slightly dishevelled, after all, and when you were sure you could walk home without collapsing you packed your shit and pushed out of the pub. But that hadn't been the worst of it; of course it hadn't. For when you left, you saw John on the other side of the glass panel. Laughing. A drink in his hand, talking with Tommy and Arthur. He never looked at you once.

"I knew what I was getting into," you told Rosie, your arms now crossed on top of the counter and your shoulders drawn up to your ears. "I mean–John hooks up with seven girls a night. I just–I thought–"

"–that it'd be different? Because it's you?"

You looked at her, wondering how she always managed to gauge exactly how you felt and put it into words as perfectly as she did. She looked at you with her head slightly tilted and pity in her eyes, pity and understanding and compassion which left you even more embarrassed and wanting to sink into the ground.

"Stupid, right?" you said, maybe a little too loudly, and you knocked back what was left of your drink. "So stupid."

Rosie took your glass from your limp fingers and put it in the sink. A smart move, you pondered as you plopped your chin back onto the palms of your hands; you didn't know if you could have stopped yourself from just drinking your sorrows away. "Not stupid. A little... careless, maybe. But you're young and you're supposed to be careless and not give a fuck about anything." She wiped her hands on her apron. "So no, I don't think you're stupid."

You rubbed a hand down your face, squeezing your eyes shut. "Rosie. What do I do?"

She was silent for a moment as she washed your glass and dried it, keeping her eyes on a spot over your shoulder. Her teeth nipped at her bottom lip. "John's a Shelby boy, Y/N," she said. "I don't know in how much he takes after his father when it comes to love–or his brothers. I don't know to what extent he can love, or if he just wants a good fuck before discarding you like an old sock." Though you'd expected them to a certain extent, the words still stung, and you tried to hide your wince. "But I do know you. And I know you love him, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not–" you didn't– "and I figure John loves you in his own way. Was a time when you were best mates."

Yeah.

With that, you found that you had enough of Rosie's wisdom for the day. Really, she hadn't given you much advice to what you should do–she had helped you see some things a little more clearly, and she'd leave you to decide how you wanted to handle things on your own. You loved her for it, though it could be infuriating.

She smiled and went back to her work. Some more men had walked in and were clamoring for her attention, and she sauntered over to them, hips swaying. How she managed to keep the lot of them in check when they were drunk, you had never quite grasped, though you knew she kept a gun strapped to her thigh for when things got a little too rowdy for her taste.

Then you stood up, straightened your shirt and slipped behind the bar. You felt around in a low drawer until you found an apron and tied it on, shrugging when Rosie shot you a questioning look. "I need to get my head on straight. A few nights' work would do me good."

She gave a sort of half-hearted headshake, and you rolled your eyes as you turned to your first customer.

"You're not Rosie," the man said, frowning as he tried to focus onto your face, his eyes hazy, and his breath smelling of alcohol.

You shrugged. You felt like you'd made a good choice; two weeks or so of working alongside Rosie could help you get your head on straight. "You can get served by me or you can get the fuck out of the pub, mate."

It wasn't your first night behind the bar.

Things went smoothly, considering you'd only had to deal with a couple more such comments–usually from already-drunk guys who were here probably for the sole reason to catch a glance at Rosetta herself–and there was only a single fistfight you had to break up. After a few days, people started to get used to you, and you started to notice the curious once-overs you were receiving from younger clientèle and older alike.

You smiled. You winked, you treated the customers to a slightly-more-unbuttoned shirt than was strictly appropriate, you responded to flirty comments with witty quips of your own. And it did help. It did distract you from John and everything that had happened that night, but only while you were behind the bar and you had to keep your head cool at all times. Once you got home, you would get hit by everything again in full force, and you would feel bitter and hurt once more.

So you started to work longer days, coming in at noon and getting home at two, three, four A.M. You barely had any time to do anything bar sleep and eat, when you felt like it. You didn't see any of your friends unless they stopped by Rosetta's by coincidence, and you'd have a brief chat, but then you'd get called away by other customers and they would be gone when you got back.

It didn't bother you. Not really. You had Rosie, and the occasional late-night make-out session with whoever had grabbed your attention that night. It never went much further than that, though–and you didn't want it to.

The first Blinders showed up three weeks after you started working there again.

Isiah Jesus and Finn Shelby waltzed into Rosetta's like they owned the place, and Rosie grabbed their attention immediately as she cooed and pinched their cheeks, and they didn't look away from her for a solid minute before they even noticed there was someone else behind the bar. That someone else being you.

"Y/N! Hey," said Finn, looking only mildly surprised to see you here. Isiah and he took their seats at the bar, leaning their elbows on the shiny surface. Isiah was a little red in the face, and you suspected it was not entirely unrelated to the fact that Rosie had just spent a minute fawning over them in all her curvy glory.

You nodded at Finn and slid him and Isiah glasses with their drinks of choice. It wasn't the first time you'd been behind the bar for them, and though that had been a while ago, the Peaky Blinders weren't very keen on variety when it came to drink. They mostly wanted to get drunk as quick as possible and would ask for the drink that had the highest alcohol content. This time was no different, and if it was, they didn't mention it.

"Haven't seen you around in a right while," said Finn after a swig. He sat back in his seat and stretched, cracking the joints in his arms and neck. "You should pop by one of these days. John's been a real pain in the arse last few weeks."

You stiffened, if only slightly. You told yourself it was only because you had tried your best not to think of him since the night you took up working at Rosetta's again, and that hearing Finn talk about him so casually was just a small slap in the face.

"I'm not his fucking nanny, am I?" you muttered, wiping your hands on your apron and leaning your hips against the bartop. "He'll get over it."

"He's been asking about you, you know," Isiah piped up from behind his own glass, grin forming on his lips.

You glared at him and folded your arms over your chest. "I've been here. At the place I basically grew up in. John and I spent our fucking childhood running around in this very pub, so if he didn't think of looking here for me he must not be that keen on finding me." You yanked out a fresh cloth and turned to the sink to dry any glasses that maybe sat there. There weren't, but you snatched one off a shelf anyway and began to polish it, just to give your hands something to do.

That was that about that. Isiah raised a brow and leaned over, mumbled something for Finn to hear while not being subtle at all about it, and you narrowed your eyes at him, pursing your lips and whirling around to further emphasize your unwillingness to talk about it.

"Ay. Y/N. Y/N."

You sighed, deeply and dramatically, but turned with the most unimpressed look on your face you could possibly manage. "What, dear?"

"Did John tell you about the event at the Garrison next month?"

"I haven't seen John in weeks, Isiah."

"Well, Tommy's throwing this huge party. There's gonna be musicians and shit. Violins and flutes and fucking trumpets and fuck-if-I-know what else."

You waited for the rest, and when it didn't come, you said, "So what?"

"You should come, is what! John's always going on about your piano skills. Real fucking annoying, I'll tell you that; I never took him for a sentimental."

John and sentimental. There's two words that don't belong in the same sentence. You almost laughed. Shaking your head, you said, "I haven't touched my piano in years. I don't even know if I can still play." But you subconsciously flexed your fingers, and started tapping a rhythm on your thigh.

It had been a while since you'd played–but you guessed you could never really unlearn it. You were out of practice, sure, but for the first time in a while you missed it.

The thing was that playing reminded you of John.

You'd tried to shut him out by banning everything that had the slightest connection to him. Playing the piano was one of those things, but you now thought you may have been a little hasty in cutting it out of your life. After all, you had been playing long before you'd even met John.

"I don't think I'll be able to make it," you said half-apologetically.

Finn blew a raspberry. You side-eyed him, figuring this probably wasn't his first drink of the afternoon. "That's such horseshit. Why not?"

You folded your arms. "I'm busy. With work. Here."

"And Rosetta can't give you a single night off?"

