#dunno what the fuck this is! but it’s winter and i can’t stop coughing so here we are

[billdenbrough]

They’re hanging out on the roof, Bill’s ankle knocking against Richie’s knocking against Bill’s knocking against Richie’s knocking against Bill’s, over and over and over, feeling as endless as the summer does on a day like that, middle of August and not a cloud in the sky, when Richie says, “I kissed Eddie last night.”

He says it casually, like it’s just the kind of thing anyone does, and not the kind of earth-shaking moment Bill’s kind of always known Richie dreamed of doing but would never have bet on coming true.

“I,” Bill says, then regroups. “What?”

“C’mon, Big Bill, don’t tell me all that growing went to your bones and skipped your brain,” Richie jibes, but it’s good-natured. He sounds so calm. Too calm.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s so scared he’s come around to calm. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened to someone, wouldn’t be the first time Bill’s seen it. He’s never seen it happen to Richie, not that he can remember, but that’s maybe because Richie has always run on bravado more than this particular brand of bravery.

Bill can remember feeling like this, so fucking scared that it made him brave again, and he’s seen it in Mike’s eyes too. Bev and Ben’s sometimes, though Bev usually doesn’t like to let anything that gets to her show, and Ben’s heart tends towards taking whatever he’s given more than turning it into something that helps him stand stronger. Which isn’t a bad thing or a good thing, it’s just a thing, and it makes Bill want to pull him on the back of Silver sometimes, like it’ll help him remember he’s important too.

Stan gets quiet, and then he gets loud, at least by his standards. It’s not really the same for him, Bill thinks. When he’s scared for his friends, his voice gets stronger and weaker at the same time, like he’s building it back up but he’s building it up with broken parts, making a fractured foundation. It’ll hold, but eventually it’s gotta give. And then when he’s scared about other things, things that don’t make sense, he gets almost angry, like – like how dare that exist, how dare it have the audacity to creep into his head when it doesn’t make sense.

Sometimes Eddie’s like that, but mostly he’s the first type. Sometimes he gets so scared that he forgets he’s scared at all, brave and determined and terrified out of his fucking mind, so much so that he doesn’t even register it.

If Richie kissed him, maybe that’s why he’s feeling like it. Like… Eddie’s probably the bravest person Bill knows, if he thinks about it real hard, and he’s got so much of it in him that maybe it makes sense that some of it ended up in Richie too when they kissed.

That’s probably not how it works—Bill wouldn’t know, he’s only kissed Bev, and Mike, one time, with his warm eyes and warm hands and warm lips, on a dare from Richie that made his pulse skitter off-beat, and Bill’s not as brave as Eddie because he’s never let himself work out why—but it’s all he can think about as he sits there on the roof of Richie’s house and listens, and listens, and listens.

“It was nice,” Richie says after a moment, nonchalant and earnest at the same time, and Bill thinks, huh.

Bill thinks, this is how he sounds when he’s lying and being honest at the same time.

Bill thinks, this is how he sounds when he means it.

Bill says, “Wow,” instead of saying any of that. Then, eyes on their ankles instead of on Richie’s face, like he’s worried Richie might get spooked and fall off the roof, he adds, “Good, uh, good for you.”

A pause, then: “What did Eddie say? Or do?”

Richie looks out into the sky, into the sunlight, a million miles away or maybe just a few hours, the space between now and last night, between that kiss, that moment.

“He stomped on my foot,” Richie says, grinning a little, and it takes Bill so completely by surprise that he snorts.

“He what?” he asks, incredulous.

Richie glances at him, eyes blown wide by his glasses and maybe a little by Eddie Kaspbrak. He’s smiling, that toothy thing that comes out when he’s relieved or when he’s happy or when school finishes and the summer starts. When he feels free, maybe.

“He stomped on my foot,” Richie repeats. Then, smiling in a way that kind of hurts to look at, he says, a little softer, “And then he kissed me back.”

[luke-o-lophus]

Dark Chocolate

Sam is overwhelmed, Bucky steps in. Between TFATWS ep5 and 6. Fic kinda went out of my control, but loved the catharsis. Thanks for the prompt, @xchloecarstairsx

Sam hated waking up stiff. He was used to getting bumped up throughout the day; but waking up and not wanting to move was something he absolutely hated. The biting soreness deep in his arms and thighs and even in his goddamn toes at the first movement made him cringe and want to lie in that position until the pain went away.

But that wasn't really an option. He had to get to the boat early and get ahead with some of the painting, call Torres for any new information on Karli, practise with the shield, help deliver food,...

His phone dings. Letting out a defeated sigh he reaches out blindly for the device. Squinting at the bright light, he sees a single text message. Not any chatting app, a sms. At this day and age, who the fuck would...oh. The text is a single word though : "Anything?"

Against his best judgements, Sam calls Bucky back. In the dim room lying tangled in sheets, aching and frustrated. With the stalemates he had been facing in every job he was putting his heart, soul and body into, he wasn't really thinking much. Bucky's never replied to texts before; there's no reason to think he'd pick up a call.

But he does. The dial tone stops and there's a long pause. Sam hadn't planned for this, his mouth fell open and closed again. Now what was he supposed to do?

"...Hi?" a very soft voice spoke from the other end of the call. Sam blinked, slightly taken aback. The first time he's heard Bucky speak so many years ago, he'd done a mental double take. He'd imagined the Winter Soldier's voice to be a rough baritone, the kind of gruff voice that made children cling onto their parents. But Bucky's voice was in itself soft, almost soothing. He could imagine a voice like that singing by a campfire while...

"Sam?" Bucky's voice calls out louder.

"Yeah yeah man, quit shouting. Too early", Sam huffs, instantly wondering why he was being so irritable. There's a beat and then Bucky speaks again, much softer,"You good?" Sam's voice bundles up in his throat, a shaky breath blowing from his lips into the mouthpiece of his phone. Bucky was harder to read. They were making progress and he didn't want to make it weird, he was clearly overthinking this, maybe he should...

"So anyway", Bucky continues breezily when Sam doesn't say anything. "I was thinking of coming over? Forgot to give ya the instruction booklet for the suit. Well, it's not a book...I dunno what it is really you gotta figure it out."

Sam can't help a snort of laughter at that. "Be here by lunch", he says, amused. There's a sigh at the other end, as if he'd held his breath.

Bucky does come by lunch, and he brings chocolate. A box of dark treats wrapped in golden foil. "Helps keep up energy", he says with a shrug as he hands it to Sam. Sam quirks his brow as he accepts it, suspiciously noting the small smirk on Bucky's lips.

"You know the kids don't like dark chocolate...?", he starts carefully, sounding almost guilty. Maybe Bucky just forgot that. Although it should be hard to forget the giant fit Cass and AJ had thrown when Sam had declared his favourite type of chocolate was dark.

Oh.

"Ah shit, my bad", Bucky hoists up his backpack on his knee without much of a reaction, rummaging inside to bring out a second similar box and toss it over. Milk chocolate filled with Peanut Butter, the label description read.

"So you just carry backup chocolate now?", Sam teases as he keeps this box away, opening the first one. Bucky shrugs and catches the chocolate Sam throws in his direction.

"It's fucking liquor filled!", Sam exclaims one bite into it, coughing at the liquid trailing a warm path down his throat, palm covering his lips. Bucky snorts, mouth hidden behind the hilt of his metal palm as he sucks his own toffee with amused eyes. Was he giggling?

"In my defense, it does help with energy", Bucky quips.

"....You were gonna let the kids eat this?"

"Of course not"

"Then why would you...?"

Bucky sighs, shaking his head. After a moment he speaks up,"When was the last time you had some soul food...or took a day off?" Sam starts at that, blinking blankly at the unexpected train of thoughts Bucky was leading him on.

"You work hard, you need a break sometimes", Bucky tries to dismiss his own words with a casual shrug. "Can't have Cap dropping asleep mid-fight on me"

Sam chuckles at that, shaking his head,"I'm fine, cyborg brain. You'll burn your wires if you think so much"

Bucky wouldn't normally pass up on a chance to quip back, but apparently this day had decided to not be normal."You're already very good with the shield", Bucky continues, gulping down the liquor. "Your stamina is fine too. But exerting too much and burning out isn't ideal; we don't know when our next fight is."

Sam regarded Bucky's face closely. "You're worried", he accuses with a grin. Bucky doesn't look his way, but the shell of his pale ears is a dark pink. "I'll be fine, Buck", Sam urges, placing an arm on his shoulder.

"I know", Bucky blurts out, tilting his head sideways to face Sam. "But you don't have to do this alone. I'll show you some techniques with the shield, if you want. Steve basically learnt through trial and error practising with us. I know some neeaat tricks"

Sam chuckles and squeezes his shoulder,"I'd like that."

Bucky fully turns to offer a bright, sunshine smile Sam had never seen on him. "Me too", his metal-man replied in that soft voice. The voice that'd fit just right singing by a campfire, drunk on whiskey and laughs, under the stars, maybe somewhere in the Grand Canyon, with nobody around for miles. Sam swallows his own mental admission with a content smile, popping in another chocolate. He'd definitely like that.

[simonsrosebud]

Imagine how much of a wreck Morgan’s parents are when she goes on her first date

morgan has a resting bitch face, just like kevin.  and people at school know exactly who she is, and who her father is.  morgan kayleigh day is a force to be reckoned with.

especially on the court.

and one weekend when kevin is free, he and neil get talked into going to the court- her high school, that is, to do some drills.  some raven turned fox drills.

except kevin and neil have a habit of calling out in french to one another, and since morgan grew up learning both english and french she easily falls into that when practicing with them.

despite her easy talent with the sport, she’s always had the advantage of the majority of her family, on kevin’s side at least, being involved with exy.

it’s when she’s locking the court doors afterwards that she catches a kid sitting in the stands.

she stops.  “were you here the whole time?”

he looks up, and it’s one of the kids from her team, josh.  “no, just towards the end.”  he shuts his notebook.  “sorry, i wasn’t spying or anything, i just... i don’t like studying at the library.”

for midterms, he must mean.

“you’re weird.”  but morgan smiles and wipes her face.  “you can join next time, if you want.  they’re both strikers.”

josh smiles, and shrugs.  “i dunno.  that’s like asking a three year old to cook for gordon ramsey.”

jesus, he’s a dork.

“who cares?  the point in practicing is to get better, anyway.”  she starts for the gym doors.  “i’ll be here next week at noon.”

she is, and josh comes again, but only watches while he does some homework and takes notes.  mainly on neil.

and two weekends after that, he’s geared up on the court by the time morgan rolls in with her father and uncle behind her.  and today, andrew’s with them.

josh’s face goes white until he sees andrew retreat to the stands instead of the court.

“you’re playing with us.”  morgan sounds surprised.  she kind of is.  josh is quiet, and shy, both of which her family is not.  she didn’t ever expect him to actually join them.

he just shrugs.  “if i do bad then i was never here.”

“deal.”

josh doesn’t do terrible.  he gets lots of criticism from kevin, not too much from neil.  but that’s because he plays more like neil, heart over head.

but josh also sucks up every ounce of help and suggestions and tips offered and puts them to use with ease.  he doesn’t waste time with the switch from how he played to how kevin is telling him to play instead.

“you play like josten.”

josh pauses.  “really?”

“how he played when i recruited him in high school,” he corrects.  “you play like like it’s the last time you’ll play.”

he impresses their coach enough to let him start a game and play it fully halfway like the seniors all tend to do.

the game is on friday, but he’s right there with morgan and her dad on saturday.  it’s a lot of one on one while kevin “coaches” from the side.

morgan invites josh over on sunday.  they play table tennis in her basement while they talk about random things.

and then they start getting together more often.

and josh gets more playing time, which morgan likes, because he’s a reliable player and isn’t afraid to call for help when his mark is too much.  morgan’s seniors don’t do that and it infuriates her because then it’s her fault for not dropping her mark and helping out.

plus, josh calls “get them off” in fast french that morgan taught him, so his mark never sees her coming as a result.  it’s helped the team more than they realize. 

and then josh starts getting invited over for lunch after going to the court.  he meets dalton, who grips his hand a bit hard when he shakes it because this is the kid that’s been making my daughter smile at her phone so often?

and then morgan goes to josh’s for dinner one time.

and at the winter banquet once the high school season is over, morgan sees josh standing outside after one of the guys comes in.

“bored?”

he’s startled.  “you too?”

“nah.”  she shrugs.  “just saw you out here.”

he turns, and his smile returns for a second.  “are you cold?”

“oh, no, it’s fine.”

“come on, morgs.”  he tosses his jacket to her.  and when she puts it on she joins him to lean against the balcony railing.

“how come they spend so much on a banquet we could’ve had in the gym?”

josh laughs.  “the aesthetic.”

morgan laughs, and knocks shoulders with him.  “i’m glad you liked to study at the court,” she says.

he smiles, and she’s smiling at him, and he just… he kisses her.  cause it’s quiet and it’s just them, hiding from everyone else.  and because he knows he’s a year younger than her but he likes her so much.

but morgan’s so shocked by it that when he pulls away she pauses.

the look on her face makes josh regrets it.  he flees.

morgan doesn’t go back inside for a while, but when she does josh is gone, and she can’t really leave the banquet because she’s a senior and a captain, but when she gets in her car afterwards she leans her head against the wheel.

she drives to josh’s house.

josh lives with his aunt and uncle because his mother died a few years back and his father is in prison.  his aunt answers the door.  

fuck.  i should’ve thought this out.  “hi, i’m morgan, i’m on josh’s exy team, is he home?”  she asks.  “he left his jacket at the banquet.”