You cast a look at Rosie, who hadn't heard the conversation but picked up her name and spun around. "Hm?"

"There's a party at the Garrison next month. Y/N says you won't let them go," said Finn.

You widened your eyes slightly at her, hoping with your entire soul she'd understand the message you were trying to communicate to her through your gaze. She gave a slight frown, but her eyes grew understanding when she saw the look on your face.

"It's busy as all fuck on Saturdays, you know. Just because you've never had work a day in your miserable little life doesn't mean you can just pull other people from theirs," she said sharply, and internally you breathed a little sigh of relief.

Isiah and Finn started protesting–the both of them struggling to find their words, because they had quite a lot of alcohol in their system at that point, and Rosie was glaring at them with an intensity in her eye that would have any other man weak in the knees. You smiled and shook your head, shuffling backwards into the shadows and getting back to work.

Isiah and Finn left after a while, and you sighed in relief as you watched them go. Then Rosie smacked you upside the head and you yelped. "The fuck's that for?"

"For me having to save your ass back there. You can't run from this forever, you shit."

You frowned and rubbed the spot where her palm had connected with your skull. "Sure I can."

Rosie gave a sharp exhale and leaned over to grab a bottle of whiskey. "I mean, of course you can. If you give it little enough thought. I don't know if that's what you want, though."

"Who cares about what I want? Last time I gave into what I wanted, I was ditched in the middle of a party," you hissed. "It's not worth it. It's not worth the trouble."

It wasn't. It absolutely wasn't, and you scrubbed a dirty tumbler with vigor and trembling fingers until it shone like a freshly-polished crystal. "I won't go," you added.

"I know you won't. You don't have to. But maybe go talk to him," she said.

You gave a bitter smile and studied your reflection in the now-clean glass as you dried it. "John's a Shelby boy, Rosie." You plopped the glass on its shelf. "Shelby boys don't do talking."

You woke up at eight A.M. and, yawning, made your way to your kitchen.

Rubbing your eyes and temples, you filled a glass with water and drank it, then you filled it again and drank that too. You had come home at three last night. Five hours of sleep had you feeling woozy and a little unsteady on your feet, and the sleep you did get had been riddled with nightmares and restlessness. Because you knew you weren't going to get any more rest, you figured you might as well stay awake.

You sat at your kitchen table and sipped at your water, looking out of the window and thinking of nothing. Nothing. Not even John plagued your tired mind right now, and as you stretched your eye was drawn to the slightly-ajar door that led to your living room. Through the opening, you only just barely made out a strip of dusty brown wood.

It was your piano, your old piano that you'd learned yourself to play on when you were just a kid and needed the distraction. It started like that–a distraction. The music meant you wouldn't have to listen to the shouting in the kitchen. It became the only reason you would even play at all–to distract yourself, to forget about all the horrible things happening around you and just be.

Never had you felt a particular connection to the thing or the music it made. It was a tool, something you used to escape. It got to the point where you couldn't even look at it without cringing back; where you couldn't even bear to think about the feeling of the keys beneath your fingers until the shouts would start up again and they would start to itch.

You'd told John about this when he finally asked why you had a piano in your house if no one ever played it. He'd frowned and sat down in front of it and pressed down on a key, then two, then three, then plunking keys left and right and grinning like an idiot. He'd looked up at you and you'd rolled your eyes and said, Not like that, you moron, and you'd shoved him off the stool and placed your own fingers upon the keys.

The tune you played was simple but melodic. A little melancholy and sad, perhaps. John had stood and watched and listened and, when you dropped your hands to your lap and looked away because the melody had jarred unpleasant memories–though your parents had been gone for over a year (your father died of pneumonia, and your mother, unable to handle the loss, left Small Heath for a cottage in the hills) and you didn't miss them–he'd clapped. Then he'd said he felt like getting a drink and you'd rolled your eyes and scolded him, calling him all sorts of names, the bad memories buried once more.

You now made your way over to the piano and studied the dust it'd gathered over the years you hadn't touched it. Ran your finger over its surface and swept up a fine layer of dust. Then you lifted the fall board and looked at the keys, still pristine and ivory white despite their age. You pressed a single key.

The note rang out and you winced at how out of tune it was. It made sense, since the last tuning had been somewhere around two or three years ago. You opened up the case and peered down. Maybe you could get it tuned before going to work at twelve. You had some time.

Suddenly wide awake, you freshened up and quickly wolfed down a sandwich, after which you returned to the piano and set your hands on your hips. From somewhere up in the attic you'd unearthed your tuning kit and, after a quick refresher course from the handbook included in it, you went to work.

It was a slow process–even slower since you hadn't done it in years. But after a handful of strings the tuning came easier and you were pleased to note that your hearing was sharp as ever and recognised when the note was right. After about three hours, the piano was completely tuned again and you sat back, admiring your work. Of course, the piano didn't look much different from the outside, save for the fact that you'd dusted it and it now gleamed in the sunlight. You were covered in filth, but the satisfaction settled deep in your chest and you rubbed a spot of grime on your wrist. You were out of time to play–you had to take a shower and get to work–but the very act of cleaning and tuning the old thing had you feeling a bit better. Like you were finally starting to take control of things.

Over the weeks, you'd gotten used to the comments thrown at you over the bar. You told yourself it was the alcohol speaking; not the people themselves, though you knew some assholes who had tried to get into your pants even outside of business hours. You had learned to brush off the words, pay no mind to them and just serve men the drinks they asked for.

Rosie, sometimes, would stare a particularly disruptive guy down until he either relented and made off like a dog with its tail between its legs, or got up, riled up and ready to fight, and would be decked in the jaw by some other poor drunkard before he could make a single move. Rosie had the favour of the people, and she never hesitated to use it to her advantage.

Tonight was different.

You had been tense and jittery all morning–which was probably also due to the amount of coffee you'd drunk to stay awake–and you knew you would not be able to handle much derogatory comments tonight, whether they were directed at you or Rosie. You told her so, wringing your hands and averting your gaze.

Rosie tutted and lifted your chin with her index finger. "Now what's going on with you today, eh?"

You pulled away from her grip. "Nothing. I'm just–I don't know. Not feeling well. I don't trust myself to not commit murder if I have to hear one more remark about my ass–or yours, for that matter."

"So you're gonna leave?"

"No, I was thinking maybe I could switch places with Joe for a night?"

Joe was one of the boys who worked round the back of the pub. He was nice enough, and though he hadn't worked behind the bar yet you could show him around and help him out for the afternoon, until the busy hours started to strike.

"It'll just be for a single night, Rosie," you pleaded when she didn't look convinced. "I'll quickly teach him how to work the bar and he'll be fine."

"All right," she conceded. "One night."

That evening, you spent your time in the back room, stacking crates of bottles and glasses and, for some reason, a single crate of limes. There wasn't much for you to do, but every once in a while Joe would call for you to bring him a fresh bottle of some drink or another, and you would do it before sitting back down again.

It got a little boring after a while, but it was nice to leave the busy pub for once and quietly sit in the back room, leaning against the wall with your eyes closed. It was hard not to doze off, especially since you were already exhausted.

Then there was a bang against the back door, and you started. You got up from your chair and crept towards the door, scanning the room for something to use as a weapon. You guessed you could always smash a bottle over the intruder's head, but then your eyes landed on a metal rod that stood half-hidden in a corner. You gripped it, then flattened yourself against the wall next to the door and waited.

Another bang, louder this time. More impatient. Part of you wanted to yell, "Occupied!" just to see if that would do anything, but you bit your tongue. With a single finger you unhooked the latch keeping the door locked and said, "Come in!"

The door opened and you raised your metal rod and the intruder saw you, then screamed and jumped back. Their scream startled you, and you stiffened, then lowered your rod onto the ground with a clang and scoffed.

It was a kid. A kid, probably not much older than thirteen, and he was staring up at you with big, wide eyes set in a face that was stark white beneath streaks of grime. His eyes darted around the room, and then finally settled on you and he asked in a high-pitched voice, "Where's Joe?"

You folded your arms. You were aware that the rusty metal rod at your side didn't help to make you look any less threatening, but at the moment you didn't care and felt nothing but slightly irritated. "Joe's not here. I am, though. What d'you want?"

The kid looked slightly panicked, now. "Is Joe here?"

You tilted your head. "I'm here. You can say whatever you gotta say to me. Why were you lurking at our back door at ten in the evening, eh? Don't you have a curfew?"

The boy wrung his hands and cast his eyes to the floor. "Can you go get Joe, please?"

Your eyebrow shot up. "Oh, please, is it? What is it you need Joe for? Hey, kid," you hissed, grabbing onto his arm and forcing him to look at you. "I could have you thrown out any second. I'm giving you the chance to tell me what's going on–"

"Y/N, Y/N, it's fine, it's okay, don't hurt him," comes Joe's hurried voice from behind you.

You whip around. "You're supposed to be working!"

"A little hard to do when all I hear's a fucking blood-curdling scream coming from the back room, Y/N."

You scowled. He had you there. "You know this kid?"

Joe nods, tiredly. "He's my brother. What's going on?" That last question was directed at the kid, and you let him go. He scuttled over to Joe and started speaking to him in hushed tones and you went out into the pub, partly to give them some privacy and partly to see how Rosie was doing.

When she saw you, she raised her eyebrows. "You look horrible."

You felt pretty horrible. Not only had you just almost crushed a kid's skull with an improvised metal baseball bat, but you'd been short-tempered and curt with him even after he no longer posed a threat. In fact, you'd been short-tempered all day, and you suspected it was mostly because of your lack of sleep.

In a small voice you asked, "Can I go home?"

She nodded, and you smiled in thanks and told her to say sorry to Joe and his brother from you. She assured you she would, then shooed you out of the pub and demanded you get some rest.

When you got home, you didn't even bother taking off your clothes as you crashed onto your bed and closed your eyes.

The tune your fingers sought out as if on instinct was quite the same as the one you'd played for John, all those years ago. One of the first pieces you'd ever taught yourself. There was never any sheet music in the house except for your grandmother's old books, and you couldn't afford a teacher, so progress was slow–but after a few years you got the hang of it and started to make up your own pieces. This melody was one of them.

You were surprised at how fast you seemed to pick up the songs after not having played them for years. You spent a few hours just tapping away at the keys, and for the first time you felt something as you played.

Not the dread or the bitterness that usually came with the perusing of the keys. Not the anger that would well up and make you punch down harder than intended, and not even the sadness that would take you over every time you were woken up from screams in the night, and you'd know you wouldn't be able to go back to sleep unless you played.

Now you felt something like happiness. Something like contentment as you pressed down on key after key and listened to the notes ring out, untainted by the bitter screams of anger. It was nice. It made you feel light. The last note pinged, hung in the air for a moment after you'd let go of the key. You stayed put on the stool, basking in the feeling for a little longer.

That's how you spent the following weeks. Go to work, go to sleep, wake up, play the piano and go back to work. You started to feel better and better every time you played, because you were getting better with the hours of practice. And you were changing.

You were hearing music everywhere now. In the clip clopping of horses carrying their riders around Small Heath; in the shouting and giggling of children playing in the streets; in the whistling of the wind weaving itself between the buildings; in the bell that rang when you opened the door to Rosetta's pub. And it felt good. It felt good to pick up on melodies you'd never paid attention to before, being able to appreciate the music of life as it bubbled and sizzled all around you.

You hadn't felt this good in a long time.

The only thing that still bothered you–that you just weren't able to get out of your head–was, of course, John Shelby. Because the more you thought about it, the more pissed off you grew.

Sure, he was a Shelby. Sure, Shelbys were basically guaranteed VIP spots in Hell. But you had been his best friend for years. It didn't make sense. And if he had faked it–if everything had been a joke on you, after all–then he should have been able to come talk to you. He would have brushed it off and acted as if nothing had happened.

But he was avoiding you. He was purposefully avoiding you, you were sure of it. You had seen Isiah and Finn a couple more times since they'd invited you to the Garrison concert, you had come across Arthur and Michael twice. You'd even seen Tommy, and had a brief chat with him outside his office. Ada regularly had a drink a Rosetta's, for she was just as fond of the woman as you were. Practically the only Shelby you hadn't heard of in months was John.

The concert was in two days. And though you'd already said you wouldn't go–you'd said you wouldn't go so you wouldn't go–you felt you were itching to attend, if just to see John and be done with this entire situation once and for all. Because you knew he would be there, and he wouldn't expect you to come. Nothing was holding you back from going–except your own stubbornness and mixed feelings.

Because you wanted to get rid of the confusion permanently riddling your mind. You wanted an explanation for the way he'd acted–for the way he was acting–because it was so unlike him and weird.

But you also were reluctant to face him, for the exact same reasons. The doubt was settling in, seeping through the cracks in your composure and burrowing deep into your bones; Did you ever really know him, after all? The thought–the mere idea that the last fifteen years of your life were nothing but a lie, spent with someone who never cared for you at all–made you sick, and had you draw back at the last second.

You were feeling good. Why couldn't you just let this go and feel good?

But you knew that you wouldn't ever be truly free of the thoughts and the doubts if you didn't take this chance to see him. So, really, no matter what you said, the choice of whether or not you'd go was already made.

Everyone was dressed so classy–the men in shiny three-piece suits and ties and shoes polished until they glittered like mirrors, and the women in beautiful shimmering dresses in all sorts of colours, their hair done up and decorated with headdresses matching their skirts. You felt a little underdressed in your plain dark blue outfit. Your shoes you'd borrowed from your friend, and you had done nothing to your hair but brush it. You guessed people would take you for a waiter, charged to log around balancing trays with flutes of champagne in your palm. You wouldn't blame them.

In the middle of the Garrison was a podium. It wasn't that big, but there were still around a dozen chairs arranged in a half-circle formation sat on it–and something that grabbed your attention right of the bat: a glossy black grand piano. In one corner you spotted a small gathering of men and women in black and white, surrounded by instrument cases. You went out on a limb and assumed they were the orchestra supposed to perform later that evening.

You tried not to look like you were searching for someone. You tried not to search for that particular someone, but involuntarily your eyes were drawn to scan the faces meddling in the crowd around you. Some of the people, you recognised. Most, you didn't. Some of them cast you estranged looks, eyes swiftly taking in your rather simple clothes and stiff movement as you waded through the crowd much in the same way a penguin would wade through a herd of walrus; not quite sure if they'll make it through unscathed.

Then you spotted two familiar figures and you gave a little sigh of relief.

When Isiah spotted you, he spread his arms wide–spilling a little champagne over the rim of his glass as he did so–and hooted. You cringed at the sheer volume of his shout, eyes darting around, sure everyone would turn and stare, but apparently this was normal, as only two or three people glanced around and then went back to their own conversations. You folded your arms across your chest and walked up to him, nodding at Finn who, as always, stood next to him.

"So you changed your mind, eh?" said Isiah when you were in non-shouting earshot.

You nodded.

"Was it my irresistible charm that did it?" Finn chimed in, hooking an arm around Isiah's neck.

You shot him a slightly disgusted look. "How are you already drunk? The party hasn't even properly started!"

"Don't mind him," said Isiah, trying to pry Finn's arm off of him. "They're not here for us, you twat," he yelled in Finn's ear. You felt your cheeks colour.