“oh!  thank you.”  she takes the jacket, and morgan panics when it seems like their business is finished.

“can i talk to josh?”

the aunt nods and calls his name, and when josh comes up behind her he ushers her away.  he steps outside and closes the door behind him.  “hey.”

“hey, sorry for freezing up earlier-“

“no, you did nothing wrong.  i shouldn’t have kissed you.“

morgan’s mouth fishes open a little as he rambles on.  “you can,” she says.  “kiss me again... if you want.”

josh stops.  what?  “do you really want that?  we can be friends instead, i can get over it.”

“no, i’m serious.”  she frowns.  “um, i like you.  sorry, i just, i’m not forward with stuff like this, so i never said anything.”

josh smiles, and when he doesn’t make a move, morgan steps forward and kisses him instead.  just a small one.  short and sweet.

but josh slides a hand to her waist and chases after her mouth to pull her back in.

“will you go out with me?”

it’s morgan that asks, faces close and hearts pounding.  it takes josh by surprise, a bit.  she can tell, but he rallies and doesn’t let it bruise his ego that the girl asked the guy out.  he actually likes it, thinks it’s nice.

“yeah, can i take you out?”

“like... on a date?”

“what else would you expect?”

“i don’t know.”  she shrugs.  “just never been on a date before.”

josh takes her out the next day, saturday.  and because morgan doesn’t want her dads making a big deal, she only tells them an hour before she gets picked up.  “i’m going on a date.”

kevin coughs on his drink, but dalton looks delightfully surprised.  “with who?”

morgan shuffles her foot.  “josh?”

kevin wipes his mouth.  “on your team?  the one we know?  that one?” 

“don’t make a big deal out of it.  if you act weird then i’m not going.”

kevin shuts his mouth.  he looks at dalton when she continues down the hall.  “she’s going on a date?!”

“that’s what she says.”  dalton sits next to him on the couch.  “you’re freaking out,” he mumbles and kisses him.

“yeah, within reason though, right?  our daughter is going on a date.”

okay.  dalton sighs.  “kev, not to alarm you, but there’s also a good chance she’s kissed a boy by now, too.  she’s seventeen.”

kevin frowns.  “going on a date is different.”

dalton raises a brow, but ultimately kisses his cheek before getting up to go to the kitchen.

kevin is the one who answers the door to josh, who looks startled for a second before schooling his expression.  “hi, kevin.”  he doesn’t know whether he should call him mr. day like he did when he first met him, but once he became a regular with practicing with him and morgan on the weekends, kevin told him to ditch the mr. day.

“hey, josh.  you’re here for morgan?”

dalton texts morgan that josh is here.  for josh’s sake.

“yes, sir.”

kevin nods.  “i like you, josh.  don’t fuck that up, yeah?”

“absolutely.  i-i won’t, i promise.”

morgan slides past kevin and kisses his cheek before spitting quick russian.  “leave him alone, dad.  we’re heading out, love you.”

“bye josh!”  dalton calls with a smile from the hall.  morgan is pulling him by the arm, though, so he just waves.

“have her home by eleven!”  kevin says.  and in french, “be safe, don’t do anything stupid!”

“bye, dad!”

dalton shuts the door.  “she’s fine.  they’ve hung out before.”

“yeah,” kevin’s pouty.  he follows dalton up to their room.  “but that’s still my baby.”

[joezworld]

Story - The Railway Prometheus, or, when the Diesels discover fire

Based off of this headcanon that I made.

And this one.

And also parts of this one.

I decided to write an actual honest-to-god RWS style thing

Dragons teaching Diesels

2001

Most diesel engines dislike being cold started.

Cold starting occurs when a diesel is started while their fuel and engine block are both cold. Diesel engines do not work like petrol engines, which use a spark plug to ignite the fuel, and instead compress the fuel vapour, causing it to ignite on its own. This is called compression ignition. 

When the engine block or the fuel is cold, the fuel does not compress properly, and it means that some of the engine’s cylinders will fire, while others do not. This causes the engine to fire unevenly, makes a ghastly knocking sound, and produces a lot of smoke and soot - commonly called clag. 

On the Island of Sodor, a cold started diesel also produces another ghastly noise - this time coming from the Steam Engines watching. They assume that something has gone dreadfully wrong, and make many unhelpful comments about the clag and the noise. 

Bear and BoCo are well aware of what cold starting is, and try to avoid being near other engines - partly so that they can cold start without Gordon or James’ unhelpful commentary, but mostly so that no one could hear them yelling...

“FUCK!” BoCo swore from within a cloud of soot and clag. It was a bitterly cold February morning, and nobody wanted to start properly. His engine was knocking like it belonged in an old jalopy, and he felt most uncomfortable. 

Bear grimaced in sympathy as he shot his own tower of clag into the otherwise crisp morning air. His motor mounts were going to ache later, and- “Aggh!” He cried as fire shot out of his exhaust vents. 

Another issue with cold starting was that unburnt fuel would build up within an engine’s exhaust manifold. Once the manifold got hot enough, the fuel would then spontaneously combust - sending huge gouts of flame out of the exhaust stacks. Bear hated it when that happened, as it caused a very unpleasant sensation. He knew BoCo hated it as well. 

But, for some diesels on the island, it seemed to be the highlight of their day…

“Three, two, one, GO!” shouted Pip and Emma in unison. At their call, massive pillars of flame shot out both sets of exhaust stacks, bathing the yard in a bright orange light for a moment. 

“How do you two enjoy that?” He asked. Before this winter the HST pair had been stabled at Barrow, but had been moved down to the Tidmouth diesel shed in the summer of 2000. Now that he was regularly in close contact with them, their numerous eccentricities began to stand out.

“It’s fun!” Came the response from the blue and yellow passenger train. 

From inside his cloud, BoCo hacked incredulously. “Fucking How?!”

 “You have to do it right.” Said Emma. The massive grin on her face meant that she was eagerly anticipating somebody asking her to demonstrate the ‘right way’.

“There’s a wrong way?” Bear raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t letting her get what she wanted that easily. 

“Of course there is! It’s the wrong way if it hurts!”

“We’re catching on fire. How does that not hurt?”

“By being a dragon, silly!”

“What.”

“Just be a dragon!” Pip shouted from the other end of the HST trainset.

“You still haven’t made sense.” Bear puzzled as his engine finally started firing on all cylinders. 

More bursts of fire belched from within the BoCo-shaped cloud - his motor just wasn’t having it today. 

“Bear - stop. What is the right way Emma?” Implored the cloud. 

“I - I don’t know how to explain it,” she began. “But you need to - it feels like-”

“Just breathe in through your exhaust manifold!” Bellowed Pip, as if this made any sense.

After a few minutes of listening to BoCo making bizarre sounding whistling noises, Bear began to think that Pip and Emma were making fun of him. His only evidence against this was Emma’s genuinely earnest expression as she tried to talk the diesel through this ‘breathing exercise’.

Finally, a hacking cough emerged from the Cloud Formerly Known as Boco, before a giant column of flame shot ten feet horizontally out of where BoCo’s mouth would be. 

Swearing loudly, the Hymek lurched backwards as Pip and Emma cheered. 

“Was that supposed to happen?!” He cried. 

“Yes!” Pip called as BoCo began to fire on all cylinders. 

Bear goggled at her, to which she wryly grinned, before shooting her own blast of flames - right out of her mouth. 

“See, this is why we’re the Dragon Sisters!” She said exuberantly. 

“Really?”

“Nah. But it sure is fun!” 

As Bear pondered the class 43’s sanity, BoCo’s cloud dissipated, revealing a happy Metrovick - engine now firing on all cylinders. “Pip, Emma, however did you learn how that worked?” He asked as his crew emerged from the yard office - totally ignorant to the many bursts of fire that had just happened. 

“I dunno,” Emma said after a moment of thinking. “It just sort of happened. But it’s really cool! I can do it whenever I want to as well!”

To prove this, she smiled, and a small burst of flames licked around her teeth, but didn’t explode outwards like before. 

“What an incredibly odd thing for the factory to do to you. Carry on.” BoCo was at a loss for words and was unsure if he should be concerned, but decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and said no more as his crew ran across the yard and into the warmth of his cab. His cold engine had made them very late, and they wasted no time in driving him away. 

“You weren’t built like that, were you?” Bear said as BoCo disappeared into the distance. 

“No.” Said Emma. 

“Can you teach me?”

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

Revenge is best served on fire

BoCo lived on Edward’s branch line, serving as the primary freight diesel for the industries in Suddery and Brendam. As a result of this, he is often forced to be in close proximity to Bill and Ben. 

Bill and Ben are two yellow menaces tank engines that work for the China Clay company in Brendam. Originally, they were restricted to working just on the small industrial spur that served the clay pits, but as cargo traffic increased in the late 1990s, they had been given permission to travel as far as Wellsworth to deliver their trains of clay directly to the main line. 

This sounds like good news for BoCo, as it means less work for him, but in actuality it is the opposite. 

You see, Bill and Ben are very dedicated pranksters, and spend many hours having fun at BoCo and Edward’s expense. While the pranks only work occasionally, their goal of annoying BoCo and Edward is often met regardless. 

One day in March, BoCo was resting between trains at Wellsworth Station when Bill and Ben peeped into the yard, a long string of clay trucks rattling behind them. 

Maybe they’ll be too tired to do anything. He thought to himself. 

“Oh! There’s BoCo!”

“He’s sleeping! Let’s do plan seven!”

How naive I must be. 

BoCo kept his eyes shut as Bill and Ben began babbling to each other in German. He had no idea how or when the terrible twosome had managed to learn it, but it had proved most irritating - which was probably why they learned it in the first place.

 “Mal sehen, ob er das merkt!”

“Ja!”

BoCo had no idea what they were saying, but knew he’d be annoyed by it. Perhaps a pre-emptive strike could be arranged…

Breathing in deeply through his exhaust vents like Pip and Emma had taught him, BoCo waited until the twins drew nearer. 

As they got close, he dropped his jaw open as if he was about to begin snoring. After waiting a few more seconds, he let out the deep breath he was holding. 

A massive blast of fire shot out of the Diesel’s mouth - BoCo couldn’t see it, but it almost scorched Ben's eyebrows off.

“SCATTER!”

“AAAAAAHHHH!” 

The sound of frantic steam engines vanished into the distance, and BoCo sighed in relief. 

For a moment, all was still. 

For a moment -

“What in the world was that?!” 

BoCo cracked open an eye to see Henry, sitting at the signals with a load of hoppers. He had seen everything, and wasn’t sure if he was seeing things or not. 

“Indigestion.” Was all BoCo said before going back to sleep. 

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

Wendell, Dragons, and Bears, Oh My!

Despite what many engines may claim, Pip, Emma, Bear, and BoCo were not the only diesels on the North Western Railway. There is also Wendell. 

Wendell is the works diesel for Crovan’s Gate works. He is a Blue and Yellow Class 47, and spends most of his days rescuing broken down engines and returning empty stock from the works to the yards where they’re needed. Because he normally meets engines while they are broken down, he is regarded well by all the engines on the Island - even James, who normally views Diesel traction with suspicion. 

Just like the other diesels on the Island, Wendell dislikes cold starts, but has much less experience with them than the others do, as he has a nice warm shed at the works that he lives in year-round! 

Bear and BoCo aren’t jealous, but Pip and Emma are! No matter how much they enjoy cold-starting, they still don’t enjoy being left outside in the frigid air. 

One morning in April 2001, Wendell was dispatched to Tidmouth - Henry had failed, and an engine was needed to take his morning trains. 

Wendell had agreed - in no small part because he didn’t know that Henry’s ‘morning’ included the Flying Kipper, which left Tidmouth at 3:15 in the ‘morning’!

To make things worse, there was an unseasonable cold snap, with temperatures dropping below freezing overnight. 

Wendell missed his shed as he shivered in the yard at Tidmouth. His engine was cold, and the fuel that his driver had pumped in wasn’t any warmer. 

His starter motor tried and tried to make him start, and when it eventually happened, he was enveloped in a cloud of soot and clag as his engine fired on maybe three of its twelve cylinders. 

“Yuck!” He moaned as the cloud thickened. “I can’t see anything! And my motor mounts hurt!”

 “Breathe through your exhaust!” Came a cry through the haze. 

“What?” 

“Breathe in through your exhaust manifold! It should help!” The mystery voice said again. 

“Okay!” It wasn’t like he would lose anything by trying, so Wendell tried, and eventually managed to take a deep breath in through his exhaust stacks. 

Unfortunately, this meant that he inhaled a lot a clag and fuel vapor, which caused him to start coughing and hacking until - 

“Yipe!” A jet of fire shot out of his mouth!