Then Tommy stepped onto the little podium and said loudly, "Ladies and gentlemen..." His speech was not unlike the others you'd heard from him; Thank you so much for coming and I am so glad to be surrounded by such wonderful people and Donate to my company, but he pronounced the words eloquently and raised a round of applause when he finished. You clapped along, out of politeness mostly, when you finally spotted him, half-hidden behind his brother.

You weren't gonna lie: John looked good, and it was more of a shock to see him than you'd originally anticipated. All of your breath left you in one fell swoop, and for a moment nothing existed but you and him–but that lasted only a split second, and his attention was fixated on Tommy. He didn't know you were even here, and your simple, dark clothes enabled you to melt into the shadows. You could not have been more inconspicuous if you tried.

You allowed yourself only a moment of looking at him. Just the time to catch your breath. Just the time to get over the initial shock, the time to regain your footing and make sure your knees wouldn't buckle beneath you.

You drew a breath, focused back on Tommy. He was saying something. He was saying that everyone should please gain their seats and prepare for the performance to begin. You tried to shuffle your way through the crowd to get closer to John, hoping to talk to him before the concert, but the crowd is too thick and everyone was sitting down and if you didn't sit down right this instant he would see you. So you reluctantly dropped into a seat in the back. If you looked straight ahead, over the shoulders of the people sitting in front of you, and tilted your head just like so you could see him, sitting in the front row in between Tommy and Finn.

The small orchestra started to play, and it was dead silent. Everyone was entranced by the melody, the harmonies, the way the instruments perfectly complemented one another; and you swayed with the music, despite yourself. You recognised the piece, although you wouldn't be able to name it, and you quietly hummed along.

Then came the piano solo. You listened, and from your seat you could see the pianist's hands move across the keys, so swiftly, so effortlessly, like he was born to play. You were sitting on the edge of your seat, holding your breath; as if the very act of breathing would spoil the music drifting through the air.

The melody was building up, and the tension in the room rose with the notes and the volume as it slipped into a crescendo; then the music slowed and got quieter, and soon after the violins pitched in, and then the violas and the bass and the brass and the percussion, and the whole orchestra was playing in harmony again.

You sighed quietly, sat back in your seat. There was a prickling feeling on your cheeks, the feeling you got when something wasn't quite right–someone was watching you.

Sure enough, when your eyes searched the audience, John Shelby was looking straight at you.

Your breath caught, and you fought the urge to cast your eyes down. He was looking at you with an indiscernible expression, face void of emotion. Though his jaw was set and his expression was kept carefully neutral, it were the eyes that ruined it. Even from this distance you could see the intensity in his gaze–you didn't know whether it was good intensity or bad intensity but there was a fight in his eyes, all kinds of emotions struggling to take over.

But you couldn't let down your gaze. You couldn't–you had to let him know why you were here. That you weren't going to leave without an explanation. That he owed you that explanation.

And you couldn't go to him. Not yet, anyway; the music wasn't over yet, the performance was still going, the room was so quiet one could have heard a pin drop. So you sat, hands folded in your lap, eyes trained on the musicians while simultaneously being aware of John's gaze on you, and patiently waited for the performance to end. You found you couldn't quite enjoy the music anymore as carelessly as you had before.

And then it was over. It was over and everyone rose, gave a standing ovation. The applause was a kind of music in itself, you supposed; a whipping music, staccato, rapid, matching the speed at which you imagined your heart would beat when standing at the edge of a one hundred foot drop.

John clapped for only a moment, then cast you a last look and drew back into the crowd. You did the same, bowing your head and mumbling apologies as you made your way past the people next to you–you sat in the very last row, but the room was full and sometimes you had to squeeze to fit between the wall and the backside of a well-dressed man or an even better-dressed woman. You frantically sought John out, fearing for a second that you'd lost him; but there he was, at the door, only pushing it open when he saw you following him.

The cold outside air was like a slap in the face compared to the hot and stuffy Garrison. You instantly regretted not taking your coat, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing your hands up and down your sleeves. John stood a little bit off, his hands in his pockets, that stupid and eternal toothpick between his lips. He looked up when you approached, then looked down again.

It was that–along with the freezing evening air which made it almost impossible to think of anything else but the cold burrowing itself into the very marrow of your bones–that snapped you out of your stupor and cleared your head at once. You were over the initial shock. There was no reason now for you to let your mind wander to places it shouldn't. What you needed was an explanation, perhaps, if you were lucky, an apology. And then you would go home. You would go home.

"Weather's bloody awful, ain't it?" you finally started, because John wasn't making any indication that he would say–well–anything.

He sniffed, rubbed at a spot on the pavement. Nodded. Still said nothing.

And you were starting to grow irritated. Because he was the one that had been so horrified to see you there, though his own brother had invited you to the damn event, and he was the reason why you were there in the first place, and why you were now standing outside and it was starting to fucking rain. "Are you going to say anything?" you blurted. "Because if not, I'll go back inside. To get my coat, I mean, and then I'm going home."

He looked up now, up and into your eyes, and still said nothing.

You ran a hand through your hair, scoffing in disbelief. "Oh my fucking god. Why did you bring me out here if it's just to stare at me with that fucking look in your eye? Am I not worth talking to?"

Anger flashed in his eyes at that. "That's not it. You know it's not."

"Well, apparently I don't–"

"I didn't force you to follow me here!"

"You wanted me to, though!"

"Maybe I just wanted a fucking smoke, Y/N!"

You pursed your lips, clenched your jaw. "Then say it. Fucking tell me you didn't want me to come to you."

Of course, he said nothing. His lip twitched.

You gave a bitter laugh. "Right. Okay. I get it. Johnny Shelby, too proud to admit he's made a mistake." You took a step back. "I cried for you. I cried–I cried over you."

"Y/N–"

It felt horrible. It felt like someone had taken a rusty nail to your heart and carved his initials there, forever to stay and forever to hurt. Tears started to form in your eyes. You blinked them away, angrily, telling yourself it wasn't worth it. He wasn't worth it.

You had cried enough.

"Wait. Y/N. Please."

Please.

You guessed you had a weak heart, after all.

"I'm sorry."

A weak heart and a weak soul, but weak only for him.

"What for?" The anger had evaporated from your voice and your expression, and now you were just... sad. Bitter, a little. Mostly disappointed, in yourself.

"I left. Because... I don't know why. Easier, I guess." He met your eyes. He was speaking the truth, and it was hard for him. Maybe because he wasn't used to speaking the truth, maybe because he wasn't used to speaking the truth about this. "I don't know how–I don't–"

You waited, no longer apprehensive. Hopeful, maybe.

Weak for him.

"Denying it was easier because I didn't think I was meant to feel like this. Because you were my friend–are my friend," he adds quickly, and you choke out a giggle. "But, you know. I thought it would go away, after a while. If I just tried hard enough."

It sounded so much like what you had felt, these past few months. What you were still feeling–what was only just starting to unravel.

"And, well, it didn't work. Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn't be here." His hand came up, and his fingers brushed your jaw. He leaned forward. "And neither would you."

Weak for him.

Your lips touched and immediately you burned.

You burned, and you let yourself burn, winding your arms around his neck, pressing harder against his mouth. You burned, and the cold of the night did not bother you anymore. You burned, and back inside the Garrison the orchestra started playing again–the party had started, for good–and it was like they were playing just for you.  

[cchellacat]

Dancing In The Dark

Love All The Marvel Ships Challenge 

Day Sixteen ~ Dancing

Darcy had been thrown into the past six months ago.  When she had landed here, bruised, bloodied and shaken she had panicked.  She had no ID, no one she could turn to for help and no way home.

Jane had been working on her Bifrost inspired bridge when the explosion occurred.  One-minute Darcy had been throwing herself into Jane's path and pushing her out of the way, and the next she had been engulfed in this wave that had felt as though she were being put through a blender than put back together again.  When she had woken it had been in an abandoned building in London at the height of the Blitz.

According to a newspaper she had procured the date was July 1943.  She had wandered into a hospital shortly after, claiming amnesia.  It hadn’t been a difficult sell, she had after all been dropped from a height when the shock wave that had picked her up during the explosion dumped her here in this time.

After being passed from one person to another and talking to numerous people from different agencies and departments they had cleared Darcy as being stable and sane and well enough to look after herself, even with memory loss.

Being a single woman in this era wasn’t easy, worse still she had no one to help, no friends or money.  She had done the only thing she could and joined the WAC.

They had quickly noted her aptitude for nursing.  Not surprising considering all the mandatory and voluntary courses she had attended as Jane’s sole support staff.  One of them had to know how to deal with potentially life-threatening injuries and, since so often they worked with dangerous machines and sometimes all alone out in the middle of no where, it had made sense for Darcy to pick up a few courses, or ten.

By this point she had become a qualified medic.  It was good being able to use the skills in the here and now of the past.

After the difficult and harrowing six months she had almost become used to her new normal.  A small part of her however still craved home.  She stubbornly tried to stay out of known events or interacting with anyone she had ever read about or heard about, not wanting to take the chance of changing the past.  Who knew what damage she could do without knowing.  So far it had been easy, she was just a lowly nurse, no one special or likely to make waves.

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It was New Year and some of the other girls had convinced Darcy to come out for a drink with them to celebrate the New Year.  Reluctantly, she had agreed.

So here she was sitting in a dimly lit pub, crowded with people, listening as a small piano and a band played at the back of the room.

The bartender had just set down her drink when she saw him.  Darcy had to stifle the urge to call out his name at the sight of him.  Steve Rogers stool tall and broad just a few feet away, leaning against the bar, his back to her.  She would know him anywhere though.  His silhouette was unmistakable.

Before being thrown back here she and Jane had been working with Stark. They had been given lab space at the compound , which is where Jane was building her own Bifrost.

Darcy’s urge to mother hen anything looking remotely in need had kicked in for most of the Avengers and she had tucked Steve and Bruce and Tony firmly under her wing.  She cooked for them, helped in the labs, made sure they went to bed and worked with Steve on navigating modern culture, social media and the internet.  He had been quickly becoming one of her best friends.

The sharp stab of homesickness buried itself in her gut, she wanted to go home so badly, she missed them all so much.  She had to get out of here.  She paid for her drink, knocked it back and made her excuses to the girls before winding her way through the throng to get out the door.

Just as the door came in sight a man reached out for her.

 “Where are you off to Doll, the good music’s just started?”

Darcy freezes in shock at the words.  She had been waiting her whole life to hear those words.  Waiting patiently, knowing that one day her soulmate would say them to her.  This could not be happening. 

He’s looking at her, waiting for something, but for the first time in her life she can’t speak a word.  He’s so damn pretty too.  Tall, with broad shoulders and the most beautiful eyes, wide and blue and full of mischief.  God, she bet he was a heart breaker.  He turned up the charm and smiled at her as she allowed him to brush his hand down her arm to take her hand in his.

“What do you say sweetheart?  Dance with me before you go?”

The smile he gave her was one part sweet and two parts trouble, but she couldn’t help the tiny sound of amusement that left her mouth or the way her lips curved into a grin of accent.

His smile widened at her acquiesce and he tugged her back towards the dance floor, just as the band began a new song.

He drew her into his arms and she went willingly.  There was no place she would rather be.  Was this why she’d been sent back?  To meet this man who would change her life?  What did it mean for her?  Would she never return home, would she live out her life here with her soulmate?

He held her gently, as if he was afraid to scare her off, there was a respectful distance between their bodies as they danced, but as the music changed, she let herself drift closer until she was pressed up against his strong chest.  She felt safe there, in his arms, his hand placed just a hair too low on her back than was strictly appropriate for the time. 

The song was a sad one, about losing the one you loved, of the hope of meeting them again one day.  She should have figured from that omen right there that this new shiny hope she’d just been presented with was doomed.  But she didn’t know that yet, so she snuggled into his chest, laying her head against his heart and sighed as he rested his cheek in her hair.  For the first time in six months the weight of worry had lifted, all she wanted was to bask in it forever.

Her eyes had closed as she let him lead her through the steps, what there was of them, and so she didn’t see Steve approaching with a sharp eyed Peggy Carter at his side just as the music came to an end.

“Bucky, we’re going to head back to the base.  Are you coming?”

Darcy stepped back from her partners arms at Steve’s voice so close and felt her mouth go dry.

“Hey pal, sure.  Just let me grab my coat.  Doll, you’ll let us walk you back home first, alright?”   

He looked down at her hopefully and she nodded out of panic.  The slowly dawning horror of the situation she finds herself in breaking through.  Bucky.

Her soulmate was Bucky Barnes.  Steve’s best friend.  The one he spoke of to her so often.  The same friend that dies tragically just over a year from now.  She feels the grief clawing at her throat.  All she wants is to find a quiet place to scream and cry at the unfairness of it all.

Then it dawns on her that she’s left standing there with Steve and Peggy Carter.

“I’m sorry ma’am, Bucky has no manners, I’m Steve and this is Peggy.”

On auto pilot Darcy shakes their hands.

“I’m Darcy, it’s lovely to meet you.”

She looks through the crowd where Bucky had gone and comes to a decision.   Perhaps if it had been anyone else, even knowing they were going to die, she would have stayed by them, been with them right to the end.  But there is so much riding on these people.  People who make decisions, life and death decisions every day that shape how the war turns out.   Steve had never mentioned Bucky having a soulmate and to the best of her knowledge he had died, his words still the deep black of those unclaimed.  She can’t be here, can’t love him, can’t have the very thing she wants most, even more than going home to Jane and the others.

Darcy steps back.

“I’m sorry.”  She says to Steve.  “Tell him I’m sorry, but I can’t….  I just….  I am so sorry.  I have to go.”

She turns and pushed through the crowd and manages to make it outside, running as quickly as her feet will take her, till she’d back in her dormitory at the hospital.  She strips shakily and climbs underneath the covers and cries.  She cries till there is nothing left except dry sobs that feel as though her body might break apart from the pain of them.

A week later a portal opens in front of her and she’s suddenly back in the future.  Jane waiting to hug her, apologising over and over about how long it took to get her back.

It’s turns out it’s been fourteen months since she was thrown back in time.  Darcy had a lot of catching up to do.  She throws herself into getting up to date through social media and checks in on the situation with Shield.  That had been a shock, finding out that they had been infiltrated by Hydra, the whole organisation falling apart and Captain America’s role in it….  Darcy felt as though she was still playing catch up.

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

Steve is gone for six months after Darcy returns, no one knowing quite what he’s up to, only that he’s looking for something.  So Darcy settles back into her life, helping Jane and Tony and Bruce, working through the deep sadness that assaults her from one day to the next.

When Steve calls in to say he’s coming home, Darcy gets his suite ready for him and two guest suites for the friends he’s bringing.  One of her favourite coping mechanisms is baking.  With Steve returning, the memory of Bucky rears up freshly in her mind.  So she bakes.  Apple pie, Blackberry crumble, Raspberry and Pear strudel.  Muffins of every variety and enough cookies to fill three jars.  She’d just pulled the last pie from the oven when she hears Steve’s voice as he enters the room.

“The kitchen’s through here, every one’s welcome to use it, but you’ll usually find…  Darcy?”

Darcy grins at the shock on Steve’s face.

“I’m back!”  She throws up some jazz hands and laughs at his expression.  He bounds over like the over eager puppy that he is and she shrieks when he picks her up and hugs her.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”  He demands.