A cheer broke out from beyond the haze as his engine started to fire on more cylinders. In a few minutes, Wendell was much warmer, and his engine was firing on all cylinders as the haze began to clear, revealing Bear and Pip. 

“Isn’t that better?” The HST called to him. 

“Yes, but - what?” Wendell tripped over his words. “How does that happen?”

“We’re not sure,” Said Bear, as flames danced around the inside of his mouth. “but it works wonders on cold nights like this.” 

“Ooookaaay.” Said the Works Diesel slowly. “So, I can just do that now?” 

“Pretty much!” Pip said cheerfully. 

Wendell, feeling like he had just been initiated into a cult, said his goodbyes as his crew stumbled up to him, coffee thermoses firmly in their grasp. 

This island is insane. He thought to himself. But I live here. So I must be insane too. 

As he was driven towards the docks, he breathed in through his vents again, and felt a pleasant warmth fill his mouth. 

He smiled to himself. Maybe being a bit crazy isn't so bad.

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

Fire Breathing Dragons

While Pip and Emma live on the Island of Sodor, their duties require them to travel from Tidmouth to London and back on a daily basis. Ordinarily there is no issue with this, but every now and again, they will be forced to stay the night in London. 

One night in the summer of 2002, planned track work meant that their return service couldn’t be run, and the sisters found themselves in a very shabby looking depot outside of Euston station. 

God, this place has gone downhill since BR. Pip thought to her sister. 

Too right. I think the shunter said that this was going to be torn down after they replace us with Pendolinos. Emma replied, referring to their class as a whole. It was an open secret that the Intercity 125 sets were going to be replaced with new tilting trains on the West Coast Main Line - soon the Dragon Sisters would be the only HST on the line. 

“Eurrgh,” Oiled a voice from a few lines away. “Must we stay here tonight?”

Pip was blocked by a rake of coaches, but Emma could see that there was another HST set a few roads away. The power car looked disgusted to have to be in this shed. 

“Yes Chauncey,” Came the voice of the other power car on the set. “We have to stay here tonight. I’m not any more pleased about it than you.”

“I know, 092, I know,” Chauncey said resignedly. “At least it could be worse.”

“How can it be worse?”

“Well, that other HST set could be awake - then we’d have to talk to them!”

“Oh heavens! I hadn’t even thought of that!”

Well they seem nice. Pip sarcastically thought to Emma - clearly Chauncey and 092 didn’t share the same mental link that they did, and assumed that the sisters were asleep. 

Yeah - like Gordon when he gets boiler sludge. Emma replied. She vaguely remembered working with 092 back in the BR days, and didn’t have fond memories. 

-

Several hours passed. Pip and Emma were idly discussing the newest gossip that they’d heard, a few trains rumbled past on the WCML, and Chauncey and 092 made inane conversion around which railroad in the country was worse than the others. 

Emma was on the edge of drifting off to sleep when 092 spoke up.

“Oh! That’s right! What about the No-Where Railway? That place must be a pit!”

He didn’t. Emma thought.

“You mean that one off of Furness? The retirement home for antiquated heaps?”

He did. Her sister replied.

“Excuse me!” Pip spoke out loud for the first time that night. “But are you, by chance, talking about the North Western Railway?”

“Oh goodness!” Chauncey said in fright. “I’m sorry! Did we wake you?”

“No,” Said Emma. “What were you saying about the NWR?”

“The No-Where Railway? There isn’t much to say about it really,” 092 said blithely. “It’s a hole in the countryside that you shovel old metal into - I’d be ruder, but I don’t think that they ever got the notice that BR dissolved, so I can’t blame them.”

“92?” Said Chauncey, who had suddenly noticed the lettering on Emma’s side - and the expression on her face. “Perhaps you should stop talking now.”

“Why? It isn’t like they’re from that island - they don’t look like they came out of a black and white film.” 092 said, unaware of who he was speaking to. 

“Actually,” ground out Emma. “We are from that Island.”

“Oh. well how unfortunate for you,” 092 sniffed. “Tell me, do they still believe that Beeching is alive there?”

--

The late night trains at Euston Station practically jumped off of their rails at the barrage of sounds that echoed throughout the station yard. It sounded like the Tyrannosaurus from Jurassic Park was yelling at someone, and punctuating their conversation with massive fireballs. 

Fire crews from Railtrack and the borough of Camden responded, but found no traces of any fire - or a Tyrannosaur. 

[hockeytrashgoblin]

Ice Cold ~Part 2

A/N: Hi baby beans! Part 2 coming in hot. Hope you enjoy!! :)

Seeing my pictures in the papers sparked two things, joy and frustration.

Joy because it was so cool to see a picture I took on the front of everyone's sports section. It felt like such an accomplishment. I was really proud of myself.

Frustration because someone had taken pictures of me and William walking around, igniting rumors. I kept my scarf over the bottom half of my face for the subway ride to work. I got there on time and started taking off all the winter layers. I hoped people would forget about that picture by this point, but I was wrong.

"Hey romantic walk in the falling snow." Amy teased me, not looking up from her computer in our office.

"God has everyone seen that?"

"Pretty much. It's been on the news for like a week almost." She clicked out of what she was doing and turned to me. "So tell me everything!"

"There's not really much to tell. We walked around and talked about hockey and our mutual distrust of the general public. He walked me to the subway and I went home."

"Oh come on there has to be some better details in there than that!"

"I mean he said that I was really interesting to him and that he wanted to know me?"

"Alright I guess that's something."

"Oh! Auston Matthews hates me I'm pretty sure!"

"What? Why? Bitch what on earth did you do to Auston Matthews?"

"Nothing! He was mad that William came over to talk to me and just glared the whole fucking time."

"That's weird."

"Right?! Then I could've sworn I saw him across the road when I was going down to the subway but he just disappeared. It was probably nothing but it was so creepy feeling."

"Yeah no I don't like that. Maybe stay away from Auston if you can?"

"I'm definitely going to try to do that."

"You'll have to start after today though."

"Ugh why?"

"A bunch of the leafs will be coming through the studio today. I don't know what it's for, the debrief is on the desk but it's not that helpful. Just says who will be there. Yes William will be too. Don't act like you weren't about to run over to check."

"Hey, I wasn't gonna run. Do I look like I run?" I said gesturing to my body.

"Not really. That's fine though cuz me neither. I like your outfit today though, it's cute! Peter would like." She said wiggling her eyebrows.

"Ew don't start." I looked down at myself. Nothing special or even revealing. Black high-waisted jeans with a baggy sweatshirt tucked into them and bright yellow cheetah printed shoes.

"Well he would." She said getting up and leading the way to the studio.

"Yeah I got that."

"He likes you."

"Got that too."

"You don't like him?"

"He sent me a selfie in his bathtub the other night."

"Was it a good one..?"

"No!" I said shocked that she'd even ask. The leafs were in the studio so I lowered my voice, embarrassed.

"Hey you never know."

"Amy. There is nothing sexy or cute about a grown man sitting in a dirty bathtub. Mix the fact that he had more hair on his chest than a fucking bear and you get a lot of no thanks."

"Yeah that sounds pretty fucked."

"He asked for some bath pictures back. I said no and he didn't listen so I'm not into that at all." I shrugged, handing her the camera. I was supposed to just be assisting with lighting today. The first half of the day went by pretty quickly. We had some craft services taking care of lunch which was nice. It was clear that the team had these kinds of cliques going on. I brought it up to Amy.

"I dunno what do you mean?"

"Like they just split so fast. William, Kasperi, Auston, Mitch, Morgan. And then like literally everyone else. I just thought it was strange."

"Oou here comes lover boy."

"Shut up." I said smacking her arm.

"Poor Peter never had a chance." I glared at her until she left and William walked up.

"Hi frowny."

"Hi."

"So bathtub pictures from Peter huh?" He said with the look of mischief in his eyes.

"Man you really do hear everything. Yes he sent me a picture of him in the tub."

"That's a little forward isn't it? Maybe I'm old fashioned but that seems aggressive."

"No it is aggressive. That's why it seems like it, because it absolutely is. It was gross. Then he was trying to pressure me which was also gross."

"He tried to pressure you?"

"Yeah to send a picture back to him. He didn't accept my first no. Or my third. Or even my 10th. I'm avoiding him."

"I don't blame you." He brushed his fingers across my shoulder. "I'd kill him if I were you."

"It doesn't matter. He's not the first and probably won't be the last."

"That's so awful."

"It's fine. I'll just avoid him."

"But what if you can't?"

"Then I'll deal with it as it comes. It's honestly fine William, I can deal with it." I said putting my hand around his bicep.

"I don't want you to have to though."

"It's alright William I promise. Besides he hasn't texted me since the media ran with that picture. I'm sorry about that by the way. I guess Auston was right to hate me."

"Auston doesn't hate you. It's just complicated that's all. It's nothing against you and everything against people. He doesn't like people either."

"I guess that's fair. Tell him not to look at me like he wants to rip my head off then. It's unnerving."

"Being unnerved by him probably isn't the worst thing in the world."

"Hey Willy, who's this?" Kasperi asked swinging his arm around William's shoulder. William rolled his eyes.

"Kappy she introduced herself at the beginning."

"Sorry I wasn't really paying very close attention. These things are usually kind of boring. No offense."

"None taken. I hate it when I'm on the other side of the camera. It's awful. I'm (y/n)." I said reaching my hand out to shake his extended one.

"Kasperi. It's nice to meet you. Hopefully we'll be seeing you around more." He said grinning at William before leaving.

"Asshole."

"What did he mean by that?"

"It's just been a long time since I was interested in anything except hockey. Me and Kas are roommates and he worries about me sometimes, that's all."

"Oh I see. He seems nice."

"He is! He's a really nice guy. My best friend."

"Well then I guess it's good he doesn't hate me too."

"Auston doesn't hate you."

"I don't believe you."

"Stubborn." He said smiling as he bumped his shoulder into mine.

"That's meeeee."

"Can I get your number? Or will you be stubborn on that too?"

"I dunno.." I said pretending go think about it making him laugh.

"I promise I won't send you pictures of me in the bathtub."

"Oh alright then sure." I took his phone and typed out my number in contacts. "Although I don't think I'd really mind one from you. You still wouldn't get one back though."

"I would never ask for one."

"You're a gentleman William."

"Hardly, but I try my best."

"What are you doing after this?"

"Um I didn't really have any big plans afterwards. I have plans right after I'm done here but I'm free about 30 minutes later. Why?"

"I was wondering if you maybe wanted to do something after. Like get a coffee or something maybe?"

"Why do you sound so unsure?"

"Because I am unsure?"

"But why?"

"I'd rather not go into all my insecurities right now at work."

"Alright I can respect that. We will talk about them later though, because they're silly and unnecessary in this situation."

"Are they?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"Why?"

"I think you are the sweetest thing."

"William.."

"I mean it. You don't have anything to be nervous about. I'd love to get coffee with you after." He said with a warm smile.

"Okay." I said matching the smile.

The rest of the photoshoot went by pretty quickly. Whether that was because it was faster or because I was floating on cloud 9 that William didn't reject me. The boys left and I went back to the office with Amy after tearing down our little set.

"So, a date with William huh?"

"I don't know if it's a date really. It's just coffee."

"Oh come on you're blushing so hard! It's a date!"

"Shut up!"

"What did he say to you before that made you blush?"

"Man you notice everything." I mumbled.

"You could see it across the studio! Now what did he say!"

"He said he thought I was the sweetest thing and to not be so insecure around him because he thinks I'm interesting." I said blushing again thinking about it.

"This is such a date!"

"No. Now stop yelling."

"How? Tell me how this is not a date?"

"I don't know if he thinks of it as one that's all." I said shrugging.

"I do." William said making me jump.

"Holy fuck."

"At least if you wanted it to be of course."

"How long have you been standing here for?"

"Not long at all." He said with a smirk.

"Uuugh liar. You heard everything didn't you?"

"Perhaps." He said laughing as I groaned and slid down my chair. "Hello Amy, nice to see you again."

"Yeah you too Will. We're just about done here so you can take her away."

"I will do just that." He grabbed my coat off the hook and held it out. I tried to grab it but he pulled back. "Turn around."

"Uh okay.." I did as I was told and let him slip it over my shoulders. It was a strangely intimate moment. Amy broke it with a cough hiding her laugh although not very well. I kicked my shoes off and put my boots on.

"Bye (y/n) see you this weekend!"

"Yeah see you."

"Bye Amy."

"Bye Will."

We walked out of the building pretty quietly except me saying thank you to him opening doors for me. We started towards the closest Tim Horton's.

"So you didn't want this to be a date?" He asked.

"What? No of course I wanted it to be!" I blushed really hard at that one. "Uh I mean.."

"I was under the assumption that it was one but after overhearing your conversation I wasn't sure."

"No one likes an eavesdropper William." I teased elbowing him in the side. "I just didn't know if you'd want it to be."

"I told you you didn't have to be so unsure. I think you're lovely. I should be so lucky to have you want to go on a date with me."

"I think you've definitely got that backwards. I'm the lucky one."

"We could argue that all day and with how stubborn you are I'm sure you would, but I'd rather not."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Nothing to be sorry about." 

"I am pretty stubborn. It's not cute." I said laughing.