“Hey, I tried to get a hold of you but you were the one not returning or accepting calls Cap.”

“Well, I’m really glad you’re home Darcy.  There’s someone I really want you to meet.”

She turns as he smiles over her shoulder, smiling in welcome to whoever he has brought and feels the world fall out from under her.

For months she had dreamt of him, of his face, of his smile, of eyes bluer and deeper than the sea.  She had thought that she would never look on him again.  That that one night when she had danced in his arms and for a brief moment believed she might have found something wonderful, something forever, that it was the only time she would ever have with him again.

Now she stands in the future, her future and he is there.  Real and alive and so very, very present.  She can’t feel her fingers or her toes, then her vision starts to frey at the edges.   Everything narrows to one point, his eyes, looking into hers.  The last thing she registers is the expression in them turning from shock at seeing her to fright.

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Steve tracking him down had probably been inevitable, he’d just crossed into Romania when Steve and Sam caught up with him.  He’d been ready to bolt when Steve had called out to him, it had just been a name.  One he’d never even had from the lips of the dame it belonged to.  But it had been enough to stop him in his tracks.  It had been enough for him to listen to them.

There were still too many gaps in his memory, whole years gone that he would probably never get back but he remembered meeting her.

New Year 1944, he’d been a hole in the wall pub, in London.   It had been a good night, the music had been playing and he’d danced with plenty of pretty gals.  Then he’d seen her, sitting at the bar, knocking back a drink before hopping down off a stool, leaving in  a hurry. 

She had been wearing a dark blue dress, nothing flashy, but she had moved with purpose, her hips swaying, shoulders back, her dark hair held back from her face with pearl clips, her lips painted crimson.   She’d looked lost for someone so set on going somewhere, and he’d been unable to resist stopping her, asking her to dance.

At first, he’d thought she would refuse but she hadn’t.  She had stood rooted to the spot, looking at him like she couldn’t believe he existed.  Looked at him like he mattered.  There had been a pull within him to charm her, hold her close, get to know who she was. 

They had danced slowly through two songs and by the end of it he had known that nothing and no one, would ever feel as right and good in his arms as she did.  He’d only left for a minute to get his coat.  When he came back, she was gone. 

He had looked for her, but he’d never seen her again.  He and Steve had manged to track her down to St Bart’s Hospital, where she worked, about two weeks later.  One of the other nurses had told them she’d went missing just a few days before.

She had never spoke to him.   Steve had told him what she’d said before she left that night and he had known then.  Known why she had left so quickly.  She was running from him because she knew what he was to her.  At first he’d been angry about it, but the longer he thought it over the more he came to see why she had done it.  She had been afraid to speak because if she had, it would have been real.  She would have said his words and then she would have lost him.  Turns out she had been right.

Steve shouting her name to him made him stop.  Then Steve had brought out his phone and handed it to him.  There she was, smiling into the camera, her eyes bright with laughter.  That was what had made him come back.  The promise, the possibility that he would find her again.

Steve had explained about the accident that had caused her disappearance from this time, that had sent her back to their past.  That Doctor Foster was working on bringing her back, that he was certain that the her sudden disappearance in 1944 had been Doc Foster bringing her back to her future.  So he’d followed his old pal back to the States, hoping for a miracle.  Hoping that what he had thought all those years ago was the truth.

Then they were there, standing in the slick looking modern kitchen in Upstate New York, the girl he’d dreamed about, about to greet him after seventy years.

He watches as she smiles automatically at him before she recognises him.  The way her hands flare out in front of her, shaking as her face drains of colour and her smile falls as her eyes widen in shock.  He knows what’s about to happen before she suddenly drops like a puppet with its strings cut.

He catches her before she can hurt herself, scooping her up easily and snapping at Steve for dropping it on her like that.  He at least knew what he might be walking into.

A few minutes later, unable to let her go now he’s found her again, she slowly comes too, held in his arms, her blue eyes full of surprised elation, tears beginning to gather as she takes in her knew reality.

 “I can’t believe you’re here, I thought you were dead!”

He grins at her stupidly, pressing his head to hers.

“You said my words.”

“You said mine first.”  She retorts, tone both apologetic scolding.

He feels complete, like all the missing pieces of him have been filled with a light that he’d lost long ago.  It was her light, making him whole again, driving some of the darkness away.

Darcy wipes at her tears and reaches out to him, touching his face, hand still shaking form shock, but he’s real and alive.  His stubble scratching her fingertips, she brings them to his lips and he kisses them gently.  He lowers her to her feet, but she throws her arms around his neck and clings, the reality hitting her as she cries into his neck.

She’s not sure how long he holds there, but she knows that Sam and Steve leave them be, giving them the privacy they need.  She had thought he was gone, had tried to process that loss only to find him again.  She doesn’t understand how he’s here, it doesn’t matter, all that does is that he is.

“I’m here Doll, I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”  He tells her.  That’s when she realises she has been muttering out loud, all the fear that’s been wrapped up inside her that he’ll disappear again.

“I can’t believe you’re really here.”

“I can’t believe you are.  I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”  He tells her.  She can hear the same pain in his voice that she knows carries in her own.

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew, you never said a word, but I knew.  Never felt anything else so right in my life as dancing with you Doll.”

“Neither have I.”  she whispers into his chest as he kisses the top of her head.

It’s going to be alright now.  Everything is going to be fine.  All she can feel is him, all around her, putting all the jagged broken pieces back together again.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.  Now can we try this again, we never were properly introduced?”  She looks up in confusion as he lets her go.

“My name’s James Barnes, but you can call me Bucky.”

Darcy laughs and holds out her hand.

“Darcy Lewis, I’m your soulmate.”

He takes her hand and bows over it, giving it a kiss.  It’s the beginning, and not the end, of a very happy story.

NEXT

@captain-rogers-beard

[havenochill-blog]

CANON SUMMARY: Agent 8 -- Splatoon 2 (Octo Expansion)

This is a write-up for anyone who wants more details about my character’s canon. Please enjoy! ❤ NOTE: This post will contain SPOILERS!

SPLATOON UNIVERSE

Approximately 12,000 years before the events of Splatoon, humanity’s reckless usage of the Earth’s resources resulted in mass flooding, and the human race -- along with many of its domesticated species -- went extinct. A lone scientist known only as “the Professor” worked to preserve as much of humanity’s culture as possible, storing it within a dormant AI for the next dominant species to enjoy. He then placed his beloved cat Judd into a capsule and initiated a cryo-sleep function, intending to shield at least one of Earth’s creatures from mass extinction. The ocean overtook the land, and for 10,000 years, much of the planet’s life remained within the depths.

As the ocean receded and warmed to inhabitable temperatures, a rapid onset of evolution overtook sea life. Squids and octopods were among the first creatures to reach land. They swiftly adapted to life outside of the water, their bodies becoming soluble to allow for quick transportation through tracks of ink. They began walking on two legs, invented languages of their own, and formed close-knit societies. An evolved form of the electric eel known as the Zapfish was discovered to have strong electric properties; thus, electricity was utilized for the first time since humanity’s erasure. Traces of human existence were discovered, including Judd’s capsule, so much of the technology from 12,000 years ago was reverse engineered.

Life was idyllic until 100 years before the present day. Squids and octopods -- now known as Inklings and Octolings -- began getting into skirmishes over territory. The two sides resorted to a cultural form of warfare that was once considered a game: Turf Wars. They used ink from their bodies to cover land and destabilize members of the opposing team, ‘splatting’ them for extra clout within battle. Judd’s keen eye declared the Inklings the victor of this war, and the Octolings were forced underground, driven from the surface. Inkling children were taught that Octolings had gone extinct during the Great Turf War, and squids became the Earth’s dominant species.

Inkling culture came to resemble humanity from the 1980s to early 2000s. They had a passion for pop music, fashion, and video games. Many young Inklings enjoyed street art and skateboarding; some took jobs for extra money to earn brand-name clothing, but most competed in friendly Turf Wars for prizes.

SPLATOON

The Octolings did not take kindly to their banishment. DJ Octavio, leader of the Octarian army, turned the once-rich culture of Ocotlings completely militant, brainwashing his soldiers with music from his turntables. As the Inklings flourished, Octavio plotted his revenge. He waited until the Inklings let their guard down, then stole the Great Zapfish from their major city, draining it of power. Many other, smaller Zapfish were stolen in the process. 

Unbeknownst to Octavio, the Inkling hero Cap’n Cuttlefish had suspected the Octolings to retaliate. He trained three soldiers (two being his own grandchildren, Squid Sisters Callie and Marie) to hunt down the stolen Zapfish. The youngest of the soldiers, Agent 3, successfully infiltrated Octarian society, reclaimed the stolen Zapfish, and took down DJ Octavio in a climactic battle. The Squid Sisters performed their song ‘Calamari Inkantation’ during the battle, freeing many Octoling soldiers from the mind-controlled beats of their leader. 

The Zapfish were returned, and DJ Octavio was imprisoned. However, without the brainwashing of their former leader’s music, many Octolings were left feeling unsatisfied by their dark and unfulfilling lives beneath the surface...

SPLATOON 2

A new band took Inkopolis by storm: Off the Hook, starring Pearl and her “odd-looking” DJ, Marina. Meanwhile, DJ Octavio managed to escape his confinement; the Zapfish and Callie vanished along with him. With Cap’n Cuttlefish and Agent 3 missing in action, the other half of the Squid Sisters -- Marie, a.k.a Agent 2 -- recruited a new Inkling to repeat the battles of two years prior.

Callie was discovered deep underground, having been brainwashed in a similar manner to Octavio’s own soldiers. Agent 4 worked to defeat Octavio in battle, and Marie broke her bandmate’s brainwashing through the power of music (and a sniper shot to the face). The Squid Sisters were reunited, the Zapfish returned, and DJ Octavio was relegated to imprisonment once more -- but Agent 3 and Cap’n Cuttlefish were nowhere to be found.

SPLATOON 2: OCTO EXPANSION

While Agent 4 was combating the revived Octarian menace, a young Octoling soldier defected from the military. Her aim was to join Inklings on the surface and live a more fulfilling life; however, Cap’n Cuttlefish spotted her sneaking through Octo Valley and mistook her for an enemy soldier. She and Agent 3 clashed, only to be interrupted by an unknown force. All three lost consciousness and were spirited away.

The Octoling awoke within the bowels of the Deep Sea Metro and found that her memories had been erased. Though Cap’n Cuttlefish was wary of her (because racism), he heard her singing the Calamari Inkantation in her sleep and deduced that she wasn’t a threat. The pair formed an uneasy truce until they could escape back to Inkopolis. Upon reaching the subway, a strange phone informed them that the amnesiac Octoling was participant number 10,008 in a contest to reach the “promised land.” Because she couldn’t remember her true name, Cuttlefish decided to call her Agent 8.

Eight was subjected to 80 grueling, unfair, and violent tests as a means of proving her mettle. Throughout these attempts, she and Cuttlefish were aided via radio by Off the Hook, who picked up on their distress signals from a nearby mountaintop. Each completed task rewarded her with a Mem Cake -- a small piece of her memories -- accompanied by a poem which outlined a certain aspect of her life. With the promise of freedom and regaining her lost self as incentive, Agent 8 set about collecting the “four thangs” that would unlock a path to the so-called Promised Land. Each test was populated by zombified Octarians who maintained no sense of self, granting the entire scenario a haunting vibe.

As it turned out, the “four thangs” were actually a blender, and the Promised Land was a tantalizing fabrication. Before Agent 8 and Cap’n Cuttlefish could get “smoothied,” Agent 3 burst the ceiling and freed them. Eight set out in search of an escape route and was forced to sneak through the facility unarmed, gradually making her way to the surface. When success seemed within reach, Agent 3 appeared once more, clearly possessed by the same odd green slime that zombified her Octarian comrades. Cap’n Cuttlefish explained that the jive-talking phone had burst open and “hijacked her brain.” After a challenging battle against Agent 3, Eight managed to remove the slime, then continued her path to the surface.

When she finally reached the outdoors, Off the Hook was waiting with a swath of helicopters, intending to air-lift her to Inkopolis. Unfortunately, they celebrated her freedom too soon; a massive statue resembling a human head rose from the water, piloted by the very same phone from before. He introduced himself as Commander Tartar -- the AI that was meant to pass humanity’s knowledge onto the next worthy species. He was disillusioned by the Great Turf War, and even more disgusted by the material nature of Inkling culture. For many years he operated beneath the surface, blending up every creature who passed his tests in order to create a “sludge” of DNA. This sludge would not only wipe out Inkopolis, but also plant the seed of a new, superior species.

With only an Octo Shot and a series of manually-detonated bombs at her disposal, Eight set about covering the statue in ink, hoping to prevent its cannon from taking a charge. Once the statue was covered, Pearl from Off the Hook used a full-powered battle cry to destroy the statue and its cannon; the world was saved, and Eight was finally free.

PRESENT

Eight is a kind yet awkward Octoling with a good heart. Though she passed all 80 tests, she has a very limited recollection of her previous life, and is still struggling to adapt as a result. She loves music, dancing, sports, and collecting clothes. Her canon point is set shortly after the events of Octo Expansion.

[magistralucis]

🔀 and also a small token for you: 🐣💛

🔀 Gesaffelstein - Wall of Memories

Félix saw him again, just once, years after it happened.The recognition was not mutual. Not surprising, as not many things had been between them. “And what do you have in mind?” The man behind the counter called cheerfully; Félix stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, but he saw no recollection taking place at all. He wasn’t called Félix then, nor was the man behind the malt shop counter called Dan, but that was the name forever seared into the depths of his heart.

“… Cheeseburger, I think. With an egg on top. And a milkshake, please.”

But that was just him, really. Life wasn’t a drama. There would be no sharp intake of the breath - no disbelieving stare, no soft and hesitant is that really you hanging in the sweet-scented air between them. When asked what flavour of milkshake he preferred, Félix was very specific about his love of strawberry, both anticipating and dreading whatever recognition might result from it - but again, to no avail, and the order was put in straight away.

He didn’t try again after that.

They’d both aged since they’d last seen one another, Dan more noticeably so than Félix had. He was silver-haired now, with laughter lines already embedded along the corner of his eyes; Félix had to hope that that meant he was happy, no matter what had happened in his life so far. As for him, well - Félix wasn’t happy, not all the time, but he was okay. It had little to do with what had happened between him and Dan, simply the ups and downs of life. There hadn’t been much adventure in his life since the day he’d hung up his Chivers jacket and took up other responsibilities, and while it was unfair to say he didn’t miss it, it was for the best he didn’t return.

Félix looked around. Dan had mixed up the ingredients for the milkshake and had set up the blender, ready to go at any moment. Patties were being grilled somewhere in the kitchen. No one else was around. He had no idea if Dan owned this malt shop, but the red-and-white colour scheme made him wonder.Perhaps he should return wearing the jacket at some point, just for old times’ sake. Projecting the illusion of togetherness, belonging in the same space again instead of being strangers who happened to be sharing it. Joined hip to hip again, passing milk bottles between each other, feeling privileged that Dan thought him important to his-

“I was just making your eggs, take a look at this!”

Félix looked up, startled. Dan was peering over the counter, grinning, with the beautifully assembled burger set out on the tray - with two eggs on top, not one. “These came from just the one egg, you got yourself a double yolker! Like some cute little couple. Looks like it’s your lucky day.”