"I have a hard time believing there's anything about you that isn't cute." He said opening the door for me. 

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding once inside the warm store. William led me to the back of the store to sit. He pulled out my chair for me. I blushed again of course.

"What would you like to drink?"

"What no William I'm paying."

"I hardly think so. Tell me what you want stubborn girl."

"A small candycane hot chocolate."

"Alright. See was that so hard?"

"Don't get all grin-y and triumphant. I only gave in because you weren't going to budge."

"That's all it takes?" He asked laughing, walking away to order. He came back a minute later with drinks. "Careful it's hot."

"Thank you but you really didn't have to pay. I invited you. I feel bad."

"Don't feel bad. I have money to spare."

"It's not the money, it's the principle of it."

"I don't believe that women should pay for a first date. Or any date for that matter."

"How come? Most guys don't want to pay."

"I'm a little old fashioned, as I said the other night."

"It's like you're from a completely different time."

"Maybe I am." He said raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah maybe. You're definitely sweeter than any guy I've ever met."

"That's very nice of you to say since people say I'm heartless."

"I have a hard time believing that."

"You haven't seen me in a light that would make you believe it."

"I really don't think I would think that anyway. Even after seeing you in a light that doesn't make you look that great."

"I hope you never see me that way so we don't have to find out."

"We probably won't. I can't see you ever doing anything really bad."

"I love your faith in me. It's sweet."

"You're sweet."

"Thank you." He murmured with warm eyes.

"Um you're welcome." 

"Why are you blushing?"

"Sorry, you just do this thing and it makes me feel weird."

"I'm sorry."

"No don't be, it's a good weird. I just forget everything I'm thinking. Like my brain goes dumb or something."

"And that's a good thing?" He asked skeptically.

"Well I mean maybe not the dumb brain part but it feels good. Warm." It was almost like I forgot I was speaking out loud. I looked into his eyes and got embarrassed. "Sorry that was weird to say and probably too much, I'm so sorr-"

"Hey shh." He said putting his hand over mine. "You're fine."

"I'm just worried I'm gonna be weird and it'll be too much."

"You aren't too much. Do you want to go walk around a bit?"

"Sure I'd like that."

We walked out of the Tim Horton's and started down the road. It was really cold with the wind whipping around the buildings off the lake.

"I don't know how you're not freezing right now."

"I spend my life on ice. I'm used to the cold."

"But the wind is so awful. You don't deal with that on the ice."

"That is true. You really caught me there." He mumbled.

"It must just be cuz you're a boy. Boys never get cold."

"That could be, darling. Now tell me why you were so unsure asking me to hangout."

"So you didn't forget about that huh?"

"Pfft hardly. Tell me."

"It's going to sound so stupid to you I bet."

"Try me."

"I've just had a lot of really bad experiences with dating. I'm not usually the kind of person people want to date. They all think I'm only good for one thing if you know what I mean."

"You thought I was just messing with your feelings?"

"I dunno. You could be. You're way out of my league, you could've just felt bad for me and are being nice."

"That's so ridiculous (y/n).. I would never ever do that to you. I don't feel bad for you at all. Well maybe that you had to see a picture of Peter in a dirty bathtub." He said with a wink making me laugh.

"God it was so awful Will. I haaated it."

"Well it sounds like you had every reason to."

"That's also why I was feeling kind of bad today.. he just kind of solidified that I'm only good for sex and that isn't the kind of person I want to be."

"That is absolutely not what kind of person you are. You never have to be that person again." He said staring at me intently. I half hoped he meant that he was going to be sticking around for a long time but the insecurity in me shut that thought down.

"I have so much more to offer, ya know?"

"I don't know but I look forward to learning everything else you have to offer." He said slipping his hand into mine and intertwining our fingers. I smiled and looked up to meet his kind eyes. "If you'll permit me of course."

"I'm starting to think that all the walls I have built up are going to crumble with you."

"Good. I want that. Eventually all my guarded walls will come down too I believe. You seem to have that effect on people. I mean just look how comfortable Peter is!" He joked as I groaned loudly, making him light up with laughter. It really made me happy that I could cause that reaction.

[7-wonders]

How about Xavier and the reader smoking (weed) in his van and y’all just start making out? (It can lead into whatever you want lol)

Let’s try this again!

To many, the van parked in the back corner of the aerobics studio parking lot would barely warrant a second glance. If somebody were to look again, it was often to chuckle at the license plate proclaiming the van the “Vanta-C,” or to wrinkle their nose in disgust at such a junky old van. It was inconspicuous in all the right ways, which is what made the Vanta-C the perfect place to unwind after class…and sometimes before class.

Xavier, you have to admit, has some of the best weed you’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Luckily for you (and everybody Xavier’s friends with), Xavier believes in sharing his stash, claiming that smoking alone is too depressing for him. At least once a week, some variety of your friend group will pile into Xavier’s van, listen to music, and share a couple of joints. It’s a fun time no matter who’s there with you, but your favorite days are when it’s just you and Xavier in his van.

You’re sitting in the back of Xavier’s van, leaning against the cool seat and allowing the air conditioning to cool you down after a heavy aerobics class. A joint lies beside you, unlit, as you flip through Xavier’s extensive collection of cassette tapes. The man in question leans over the center console, switching out one tape in his cassette player for another. He’s mumbling under his breath as he stretches his lithe arm towards the play button, finally hitting it and starting the tape.

The familiar sounds of Journey’s classic synth music fill the air, and you eagerly bob your head to the rhythm as Xavier sits down opposite you. “Finally, some good music,” you note approvingly.

“What, you don’t like the regular music we play?” He holds out his hand for the joint, striking a lighter and expertly getting it started as he takes a few quick puffs.

“Correction: I don’t like Ray’s music.” You gratefully accept the joint, letting the sweet smoke fill your lungs and watching as it filters above you in delicate shapes. “His idea of a mixtape is just different George Michael songs, and I’m pretty sure I’ll end up cutting my ears off if I have to listen to ‘Faith’ one more time.”

“What do you have against George Michael?” Xavier asks jokingly, watching with hooded blue eyes as you take another hit and hold the smoke deep in your lungs before exhaling through your nose: a trick you had learned from Xavier himself.

“‘Dunno, probably the stupid earring,” you tease, flicking Xavier’s cross earring that’s a direct imitation of George Michael’s.

Xavier whistles lowly, stealing the joint from you and holding it between his slender fingers. “Harsh, (Y/N). I share my stash with you and make you a mixtape, and this is how you repay me?”

“You made me a mix? Is that,“ you point to the speakers at the front of the van, “what this is? My very own mixtape?” You’re laying the teasing on pretty thick, but you can’t help it when you know it makes Xavier’s cheeks flush a beautiful shade of pink.

Lately, things have been different between you and Xavier. Not in a bad way, but just in an unexpected way. Ever since the night last winter where you had found him throwing up in some dingy bathroom at a house party, unknown troubles that you didn’t both to ask about sending him straight into the arms of alcohol poisoning, your dynamic had changed.

Suddenly, he wasn’t just Montana’s cocky ex who you only tolerated because all of your other friends adored him. He’s funny, and introspective, and a lot smarter than you originally gave him credit for. You can talk with him for hours about almost anything, although your conversations usually deviated towards music and pop culture. He understood you on a different level than any of your other friends.

He’s also devastatingly handsome, which doesn’t help the small crush you’ve developed on him.

“It’s nothing, really,” Xavier shrugs nonchalantly. “You have a really good taste in music, and I wanted to make something for you to listen to.”

“Thanks, Xav.” You’re touched by this unexpected display of friendship, the man in front of you not really known for doing nice things for people.

Xavier fidgets with his earring before thrusting the joint in your direction, not quite sure what to say to fill the silence. “Here, it’s your turn.”

You both fall quiet as you listen to the music and pass the joint back and forth, your movements getting slower and more languid as the drug begins to take effect. You can feel your veins thrumming with the relaxing heat that begins to spread through you, watching Xavier through the hazy smoke that fills the van.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask quietly, leaning your head back against the side of Xavier’s van.

What Xavier wants to say is that he’s thinking about the way your eyelashes flutter as you try to follow the smoke with your eyes, or how pretty your lips look wrapped around the rolled-up paper. Instead, he plays it safe. “Mmm, just life. Plans for the summer.”

The blue of Xavier’s eyes is nearly swallowed whole by his blown-out pupils, giggling at how freaked-out his dilated eyes make him look. Staring at the smooth planes of his face as your fingers tap out the beat to an AC/DC song, an idea starts to form in your mind. Normally, if you weren’t high, you’d never even consider what you’re thinking. Being high, however, silences the part of your brain that reminds you how disastrous your ideas can be.

Flipping the joint so the cherry faces you, you slowly place it between Xavier’s full lips, smirking lazily when his breath hitches at the contact. His eyes are glued to your hand, watching as your fingers linger against the soft skin of his lips. Breathing in deeply, he makes a move of his own when the warm smoke escapes his mouth as he blows it in your face. You stifle a cough, looking away like you didn’t just try to come onto Xavier.

Across from you, Xavier is internally freaking out. Was that unintentional, or were you trying to seduce him like he hopes you were? For his sake, he really hopes that you were attempting to make a move on him.

“Can I try something?” Xavier asks suddenly, making you look down from the ceiling.

“Sure?” Your eyes are pleading with him for answers, but he refuses to budge.

Xavier takes a couple of deep breaths from the joint, filling his lungs with as much smoke as possible. Winking at you, he shuffles forward and places his hand on the nape of your neck, pulling you towards him and pressing his lips to yours in a heated kiss.

There’s hardly a moment’s hesitation as you eagerly reciprocate the kiss. The smoke travels from Xavier to you as he slips his tongue inside your mouth, giving you no choice but to breathe it in. Your hands, desperate to grab onto something, tangle in Xavier’s beautiful hair. He doesn’t even complain about you messing up his precious locks, instead setting down the joint on a stray ashtray so it doesn’t set the van on fire and wrapping his other hand around your waist so he can lay you down against the floor.

Your back meets with the carpet of his van, and you stare at Xavier through the hazy air in ecstasy as he slides your shirt off of your body. Rolling his hips against yours, you can feel his sizable bulge already through his shorts.

Xavier’s hands, large and veiny, pull your bra down your chest to expose your breasts. “I fuckin’ knew your tits would be gorgeous, even when you’re wearing your workout clothes I just knew.”

He continues to kiss you as his hands explore your body, moaning his approval as your hands start to mimic his actions. His lean body fits perfectly against yours, and you take your time to explore each and every curve of his muscles as he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth and pulls slightly.

You need more, crave more, and you begin thrusting your legging-clad hips against him to the heavy, slow beat of the song booming from the speakers.

“Fuck, Xav,” you pant from under him, kissing him again. “I want you.”

“Yeah? Tell me what you want.”

“Want,” you pause to moan when he begins to suck a hickey against your neck, “want you to fuck me.”

Xavier nods, lifting away from you to allow you to sit up on your elbows so he can unclip your bra. He winks at you as he seems to move in slow motion, kissing you once more and humming along to “Still Loving You.”

“It’s a good thing you like The Scorpions, ‘cause this is a perfect sex song.”

“Actually, there’s no ‘the’ before Scorpions. A lot of people think there is, but the band is just Scorpions.” The words escape before you can even think to stop them, your eyes widening in embarrassment.

“Fuck, it’s so hot that you know random shit like that,” Xavier leans down to kiss you again, fingers playing with the waist of your leggings.

You’re both so wrapped up in each other, the weed and the euphoria of the situation making it almost impossible to focus on anything else, that neither of you notice the door to the van sliding open until an excited squeal has both of you scrambling away from each other. The sunlight filtering in does nothing to reveal who’s standing in front of you at first, the two silhouettes taking a moment to become a smug Montana and an embarrassed Chet. Xavier covers you with his body, but you still grab your shirt and hold it in front of your chest for some semblance of modesty.

“I’m so sorry, guys, I just needed to pick up my gym bag?” Xavier’s eyes flicker to where Chet is pointing, seeing the red, white, and blue gym bag that Chet had asked to stash in the van prior to class. Xavier nods slowly, avoiding eye contact with everybody as he pushes the bag with his foot, allowing Chet to snatch it up.

“Well, I guess we’ll let you two horny lovebirds get back to it,” Montana says gleefully.

“‘Tana,” you whine, pleading with her to stop as you wish for the ground to open up beneath you and swallow you whole.

“Alright, alright.” She holds up her hands disarmingly, grabbing at the handle of the door and winking at you as she starts to close it. “Wrap it before you tap it, babes!” Montana shouts before the door closes.

Xavier’s only able to mutter a stunned “oh my God” as he stares at the space where his friends occupied only moments ago. Turning to you to make sure you’re okay, he’s momentarily concerned when he finds you with your head in your hands and your shoulders shaking. When he hears your near-hysteric laughter, he can’t help but smile.

“What the fuck just happened?” you gasp out between peals of laughter, tears nearly streaming from your face as you begin to put your bra back on: a sight that makes Xavier worry.

“Y’know, we don’t have to stop just because of a little interruption,” Xavier trails off, placing his hand on yours in an attempt to get things back on track.