Félix stared at the double-stacked eggs. “Nice,” he said, and just laughed a little - the kind that came about when everything was falling apart. “could you please take one out, though? I’m trying to stay in some sort of decent shape.” 

“That’s fair enough, mec, I used to be as thin as you are once. I’d kill for the kind of dietary control you got.”

“Wouldn’t we all.” Then, more softly, and with finality: “If you haven’t had lunch yet… if you’d…”

“Miles ahead of you.” Dan said, and stepped out of the counter. He slapped the CLOSED sign facing outwards on the door and tipped out the extra egg onto a plate, where he put down one of the spare patties he’d been frying earlier, alongside a slice of cheese and the usual sesame-speckled buns. It was almost enough to make Félix believe that they were still connected, but when he came back with Félix’s meal and his own plate, he chose to slouch admirably on the booth opposite of Félix and not with him. "Do you work out or something?“ He asked, lazily reaching for a napkin.

Félix laughed again and it felt outside of him a little.

“Oh no,” he said, and dug his fork in. “I don’t work out at all.”

Notes: This may or may not be related to the epilogue of The Mossflower. I still stuck them in France, not pseudo-America like Oizo would have us believe; Felix likes strawberry milk(shakes) with as much relish as he did in that fic; but idk, everything just sounds too fucking normal for the Steakverse in this piece and that aspect doesn’t sit very well with either Steak or The Mossflower.‘Wall of Memories’ is probably the most ominous soundtrack for a malt shop, but this seemed to be the best way to translate the song and the egg into this token for you. Thanks for the egg/chick btw @local-gay-cryptid and your eternal support god bless you.

[kelliehighet]

Photos and My Stories.

Here are the photos and all of my responses to them (matched by numbers.)

Whilst engaging in the writing process for this task I found that for the most part there is no a direct visual relationship between the image and what I wrote about it. I looked at the photo and something in it would trigger a memory or feeling, that would sometimes then trigger another memory or feeling, and then I would take this and further explore the fictional possibilities of it. Some of the responses are are completely auto biographical, some are partly based off events that happened in my life, and others are completely fictional. However, none of them appear as ‘obvious’ responses to the imagery, which I think is due to that process.

1. Things never felt that heavy when we were younger. It was traditional for us to raid her step Mums’ wardrobe. The aim was to take the black satin dresses, throw on the ugly fur coats, slip into the slutty red heals, and then stumble around waving our hands in a way that demanded presence. We! Are! So! Important! Then we’d tear the room apart to find her credit card and use it to order Thai food. But we hated tofu. So we’d walk to the local shops and buy hot chips with chicken salt. Talking about our weird science teacher and her brother’s new fascination with reptiles.

­­2. Yesterday I caught mum all teary eyed because some snails had destroyed her basil plant.  She’d hosted a dinner party the night before, so she plucked them from the garden and placed them into plastic water bottles filled with leftover champagne. I’m not sure if the light looks sort of enchanting because that’s how summer works, or if I’m just drowning in the bubbles.

3. I had just finished my usual three-hour shift at the bakery after school. Instead of throwing out the left over pastries I’d asked mum to drive me to the hospital so I could give them to you. Some nurse was trying to poison the mash potato. You were uncharacteristically grumpy and ranting about something that was wrong with the TV. I checked my phone excessively, time was going so slow, you were really agitating me, old people are annoying, I was tired, wanted to get home; it’s not my fault, how was I meant to know, according the odds you should’ve already died six months ago.

7. It was a Saturday. We were fourteen years old and desperately wishing to be older. So I stole whisky from my parent’s basement and mixed it with pink lemonade. We had matching purple pajama pants that were covered in little cartoon cows. I bought three-dollar glitter eyeliner; we drew love hearts on our cheeks and it stained my skin blue. I was glad it was a Sunday because I wouldn’t be seen in public like that. Mum spent twenty minutes brushing my hair after I threw up in the toilet. It was bright pink. We’d poured a lot of raspberries into the blender making cocktails.

8. Tomorrow I’ll wake up all disorientated in the backset of my car. And I’ll think, shit, my neck is going to hurt for weeks. Hopefully it’ll be early enough to make it home before anyone wakes up. I can get changed, clean my teeth, and straighten my hair. Mum will tell me I look pretty. Then I’ll arrive early to my lecture, and I’ll sit with that girl, and we’ll chat about that cute guy. For lunch I’ll have rice cakes because my stomach will still feel queasy. Life will continue, no matter how I change it.

12. Life is beautiful. That’s what you’d always tell people. “It’s my 21st birthday.” You were verging on eighty, but wanting to make the pretty waitress laugh. Mum was so sad that you hadn’t told anyone sooner. Like what the fuck. You thought roast duck in Prague would make up for this? Paying for the whole family to frolic around Europe was a pretty sick cover up. I suppose dancing with a champagne glass in your hand meant forever young. But at your funeral I cried talking about the seaweed in your garden that you’d stolen from the beach. We don’t go on holidays in summer anymore.  ­­

13. Mums’ new boyfriend was always around. Like a little yapping dog that seemed sweet until it nipped at your finger. Whenever they broke up he’d buy my sister and I things to make her feel guilty. One time it was a rice cooker. I ate a lot of brown rice those days because someone had told me it was healthier than pasta.

15. After my best friend and I turned nineteen she met some guy in a coffee shop. He was a barista with stylish black hair who’d chased her all the way to the car park holding a Lush bag she’d accidentally left at her table.  They went on a date to the zoo and then he got to know her better than I did. A few days ago we went to see a movie together.  Afterwards we talked about the unseasonal wind, how good dark chocolate tastes with peanut butter, what courses we were taking at university, and then I drove her home. She messaged me a week later; it was a picture of her dog rolling around in the sun. I suppose it’s nice having someone around who cares so much.

16. My chin was red and painful by the time I got home. He’d taken me to the lake so we could hang out; his stubble had given me a pimple. I wondered how long it would take to pick all of the twigs out of my scarf, and I needed to wash those jeans before my sister noticed they were missing. Hopefully nobody had heard the sound of his car in our driveway. My skin felt foreign. I wanted his mark to make me happy, but instead I changed into an old Power Puff Girl shirt and curled up in a little ball on my bed. I didn’t cry. He waited four days to text me. By then it had gone.

17. It’s okay, because sometimes, in certain moments, everything seems so wonderful.  I’m laughing, I have friends, boys will kiss my neck, and we’re all so cool. The other day I spilt tea on the kitchen bench. My heart was beating sort of fast, it was 6:00pm, my stomach had been churning all day, it’s March; I just hate the change in light. Then I sat on the couch in my dressing gown and spent four hours staring out the window. I couldn’t say what was there because I don’t remember looking. To be honest I never think of you at all.

18. It was completely expected. That’s what stung. “I think you should just find somebody else.” I knew there was so much wrong with us, but it felt unfair that something so desirable was capable of disappearing that fast. So at brunch I told Mum’s friends that he was smart, played soccer, drove a red car, and had nice arms.  Then I drank four cups of tea and stabbed my scone incessantly with a fork. I threw up afterwards because the diary in the cream had made me queasy. He didn’t break my heart. I did. Using everything unsaid he’d left behind.

19. I was sitting on her bed trying to blend out the dry patches of foundation that clung to my skin. We had to look good that night. She needed to: Get. It. Over. With. A few weeks back this gorgeous boy had driven her to his family house all the way in Adelaide, then he’d ignored her after discovering she was a virgin who didn’t want to rush things. She’d only talked about guys to me since. My eye shadow was navy blue and sparkly. We mixed vodka with Red Bull and twirled around the living room listening to songs on spotify. I stood staring at the lights when she left me in the club. He’d told me I was beautiful yesterday so it didn’t matter that I was alone.