“How did that not kill the mood for you?” you chuckle, pushing his hand away and sliding your shirt over your head. “Aw, don’t look so sad! There’ll be another chance for you to score, I’m sure.”

Xavier sighs, picking up the joint and sadly taking a hit. “Fuckin’ Montana.”

//

Quick Tag List: @ccodyfern @1-800-bitchcraft @divinelangdon @lvngdvns @wroteclassicaly @tcc-gizmachine @xavierplympton @michaelsapostle 

[buckyskorpion]

“i thought you’d like this” please ?💕 i’m very excited for the fourth part of your story and i love your blog!

sorry this took so long!! hope you enjoy this, it’s a bit of fun in these not so fun times 

Nat comes into the boardroom with a tiny smirk on her face. You share a glance with Bucky - this can’t be good.

“I thought you’d like this,” Nat announces, throwing herself into the chair next to you and dumping her legs in your lap, effectively pinning you down. She clears her throat theatrically and pulls out her phone, reads, “Former Winter Soldier and current Avenger James Barnes spotted taking newest recruit on a date in Central Park.”

Bucky starts coughing so violently you’re worried he’s going to pop a plate in his new arm. You, on the other hand, feel the colour drain from your face almost immediately. A date?

Nat is grinning, now, which is somehow even more terrifying than when she’s mad. Bucky has to stand and grab some water from the cooler in the corner, leaning on the wall for support. Good to know the concept of hypothetically going on a date with you is so horrifying to him. You have to say something, the silence is stretching on and it’s so awkward and tense you might explode. Maybe that’s a good thing. Then you’d never have to meet Bucky’s eyes ever again.

“Where did you get this from?” you ask Nat hoarsely, swallowing past the way your voice cracks. Her eyes are sparkling, she’s so happy - this isn’t natural. You make grabby hands for her phone and, reluctantly, she hands it over.

There are photos attached to the article, because of course there are. It’s a TMZ release (who else) and the photos are disturbingly high-quality. It was the morning after your last mission, when you’d woken up aching all over and tired in a way not even a good nights sleep could fix but Bucky was knocking at your door asking if you wanted to go for a walk with him. Of course you said yes, even if it felt like torture to drag yourself from bed. It was Bucky — you would always say yes.

He bought you coffee and you walked around Central Park in mostly silence. There wasn’t a lot to say, it was just nice to be quiet in each other’s company after the chaos of the mission. Fall was starting so it was getting cold, but not unbearably so, and not enough for the trees to lose all their green. It was beautiful - you hadn’t seen something so beautiful in a while. It was like Bucky knew it was what you needed, and you’d turned to softly thank him only to find him already look at you.

This is what the camera had caught, the photo plastered on Nat’s phone with the offending article. You, smiling up at him with the most awful, fond look on your face you wish you could burn and Bucky, head bent towards you, also smiling. His face matches yours. Since when? You were there, you remember this moment but you don’t remember Bucky looking at you like that. He couldn’t. Could he?

“Well,” Nay says pointedly, asking for her phone back with a hand held out towards you. You pass it over, fingers numb, mind going a mile a minute. “Good to know TMZ had to ask your girl out for you, Barnes. Pathetic, honestly.”

“What?” This was officially too much. Bucky is looking at Nat like he wants to actually tear her vocal chords out of her throat and she’s still smiling, having the time of her life, and you want to scream. So you do, essentially. You slam your hand on the table and cry, “Can someone please explain what the fuck is going on? Who’s girl where?”

“Calm down before you hurt yourself,” Nat says, cutting you a side eye. You blush, immediately embarrassed by your theatrics but honestly, who could blame you? TMZ has a lot to answer for. With a raised eyebrow towards Bucky, Natasha says, “Well? She’s asking you a question.”

“Can you give us a moment, Natasha?” Bucky grinds out, a scarier look on his face than even the Winter Soldier could muster. Nat laughs, head thrown back, like this is the funniest thing in the world.

“Oh no,” she says, still somewhat giggling. “I’m not missing this for the world.”

Bucky’s sigh could’ve shaken the walls of the boardroom. You were supposed to be having a mission debriefing for crying out loud, but now you’re here, absolutely confused to hell, staring at Bucky hoping for some enlightenment but he’s just chewing his lip and avoiding your eyes. TMZ thinks you went on a date with Bucky when you know damn well that only happens in your dreams, and Nat is somehow involved, and Bucky is being evasive, and no one is filling you in yet. Maybe this is a dream of yours, morphing into a nightmare as the silence ticks by.

“Honestly!” Nat exclaims, throwing her hands in the air. “You are both useless! (Y/n), what did you tell me the other day after training? ‘Bucky could never like me back, we’re just friends!’ My ass!”

Oh no, this isn’t happening. This is definitely a nightmare now. But Nat isn’t done, ignoring the strangled noise you make and how you slump down in an attempt to hide.

“And you,” Nat says, eyes narrowing at Bucky while she points a finger, “If you ask me one more time for advice on what to do about your schoolboy feelings for (y/n), I will physically remove your spleen and enjoy it.”

With that, Nat finally removes her feet from your lap and storms from the room, letting the door slam shut behind her. The silence is a physical thing, fogging up the room and choking you out from the inside. You stare at the wood grain of the table, reeling from Nat’s outburst and the absolute wasteland that is your pride. You never want to look at Bucky again, the shame is too much. But he’s walking over to you now, pulling out the chair next to you and sitting so you’re between the ‘v’ of his legs, so close you can feel his supersoldier body heat radiating over you. Or maybe that’s just your burning cheeks from the sheer embarrassment of the situation Nat has put you in.

“Did you really say that to Nat?” Bucky asks, soft but the sound still makes you flinch.

“I’m sorry,” you say, avoiding his gaze that’s burning into the side of your face, “I shouldn’t hav said that, it’s not fair to put you in this situation and you probably think I’m some kind of creep-“

“(Y/n),” Bucky says, and his tone makes it almost sound like he’s laughing. That can’t be right. And then he puts his hand on your neck, urging you to look up and over at him - you’re powerless to resist the warmth of his skin and the rough slide of his palm as he shifts to cup the back of your head. You look at him, finally, to find him smiling at you in the same way from the TMZ photo.

“Bucky?” You’re unsure what he’s doing, what’s going on, but you can’t formulate coherent sentences at the moment so you settle for that. He laughs, then draws you forward and thunks his forehead against yours. You close your eyes breath him in, the only thing you’re capable of doing when your mind is screaming what the fuck is going on?

“I can’t believe you thought I’d never feel that way about you,” Bucky says, hushed. You find yourself blushing again, squirming in his grip to pull away but he doesn’t let you. Damn super strength.

“Feel what way?” you ask, defensive, “You mean as completely platonic friends and coworkers?”

“You’re a brat,” Bucky huffs, but when you peek an eye open you can see he’s smiling. He’s still holding you close, and you can’t find in you to pull way even as you’re trying to distance yourself verbally. He shakes his had against yours and says, “I can’t believe it because that’s what I’ve been sayin’ about you this whole time.”

“Wait, what?” you ask. Now you’re lost. Bucky can’t be saying what you think he’s saying - he can’t.

“Nat’s right, we really are useless,” Bucky laughs, and then he pulls away. You try not to feel disappoint but it hits you in the gut anyway - only for a moment. Bucky doesn’t go very far, just enough to physically turn your chair so you’re facing him, in between his legs, and holds your face in his palms so he has to look at you. It’s a lot of manhandling and your head is spinning a bit. Why does he have to be so sexy?

Looking at you dead in the eye, Bucky says, “I don’t need TMZ to do this for me. I love you, (Y/n), I think I have from the moment I met you. I’m sorry for being a stupid, scared punk - it’s never gonna happen again.”

And then he kisses you, pulling you into his chest hard enough you have to hold onto his shoulders to stop yourself from toppling over. You muffle a yelp into his mouth but it’s quickly lost in a moan as he fists your hair and holds you close, kissing you rough and bruising like you always imagined it would be. It’s not until you think you might be seeing stars from how lightheaded you are that you pull away, breathing heavy and mouth probably just as swollen as Bucky’s looks. It’s a hot look. You can’t help but kiss him again, quick, just for looking like that.

“I think it will happen again,” you say, tilting your head at him as Bucky’s brow furrows. He looks upset, until you add, “I dunno how you’re gonna stop being a stupid punk, that’s practically in your DNA.”

“Oh, now you’re in for it,” Bucky growls, and your laughter turns into a squeal as he stands up and throws you over his shoulder, heading out of the boardroom with you pounding on his back.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Put me down, Bucky!” you cry, practically in tears from how hard you’re laughing and how difficult it is to breath with a giant metal shoulder digging into your stomach. Bucky puts you down gently, which belies the angry look on his face as he stares down at you. You grin, reaching up to take his stubbled cheek in your palm, and you know he’s just playing but you still need to say, “You’re a stupid punk, but you’re my stupid punk and I love you.”

“Romantic,” Bucky says flatly, but you barely have time to roll your eyes before he’s kissing you again. You’re probably the first person in history to think, thank god for TMZ.

[copias-thrall]

There’s Magic in the Night

A new year is breaking, and it's full of possibilities.

⬅️ Previous

(Reminder: not Repugnant accurate.)

It’s a 15min walk from the nearest subway stop in a part of the city that hosts low-income and broke college folk, and you’re beginning to wonder if your heeled boots were the best choice—but the shiny patent of them so nicely offset your cheap pink and black tulle skirt and fuzzy black crop sweater with inlaid tinsel that you’d decided on form or function. You’d almost changed your top when Mary had knelt and given your tummy a raspberry where it hung over the waistband a little, but his cute little pout had placated you a little after you’d threatened to do just that.

“You want a piggyback?”

“Nah, I’m all right, Mare. We’re almost there, right?”

“Yeah.” 

Using his chin, he indicates a house down the block with a light on in every window and that’s lit up with string lights. It’s a little run down, but not falling apart. The neighborhood is full of three-story homes that are either co-ops or rented out by various floor configurations. 

You’d tried to follow his explanation on who he knew and how, but the most you’d retained was that of the 6 people who rented the entire house, Mary knew 2 of them intimately. (“Yeah, they’ve had it every year that they’re lived there. I’m pretty sure a good third of the crowd is party crashers, but the more the merrier, right?”)

The closer you get, the louder the din from the house becomes—it sounds like there are 4 different playlists fighting for dominance, and the crowd ASMR is strong. There is a gang of smokers spilling from the front porch, down the cement steps, and clumped into murders in the small yard.

Ed and Dee are leaning against the railing on the steps, shivering in their best band tees as they take drags of their cigarettes.

“Hey, man!” says Mary as he leans forward and engages them both in a sloppy approximation of a cool, secret handshake.

“Hey, Goore!”

“Long time no see, dude.”

You nod at them, and they nod back.

“Where’s the rest of the gang?” asks Ed as he strains to see behind you in the dark.

Apparently Mary usually pregamed with his bandmates and then they headed over en masse later in the night. Horrified, you’d tried to convince him to uphold the tradition, but he’d insisted he could break off one year (“I’m not gonna toss you to the wolves, Suey. I see those assholes all the time.”).

Mary blows out a breath, and it hangs in the air like the puffs of smoke.

“Still pregaming. They’ll be by later. I wanted to give Suey the grand tour.”

Mary makes a sweeping motion, then wraps that arm around you. Ed and Dee’s eyes flick back to you.

“He’s a fucking liar; he was afraid one of you would steal me away.”

Ed coughs out the drag he was taking, and Dee snorts.

“You’re killing my street cred, woman.”

“Whatever, dude,” says Dee with a smirk, and Mary glowers at him. “You wanna bum one?” Dee holds out his pack as if in contrition.

Mary’s hand twitches, but he shakes his head.

“Nah, dude. Not unless it’s that chronic shit.”

“Yeah, they got those somewhere.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.”

A few merrymakers exit the house—laughing and screaming—and they push by the lot of you as they presumably journey on toward another party.

“All right, dudes. We’re gonna go make the rounds, get some cold ones. See you on the other side!”

“Sounds good!”

“Do it.”

Mary ushers you inside, and—despite the open door—the warmth of the house hits you, making you feel suddenly uncomfortable in your winter coat. Like the outside, there’s a general mass of bodies that are sectioned off (in the hall; on the stairs; spilling out of the kitchen; lounging in the living areas) like music notes in a run of measures. You spot a worn-looking chair that’s piled high with coats, and you go to toss yours on, but Mary grabs your arm.

“Geez, Suey. You wanna get your coat jizzed on?”

“I—what?”

“C’mere, let’s not add our stuff to the pile that’s gonna make someone a nice sex bed later.”

He yanks your coat out of your hands and opens a door that leads to the hall closet. A beach ball tumbles out and is joyfully absconded with by a trio of party goers walking by, and Mary catches one golf club in his hand as it falls out from the top shelf and another under his arm. Unfortunately, he doesn’t catch the one that hits his booted foot, but you managed to stand on tiptoe enough to prevent the entire bag from depositing its contents on Mary’s head.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Between the two of you, you manage to get the clubs back in order from whence they fell.

You can see that there’s other junk up there and in the back—whether it lives there permanently or was just shoved in there pre-party, you guess you’ll never know—but there’s an entire row of coats on a rod, which seems to be the closet’s main purpose.

“Here.” Mary rifles through the mess until he finds a free hanger. It takes some adjusting, but he finally gets his leather jacket and your coat onto the same hanger and manages to squeeze it back into the mass.

“OK. Let’s go find Shonda.”

“Not Murray?”

“Apparently he’s elsewhere tonight.” He shrugs.

There’s a sudden squeal of voices, and when you turn, you see Kara and Elsie hurrying toward you. Elsie is in a sequined dress so garish it must be fashionable and Kara sports a sparkly red sweater over black jeggings that she’s wrapped fairy lights around.

“So you’re not dead!” says Kara

“Uh … no?”

“Christ, I would have called you, but I’ve spent the last few days with my head in a toilet,” laughs Elsie.

“Yeah, thanks for that guys,” says Mary. “What I really wanted to do at the crack of dawn was take care of this lush.”

“Pffft,” snorts Elsie. “You’re one to talk, Goore. As if your head doesn’t live in the toilet.

“Yeah, total karma, Mary. Remember that time you got your stomach pumped?”

“Jesus, Mare,” you say at him with a bemused smile. He scowls.

“Look. Honey whiskey goes down easy.”

Elsie and Kara cackle before grabbing up your hands.

“C’mon, let’s get you a drink, hon,” says Kara.

“What about me?” pouts Mary.

Elsie sniffs over her shoulder at him as she pulls you down the hall.

“Sorry, Goore. Girls only. Go set shit on fire or something.”

“That was once!” you hear Mary call down the hall after you.

“Wait—what did he set on fire?”

Elsie looks at you and mimics locking her mouth and throwing away a key.

The kitchen is full of bodies. In one corner, there’s a game of beer pong set up, and in the other, people are digging beer containers out of a giant cooler. On the counter are a few bowls half-filled with various snacks—the other half of which seem to be spilled over the counter and crushed into the linoleum floor. There’s a dark-skinned woman in a black & white plaid rockabilly dress and red cardigan who’s struggling to empty a bag of ice into a second cooler.

“Here—let me help, Shonda,” says Kara as Elsie leads you to the full cooler.

Shonda looks up. “Yeah, could you? Dunno where my asshole roommates are.”

By the time the two of them have the contents of the bag in the cooler—the cubes sliding in with a rough whoosh and plinking softly over the beers in the bottom—you and Elsie have fresh beers that she’s poured into solo cups.

“Thanks, Kar.” Shonda wipes her hands on the bottom of her dress, makes a face, then fumbles for a dingy kitchen towel hanging over the fridge door handle.

“Shonda,” says Elsie, catching the woman’s attention. She pushes you forward a bit. “This is Mary’s new squeeze.”

“Oh, um, hi.” You stick out your hand.

“No shit.” Shonda gives you a once over before giving your hand one firm shake. She nods a few times. “Yeah, ok. I see it.” She pats you on the arm. “Good luck with that.” She turns to Elsie. “Is that little shit here? We need to have words.”

Elsie jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “We left him down the hall.”

“He can run but he can’t hide,” Shonda says as she stomps away in impressively high red heels.

“Do I need to go defend his honor?”

Kara snorts.

“Nah,” says Elsie, waving your question away. “She’ll probably just make him do the heavy lifting the other stooges wheedled their ways out of.”

“He is stronger than those skinny arms make him look,” you muse.

Kara leans in. “Oh?”

You grin at her.

The two of them lead you into what must be a dinning room that seems to be the official set up for the snacks and libations. A bar with liquor and mixers have been arranged in the built-in, and there’s a folding table in the corner with an array of chips, snack foods, and a pile of wilted-looking pizza boxes. There’s a center table—which looks more permanent—that some sort of drinking game is occurring over.

You make a beeline for the pizza.

“I think I need a good base.”

As you juggle the pizza slices on a plate on the top of your cup, Kara and Elsie talk rapid fire across you, sometimes asking you questions (about you, about Mary, about you and Mary), other times going into long-winded stories about people you’ve never met, but are hilarious nonetheless.

“Fuck. I’m not drunk enough for this party yet,” Kara laments.

“Well, yeah,” says Elsie. “I thought we’d get our game on.” She pokes you in the belly, and you suck your stomach in away from her touch. “You done ‘getting your base’ yet?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” You dump the paper plate and crusts into a trash bag slumped in the corner.

About the time Elsie is squeezing you three into the game at the table, Mary wanders in. His face brightens when he sees you, and he makes his way over to you, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

“There you are, baby doll.”

“I thought I told you ‘girls only,’ Goore,” says Elsie.

He jabs a finger at her. “I gave you more than enough time to monopolize my girlfriend, Ford.”

“Just keep your dick in check.”

“I do what I want.”

For the next half hour, you engage in a rousing game of flip cup, which you have always been terrible at, but Mary seems to dominate. By the end, Kara and Elsie are hitting their buzz—playfully shoving themselves and others—and you’re beginning to feel more at ease in this sea of unfamiliar people.

Ed and Trevor wander in and motion to Mary, but seem to address the whole crowd.

“Yo!” says Ed. “Wanna go upstairs?” He stimulates smoking a joint at Mary.

“Yeah, man!” Mary turns to you. “You wanna join?”

You shake your head. “Can’t. I get tested.”

“Laaaame,” says Kara, and you jump because you didn’t realize how close she’d gotten.

“You sure it’s ok?” Mary scrunches his face.

“Yeah, Mare. Go! Be free!”

“Don’t worry, Mare,” says Elsie coyly as she drapes an arm around you. “We’ll take good care of Suey.”

Mary looks horrified enough that you think he might change his mind, but then Ed and Trevor are pulling him away. Elsie looks down at you.

“What did you do to that boy?”

You squint up at her. “What do you mean?”

Kara insinuates her way in between you and hands you both disposable shot cups.

“She means you’ve got him pussy whipped.”

You scrunch your face further. “Mary? He’s like a stray cat that shows up sometimes for food.”

“Is the ‘food’ ‘sex’?” Kara jumps her eyebrows at you.

Laughingly, you shove at her. “Maybe.”

Elsie throws her hands up. “PUSSY. WHIPPED.” She downs her shot.

You and Kara follow suit.

“Ok, but seriously,” you half cough as you wipe a dribble off your chin. “Mary does what he wants. I don’t tell him what to do.”

“Aww, hon—we know,” says Kara. “Elsie is just giving you a hard time.”

Elsie shrugs. “I’m a Class A Bitch.”

“She is,” agrees Kara. She turns her cup upside down; a few droplets drip out. “Hey, bitch—go get us more suds!”

“Demanding,” grips Elsie, but she turns to make her way into the kitchen.

You and Kara wander over to the food table to graze, the howls from the newest drinking game dolcet background noise.

“Hey, I know Elsie tends to make people butthurt, but she just has no filter.”

“Oh. No, it’s fine.” You shrug. “People tend to think I’m an elitist snob, so I try to be, um, more open minded.”

Kara grins at you. “‘Splains why you’re dating Mary.”

You throw a withered carrot stick at her. “Don’t fucking call me out like that.”

Kara laughs as she tries to block the attack. The conversation seems to stall after that, so you try and dredge up a question.

“So you guys know Mary from high school or something? Mary was … vague.”

“Just Elsie. That’s why she’s a little protective. He’s seen some shit.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say quietly. You turn to look at Kara. “Did they ever …?”

Kara waves her hand at you dismissively, swaying slightly. “Shit, we’ve all fucked around with each other at some point or other.”

Your eyes bug out. “You and Mary?”

She snorts, and leans toward you at a dangerous angle. “Well I never slept with Mary. But I’ve been with Elsie and Dee, and Mary with her and Trevor, and Trevor and Dee had a thing with Ed.” She screws up her face. “I think I got that right. I can never keep it straight, honestly.” Kara shakes her head out; then her expression changes and she bites her lip. “Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve told you all that.”

You pop a Jax in your mouth. “Mums the word, sister”

As she’s giving you a sloppy, grateful smile, Elsie finally appears—tottering carefully—with three solo cups precariously balanced between her hands and tits.

“Shit—come get your drinks.”

You and Kara scramble to relieve Elsie of her haul without dropping the prizes as the drinking game breaks with an Awwwwwww.

“You guys wanna with another round?” Elsie throws her thumb over her shoulder as she sips from her cup.

“Fuck yeah, you know it!” exclaims Kara as she throws her hands up, beer spilling over the side.

After doing OK in a few rounds of Finger Spoof (you’re feeling the buzz nicely), you look around and realize you haven’t seen Mary in a while. You leave Kara and Elsie to their own devices and head into the kitchen. Grabbing your own solo cup in your teeth—ignoring it as some of its contents sloshes over the side and down your chin—you fish for a lite beer floating in the lukewarm cooler water for Mary.

If you can locate him.

He’s not in any of the rooms downstairs, nor is he outside with smoker’s club. You make your way up to the second floor, hoping he’ll be easy to find up there. There’s a door that’s locked and another where there’s a group hanging out on the bed and each other as Kpop loudly plays.

You find Mary in an open bedroom full of haze. He’s softly strumming an acoustic guitar—his fingers fumbling slightly on the unfamiliar strings as he tunes his way up the frets. He’s propped up in a corner, legs crossed under him, as the others in the room pass a joint around.

Picking your way carefully through the crowd, you make your way over to Mary. People shift and sway out of the way and scoot over when you smush yourself in next to him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” You lean your head onto his shoulder, and Mary passes off the guitar to someone else. “Where’re Ed, Edd, and Eddy?”

He snorts.

“Went in search of snackies.”

He looks down at the beers resting in the small slick of condensation on the floor and licks his lips.

“One of those for me?”

“Yeah,” you say as you hand him the room-temperature bottle, which he takes up and chugs half of in one go. Watching his adam’s apple bobbing, you lean in to lick his neck. Mary jerks, then coughs, half spraying the beer out his mouth and nose. A few people squeal in surprise as you cackle, and Mary glares at you, wiping at his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his shirt that he’s curled over his hand.

“Fuck. You’re a pain in my ass.”

He drapes his arm around your shoulder, the bottle in his hand resting on your arm. The person who has the guitar now is strumming up a familiar song, and soon everyone is singing along (screaming or shrieking off key in some cases). Under the guise of getting his drink close to his mouth, Mary subtly maneuvers you into his lap—his other hand sneaking up under your shirt hem to rest on the curve of your belly with the tips of his fingers brushing just under one cup of your bra. You’re too loose from the drinking game to really care, so you lean back into his chest, warbling along to the tune as well.

You’re swaying, drink in hand, as you screech along to another song, when suddenly you become very aware of Mary’s erection pressing into your ass.

You turn your head. “Seriously?”

He rumbles into your ear. “Whaddya want? You’re squirming on my lap.”

Giggling, you purposely grind back on him, and he grabs your hips.

“Fuck, baby doll—keep that up and I’m gonna make a mess.”

You lean your head back on his shoulder as you circle your hips.

“You love making a mess, Mare Bear.”

He leans down to bite at your neck.

“I love making a mess on you. Not in my pants.”

“So stop me.”

Mary’s arm comes around your waist, effectively pulling you flush against him.

“FucK.”

More people wander in as the songs turn from nostalgic familiars to those of the drinking variety, and they raise solo cups and bottles in joyful celebration.

Everyone is sloppy; some sway to the rhythm of the songs, others drunkenly half mosh, spilling their drinks everywhere. You grinding your ass back into Mary—and him twitching up into you—is hardly a blip on anybody’s radar. His head thunks down onto the slope of your shoulder, his hips wanting to rut faster than subtlety or your own movements allow.

People are stomping, clapping, and spraying beer on each other as they half mutter words to drinking songs they realize they only half know.

Mary is a mess, trembling as he presses into you and mewling softly with each pass. Conversely, you’re having a grand ole time: rocking your hips as you sway and sing along to whatever the person in possession of the guitar is currently playing. Ignoring your own wetness and the growing throb in between your legs, you try to give him the pressure he needs.

You can feel his chest heaving into your back and the sweat from his forehead on your skin when it’s clear he’s getting close. His limbs shake as his arms squeeze you tighter, his movements almost stilling to nothing—and then he blows out a held breath like a drumbeat, his crotch pressing into you in pulses as he bites down into the juncture of your neck. Gasping, you spill a good amount of your drink as you jerk forward—Mary still rutting shallowly into you.

A few people cheer at your party foul—which hopefully takes any attention off Mary, who is clearly no longer hiding the fact that he’s cumming hard in his pants. He finally slumps behind you, his arms loosening and sprawling open.

“Shit,” he says.

You lean back. “Mmm … good?” you purr.

His hands sneak back under your top to sink into your flesh, and he leans up enough to whisper into your ear.

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“You could’ve stopped me.”

He growls. “You know what you touching my dick does to me.”

“Was I, though? Touching your dick?”

Mary rubs his face into your neck as his hands squeeze your chub.

“Close enough.”

“Get a room, Goore!” screams someone before some of the group toss a couple of empty solos your way.

Mary looks up and grins.

“Maybe I fucking will.” He starts to stand up, bringing you with him—probably to hide the wet patch on his jeans. “See you losers later.”

There’s a general chorus of hoots and whistles, but mostly the crowd goes back to their drinking songs.

“Are we really getting a room?” you ask—arousal curling—as Mary directs you around the second floor, hands on your hips to keep you in front of him.

“A bathroom, yeah.”

There’s a slight wait—one Mary fills with his roving hands and lips—before the woman ahead of you stumbles out, wiping her wet hands ineffectually on her party dress.

Mary ushers you in, locking the door behind you. The two of you look down to inspect the damage. It’s actually not terrible. You can hardly tell at all on his jeans, and Mary undoes them so he can half shuck them down. His boxer briefs are a completely different story; they’re visibly soaked through at the top, and when he peels away the waistband, he reveals a sticky, slimy mess coating his stomach and flaccid cock.

“Shit. This may be a lost cause,” he says as he inspects the inside of the fabric.

“TP?”

“Yeah, unless you wanna lick it off …” Mary looks up at you with a smirk. “Which would be kinda hot, actually.”

“Sorry,” you say as you roll toilet paper around your hand, “but I like my jizz how I like my coffee: hot and fresh from the source.”

He runs a finger through the mess and then wiggles it at you. “It’s still kinda warm!”

You wrap your mouth around it because it’s the last thing he expects you to do.

“Uh …”

He’s momentarily rendered speechless as he watches you suck his finger clean and then smack your lips as if appraising.

“Nah. None of that reheated crap either.”

He blinks down at you. “Should I be horrified that I’m rubbing off on you?”

You give him a smile with your tongue half sticking out as you rub the wadded up toilet paper across his belly.

“I’m pretty sure I was just rubbing you off, Mare.”

Mary’s hands come up and sink into your hair. “Shut up.” He pulls you into a deep kiss. “Fuck. Love it when you tease me,” he says as he pulls away.

“I know.” You beam up at him and continue trying to clean him up.

He looks down at himself. “Fuck it.” He goes to toe off his boots, realizes that he’s wearing his “dress boots”—the less-scuffed ones that lace up to his knees—and snarls in frustration.

When he goes for the medicine cabinet, you step out of the way and toss the slimed wad of paper into the toilet. Making an Ah-ha! noise, Mary turns to you and snaps a pair of hair scissors triumphantly.

“Do the honors, will ya?”

“Wait—you want me to … cut your boxers off?”

“I’m sure as fuck not taking these boots off or spending the rest of the night marinating in my own jizz.”

You snort at him. “Whatever you want, Mare Bear.” You shuffle forward and hop up onto the sink. It only teeters a little.

“Hey! Hurry the fuck up in there!” comes a male voice through the door accompanied by banging.

“Fuck off, I’m taking a dump!” barks Mary.

“Dude,” says the voice, but the banging stops.

Mary shifts forward into the V of your spread legs as he hands you the scissors. He keeps his face close to yours. “Try not to cut off anything important,” he breathes at you.

“Of course—you’re no good to me clipped.”

His eyes meet yours, then travel down to his crotch. Carefully (willing your eyes to focus), you start from the top down, snipping the fabric—bunching it up with each shear—until you reach the end of the leg up to the crotch, Mary only flinching slightly (“Careful with the goods, woman!” “Fucking hold still!”). Once each side is cut, Mary and you work together to pull each half free.

As you ball up the front half to toss into the trash basket, Mary uses the back half to wipe up the lingering stickiness coating his cock and stomach.

“Better?” you ask when he’s finished and zipping his jeans back up, the other half of his boxers joining its twin in the trash.

He wiggles a bit. “Eh, it’ll do.” You expect him to back off, but instead he crowds closer. “What about you, baby doll? Maybe I should check on you.”

Before you have a chance to respond, Mary is shoving up the layers of your skirt and pressing his hand into your damp tights. You gasp at the sensation.

“Hmm,” he rumbles, “seems like you could use some clean up yourself.”

And then he’s maneuvering his head in between your spread legs, trying to position your knees over his shoulders. You let out an Oh, as your hands fly down to brace yourself on the edges of the sink; Mary growls in frustration as he tries to first pull down your tights, then to rip them apart to no avail. Before you can stop him, he’s picked up the shears and has snipped a slit in your crotch.

“Mary!” you yelp, but he just dives back down, tongue wiggling through the rip in the fabric to trace your seam before delving into your folds to flick at your clit. At the burst of sweetness, you moan, and your head thunks back into the mirror.

Head swimming, you lose yourself in the feel of his tongue as it swirls around your nub and then presses into it a few times before he’s sucking it in between his plush lips. He repeats this process, sometimes running his tongue down to your entrance and then back up, and at others holding the tip directly on your clit until you start squirming in frustration … only to then flick repeatedly back and forth.

A finger enters you, and you cry out, “Oh fuck,” as you tighten around it. Mary starts to slowly ease it in and out of you as his tongue continues its massage of your hardening clit. You’re really squirming now, rocking into his mouth and down onto his finger—making sure you light up every sweet spot. You feel like a guitar string wound too tight, ready to snap, and your pussy pulsates in warning.

Mary sets his tongue speed to 11, and you feel the tidal wave of your orgasm start rushing toward you. You let out a squeak as your one hand sinks into Mary’s hair right before your climax breaks, and you start bucking into his mouth. Like a good boy, he manages to follow the lead of your hips until your pussy stops popping and your body relaxes—your butt slipping down into the bowl of the sink.

After catching your breath, you look down to find Mary’s twinkling eyes staring up at you from beneath the layers of your skirt. You pet down the side of his head with an Mmm, and his eyes close as he leans into the touch.

“I think you only made me stickier, Mare.”

His head tilts to rest on your one leg.

“Not my fault you get wet as fuck. There’s only so much I can lap up at once.”

You shift up into a sitting position as Mary wipes his face—and the lower part of his makeup—onto your tights.

“Shit. Are the tights a lost cause too?”

“Stand up?”

You hop off the sink, and Mary inspects your backside. He gives it a slap before saying, “Nah, I think you’re good. Just a little damp.”

You crinkle your nose. “Well, I feel slimy. Turn around so I can take care of business.”

Mary peers into the mirror to even out his smudgy face before slurping some tap water from the faucet as you get your situation into a tolerable state.

When the two of you exit the bathroom—Mary’s arm draped back around your shoulders—there are two guys lounging on the bottom of the stairs leading up to the 3rd floor. They look up at the sound of the bathroom door opening, and one scrunches his face at you.

“Dude. I thought you were taking a shit.”

He holds up a blackened Yankee candle.

Mary shrugs at him. “We don’t kink shame here.”

The guy’s companion bursts out laughing even as you elbow Mary in the ribs. He just laughs as he says, “C’mon let’s get some suds.”

The two of you make your way back down to the kitchen where Shonda The Beer Færie has replenished the coolers again. Mary shotguns a can—foam spritzing everywhere—as you search for the elusive opener. Unable to locate it, you try—and fail—to pop the top off on the counter.

“Gimme,” says Mary—belching—grabbing for your bottle. After fishing for another bottle in the ice, he aligns the caps and pops them both with the other.

“My hero,” you say in an affected tone as you bat your curled eyelashes at him.

“That’s fucking right.” He makes an arm in an attempt to bulge his bicep.

You test it with your hand. “Nah. Too small, throw it back.”

Pouting at you, he says, “You’re the worst, and we’re in a fight.”

You shrug as you take a swig of beer. “Eh. I got what I wanted.”

Mary makes a grab for the bottle, but you twist out of his reach and bolt out of the kitchen. He doesn’t catch you before you seek sanctuary in the living room. All the furniture has been pushed against walls, the rug rolled and resting in a corner, and more bodies than there should be are packed into the center as a party mix thumps from the speakers.

You wiggle your way into the crowd and run into Kara and Elsie, who shout Hooray! and pull you into their bump and grind. The 3 of you raise your drinks into the air to avoid spilling on each other as you rock and sway, alternating who gets sandwiched.

Suddenly, Mary is at your elbow.

“Hey! Gimme back my girlfriend!”

“Sorry, Goore,” says Elsie. “Finders keepers.”

For a minute he looks genuinely put out, but then he just smirks. “Whatever, I’ll just enjoy the view.”

“Pig,” Kara spits.

Mary shrugs and starts to do a god-awful wiggle that you think is supposed to be dancing. He has the rhythm—and his ass jiggle is pretty nice—but that’s about all he’s got going for him in the moves department.

The mix must be trying to appeal to all types, but ends up being a spastic mix with no eye for continuity. Nineties Girl Pop transitions into Metal, which transitions into Country, then into Alternative, then to 80′s Power Ballad, then R&B, then Punk.

After screaming along to “Toxic”, Elsie leans in. “Fuck, I’m about to pass out. I need to get some air.”

“Want me to come with you?” asks Kara.

“Up to you, dear.”

They look at you.

“I should throw Mary a bone.”

Kara smirks at you. “Kinky.”

Elsie rolls her eyes at her friend. “C’mon you bitch ass.”

Seeing his opportunity, Mary gives a head nod as he seamlessly switches places with them. He pulls your back into him as his hands come round to rest on your hips.

“Good thing you emptied my dick earlier, or we’d have a problem,” he murmurs into your ear.

“Don’t be gross.”

“K.”

You and Mary grind or shimmy or jump depending on what the song calls for, your beer long drunk by now. At some point someone opens a window, and the chill, near-January air curls in—its icy but brisk tendrils working their way through the crowd. You shiver a little as the sweat on your skin tingles and cools at its touch, and Mary pulls you in tighter.

Meatloaf comes on—🎶 On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses? 🎶—and Mary snuffles his face into the crook of your neck, you tilting your head to the side to give him access.

🎶 Will he offer me his teeth? 🎶

He worries at you with his teeth.

🎶 Will he offer me his hunger? 🎶

His blunt teeth sink into you, and you let out a pleased rumble.

🎶 And will he starve without me? 🎶

“Yes,” he whispers into your ear right along with Jim Steinman.

You roll your eyes even though Mary can’t see you do it, but you let him spin you out—jostling the other revelers—and back into him (stumbling) as the drum beat drops. He tries to twirl you, but the crowd has packed back in around you, and all you accomplish is tripping over his boots.

🎶 …I was dying just to ask for a taste 🎶 he mouths at you.

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” you say.

He leans in and nips at your lips, but you turn your head to whisper in his ear.

“I gave you a taste earlier, mister.”

“Mmm, but I’m greedy.”

You let him mouth at your neck as the two of you sway back and forth, Mary’s hands dipping lower and lower.

A sudden commotion is like a record scratch, and everyone turns to the front hall. Mary’s bandmates come into sight—caterwauling with 12 packs of shitty beer held aloft—encouraging the cheers of the other partygoers.

One spots Mary and points his finger at him.

“Goore! Goore! Goore!”

The other band members pick up the chant.

“Goore! Goore! Goore!”

The crowd takes up what has become a war cry:

“Goore! GOORE!  G O O R E !”

Mary points back, then puts his hand up in supplication at you as he backs his way out of the room.

“You’re a goddamned tease!” you cry after him.

He shrugs before spinning on his heel to be assimilated in the group, the chant turning into whoops and hollers as they make their way into the kitchen.

Mary had warned you that the band usually did an unplugged set, and you surmise they must need to set up.

Without Mary or the girls, the dance room has lost its appeal, so you meander around the first floor. The drinking games have devolved into “Never Have I Ever,” and while the pizza is gone, a homemade-looking mac and cheese dish in a tinfoil baking pan has appeared.

You pile some onto a paper plate (whose structural integrity you seriously question) and are content to watch the proceedings until a girl in the circles demands you squeeze in with a slurred “None of this wallflower shit!”. They shove a solo cup into your hand, which is then promptly filled with whiskey from a Jack bottle.

For the next hour or so, the guests on either side of you—Lila and Marty—become the best friends you never knew you had while you all hoot and catcall each other to the escalating scenarios. The bromance comes to a swift end, sadly, when Dee appears in the doorframe, sees you, and points dramatically.

“It is time for the festivities!” he yells in deep baritone.

“I’m being summoned!” you yell, and there’s a chorus of boos as you wobbly make your way over.

“Come, yon neophyte, and join us at the gathering spot.”

“Lay on, McDee!”

Dee leads you out into the backyard, which is done up with myriad bulb lights. Mary winks at you as you pass him on the porch—picking your way around the hodgepodge of instruments—before you join Ed, Trevor, Kara, and Elsie at one side of a well-used iron fire pit on the grass. The girls are passing a flask back and forth as they snuggle you in between them.

It should be fucking freezing out, but with the alcohol, the body heat, and the fire, you actually feel quite cozy. There’s a buzz of voices as the band arranges and tunes the borrowed instruments. You think you can see human shapes on back decks in other lots, but it’s hard to tell through the glare of the lights.

The band members take their places, there’s a countdown, and then Mary and the guys jumpstart into their first crowd favorite. While there are some general cheers at favored sections, the intimacy of the party and the lack of mics or speakers make it a quieter affair than their venue shows. You and the girls sway back and forth in your triplet, and even the guys are fist pumping and mouthing along. They play two more of their own songs before doing a few classic 80′s punk covers that really get everyone hyped.

It’s not perfect—none of them are sober, they’re unaccustomed to the instruments, and the cold air isn’t helping dexterity. At one point the lead singer forgets the words and just la la las his way through the verse, which in turn sends some of the other members into a musical stutter. Not everyone is invested in the whole set—some people went back inside after the first few tunes, and others see the band as just background to their conversations. Those who are fully invested have gravitated closer to the porch—but your group of Mary’s bffls are content to hang out by the fire pit where a few people have started roasting marshmallows.

After an … interesting … mashup of “Rudie Can’t Fail” and “Classics of Love” that sounds like a physical representation of a key smash, the band closes ranks, and there’s some whispered conversation and emphatic gesturing.

“Ok!” says Donnie, the lead singer. “We’re gonna switch things up. Usually on backing vocals, Goore is going to take lead for our last song.” There are some boos that probably have more to do with the set ending than Mary singing, but also some whistles that are probably for Mary. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But it’s a party for us too!”

“Huh,” says Elsie.

“What?” you say into her armpit.

“Mary hates lead.”

You know. He’s mentioned ad nauseam.

Mary steps forward and takes position up front. When he brushes his forelock out of the way, he looks up briefly and catches eyes with you. You give him thumbs up. A grin breaks out on his face, and he winks at you. Slowly, he strums chords until he finds what he’s looking for, and you can tell he’s humming along quietly—it’s a familiar sight now to you, but you wonder how much of this crowd has seen Mary chart out a song.

Finding the key he’s looking for, Mary clears his throat. His voice isn’t rich in timbre, but he rasps out with feeling, and his pitch is near perfect.

🎶 So I hear you been wondering I've been wondering too Just what this crazy world has in store for me and you 🎶

You’re surprised at his choice, and you feel your face burn. Mary’s eyes flick up to you—glinting boyishly—and you stick your tongue out at him. He slows the song way down as he sings, changing the frenetic energy of the original into a soulful ballad to which he can growl along.

🎶 You scratching to find a way A tortured soul back from the grave O Baby Doll back to kill them all Now please won’t you stay 🎶

Mary pauses, looking full up at you before taking in a deep breath. A few heads turn to see who he’s looking at. You scrunch your face at him to convey your mortification, but he just shakes his head at you—he’s not going to stop.

🎶 Baby Doll whoa Baby Doll I need you I love you Baby Doll whoa Baby Doll O Please come back to me 🎶

You suddenly feel naked under the interested gazes of the curious onlookers as Mary continues on. He’s mostly singing at the guitar, but his few pointed glances at you make it clear who he’s singing to.

🎶 The tortures of your soul The rotting flesh pain never dulls O Baby Doll you will kill them all Now please come to me 🎶

You try to sink back into Elsie and Kara, who just push you forward again.

“Dude,” Elsie breaths at you.

“This is awesome,” says Kara.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” you mutter through your plastered on smile.

Some of the amassed crowd—which suddenly seems to have multiplied—start clapping to the slowed beat, and it causes a ripple of well-timed claps as well as those who can’t keep a rhythm.

Strumming in deliberate strokes, Mary looks up to hold your eyes once more.

🎶 I see you standing there In the shadows and in the rain A lifeless beauty Nothing could ever ease you of all your pain But Baby Doll the revenge you seek I dunno It will never be sweet But you'll never give it up Now come to me Come on 🎶

You shake your head as Mary continues to repeat the chorus into a soft fade. There’s a moment of silence after he’s finished, and he points out at you.

“Give it up for my very own baby doll!”

Applause breaks out and you give him double Fs.

Mary sets down the guitar carefully as Donnie steps forward again.

“All right! That’s it, motherfuckers! We’re about an hour away from the New Year, so grab a drink and sign up for our mailing list if you haven’t already!”

The crowd is whooping and whistling. A few people crowd up on the porch, as do Trevor, Ed, & Dee. Mary shakes hands, shoulder bumps, and backslaps his bandmates and some of the crowd, but his eyes are on you.

“I’d fuck him,” says Kara with a smirk.

Elsie groans. “Please don’t fuck in front of us. At least find a broom closet.”

You turn to her and give her a wolfish smile. “Who says we haven’t already christened it?”

Elsie buries her face in her hands as Kara tipsily attempts to fist bump you and ends up smushing your tit.

“Whoops! My bad!”

“Bitch, we’re cutting you off.”

“No, you’re not. Who would you do shots with?”

“Suey’s more than capable.”

You make a “who me?” face.

“Mebbe, but I think her mouth is spoken for.”

You’re about to respond, but arms suddenly encircle you, a mouth presses to your neck, and you squawk.

“If you’re not Mary Goore, you better watch your nuts!”

“I’m me, and I have to watch my nuts, anyway.”

You squirm around so that you’re facing him.

“Forget your nuts, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Aaaand on that note!” says Elsie, and she and Kara pat Mary’s arm before heading inside.

He looks down at you with hooded eyes.

“Whatever. You’re pleased. You fucking love that song.”

“Oh? Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“I still have my nuts.”

You narrow your eyes at him, then point your finger in his face.

“You’re on thin ice, mister.”

“Mmm, I can think of a few ways you can take it out of my ass later.”

Your stomach flips, and you press into him, grabbing his jaw.

“Damn right I will.”

Mary bites his lip as you wiggle your hand in between the two of you to palm at his crotch. He closes his eyes and sways a little 

and that’s when you step away from him.

“C’mon—my cup is empty. I need a refresh.”

Mary’s eyes pop open, and he whines while making an exaggerated puppy-dog face.

You snap your fingers at him. “That’s for earlier.”

There are still enough people mingling outside that it takes a while for the two of you to actually make it back inside—some are Mary’s friendly acquaintances he wants to say hi to and others are fans he can’t help but chat up.

“We’re going to be on Instagram again, aren’t we?” you say when you finally start your trek inside, his arm lazily resting around your shoulders.

His head turns to face you, and he gives you an impish smile.

“Tell me if I give a shit.”

You quirk your eyebrow at him. “You might give a shit later.”

His smile turns vulpine. “Promise?”

Your hand slips into his back pocket and squeezes.

It’s actually pretty close to the ball drop by this point, so you and Mary grab up two of the bargain plastic champagne glasses you find lined up in rows on the kitchen counter. When the cheap champagne starts being passed around like you’re all in a pirate shanty, you hold out the glasses (Mary’s already lost the base to his) for a fill.

There’s no way everyone is going to fit in the living room; the majority of the attendees are spilling out into the hall, up the stairwell, and out onto the porch, with you and Mary are squished in by the stairs—but the volume for Rocking New Year’s Eve is turned up so loud the speakers are fuzzing, and a few people are streaming it on the phones.

“T-Minus one minute!” someone screams, and a cheer goes up.

“Oh shit!” you exclaim and start digging around in your bra.

“What?” asks Mary as his eyes flick down to your tits.

You retrieve two silver dollars, warmed by your skin, and press one into Mary’s free hand.

“What’s this?” He holds the coin up at eye level.

“Silver dollar. If you hold onto one as the year turns over, it’s supposed to bring good fortune.”

He looks at you skeptically as he turns it this way and that. “Does it work?”

You shrug. “Can’t hurt. My grandma swore by it.”

“THIRTY SECONDS!”

“Where d’you even get these?”

You grin.

“Amazon.”

Shouts come from the living room: “10 … 9 … 8 …”

Mary turns to face you, and the two of you take up the chant.

“7 … 6 … 5…”

He crowds a little closer, the fist holding the coin draped over your shoulder with yours resting on his hip.

“4 … 3 … 2 …”

You don’t get out the “1” because Mary smashes his mouth to yours—just a hard press of lips to lips—then he’s pulling away to press his glass to your mouth. As you try to sip out of it, you fumble your own glass to his mouth. The two of you only succeed in spilling half the contents all over each other before conceding defeat.

There’s some shrieking a moment before everyone in the hall gets sprayed with foamy champagne. Since there really isn’t any room to escape, Mary and you try your best to duck and cover, laughing as the droplets come raining down. The beach ball from earlier comes out of nowhere, and you punch it back into the air, the plastic of it slick from the champagne shower.

Everyone is still screaming, separated friends are trying to find each other amidst the revelry, and some dude on the stairs is shouting Tennyson over an off-key rendition of “Auld Lang Syne”.

“Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky!” 🎶 Should old acquaintance be forgot, 🎶

Elsie and Kara are jumping up and down from where they are in the living room, pointing, and starting to make their way to you.

“The flying cloud, the frosty light!” 🎶 and never brought to mind? 🎶

The beach ball beans you in the face, and Mary takes it and lobs it onto the porch where it hits the back of Donnie’s head, causing the rest of them to cackle and holler back.

“The year is dying in the night!” 🎶 Should old acquaintance be forgot, 🎶

Like magic, Mary procures a half-full bottle of bubbly from the train of people maneuvering in the hall and takes a big swig before passing it to you. You chug the rest, coughing as the lukewarm bubbles fizz up your nose.

“Ring out, wild bells, and let him die!” 🎶 and auld lang syne? 🎶

Laughing, Mary wipes at your face with his sleeve, and you realize he’s still got the silver dollar clutched tight in his hand.

Song List

Next ➡️

[whirlybirbs]

WE’RE GHOSTS.  ----  A.M. ;

summary: you, on a flight of fate, buy a journal belonging to an A. MORGAN. turns out it’s haunted. based on this plot idea i threw out into the world this morning. word count: who knows, this is v. freeform, i did not count pairing: ghost!arthur x reader, w/ a twist a/n: me? a ghost fan? yea. so far, this is a stand-alone fic. the end is loose, so if folks want another part, leave a lil comment, send my dumb ass an ask, i love ghost fics.

The journal comes with more questions than anything.

The withered pages are rich with personal history. quick, sketched-out drawings of places visited are accompanied by the smudge of fingerprints along the dog eared pages. The words, in practiced script, are incredibly human -- loss, heartbreak, happiness...

And then it just ends.

There’s pages left to be filled at the end, at-least twenty or so, and you find yourself wondering what in the world happened to A. MORGAN.

Things start moving.

It’s... little things.

Like, the can of beans from your cabinet is suddenly on the counter one morning. Your knife drawer, you find, slides open randomly. You blame it all on forgetfulness and loose hinges.

An old photo falls off the wall one night, scaring you half to death -- you pull yourself from the sheets, bleary eyed from sleep and confusion, to find the frame in the middle of the hall.

The snow around the family of deer glints in the light of the moon.

You blink, swearing you saw a reflection in the glass.

You ignore it. You put the picture back on the wall and move on.

It’s nearly winter.

The house creaks more, lonely and quiet, but full to the brim with something you can’t quite put your finger on. It feels heavier and you stoke the fireplace wondering if some time away from your family’s cabin would put you at ease.

The house was passed down to you when your parents moved south, chasing retirement and heat. You didn’t have the heart to let them put it on the market. Too many good memories.

But, now? Those are being snuffed out by nameless anxieties.

The noises haven’t stopped -- in fact, they’ve only gotten worse.

Things have started to move in the attic. You don’t have the heart to go up there. Instead, you lay in bed, as still as you can, while old furniture shifts above you.

The tinker of spurs on the floors up there is like bells in the wind.

The kitchen.

The sounds are coming from the kitchen.

It’s the shattering of glass that separates this from all the other incidents. This time, the baseball bat in your hands is gripped with a ferocious need for protection -- and you pad into the kitchen quiet as a mouse, fight or flight driving your hands to shake and eyes to dart.

When you pass the threshold of the kitchen, your jaw drops.

A bottle of Jack Daniels is spinning on its side on the quartz island, whiskey pouring from the bottle. Three shot glasses lined up and full, one shattered on the kitchen floor. Every drawer is open, as if someone had been searching for something...

And the journal sits, open, on the kitchen table. It’s on an early entry. One about the town of Valentine and a rowdy night in the local saloon.

“How the fuck --” you utter, reaching to touch the journal.

And as your fingers skim the page, all the lights in the kitchen strobe in one big flourish, bulbs shattering like gunshots in glittered little filaments as you screech, jumping six feet in the air.

Then the drawers, ramming back and forth and you realize it’s the knife drawer again -- and suddenly, a butcher knife sails across the room and embeds itself in the wall beside your head.

Right through a canvas painting of a white tailed buck in the snow.

The guy at Home Depot didn’t say a word when you bought four whole packs of new light bulbs, plaster, and chains at check out. The look on his face was sympathetic.

You get an extra shot in your coffee order on your way back to the Antique Store, journal in hand.

Well, not in hand. It’s rubber-banded shut in the backseat, weighed down by an old bible you found in a drawer in the guest room.

“All sales are final,” says the owner, shaking his head, “I finally got rid a’ that thing --”

“Yeah,” you bite, “And I haven’t gotten a wink of sleep since.”

“Here,” he says, cashing open the register and handing you a ten dollar bill, “Have your money. But, I ain’t taking that thing back... Why don’t you go burn it?”

Your eye twitches.

“You’re kidding.”

“Just burn it.”

You gawk at your friend, eyes pulled wide as you stab your steak.

“I can’t... I can’t do that --”

“It’s haunted, dude.”

“Yeah, but it’s... history.”

“Haunted history,” she muses over her wine, “It’s ruining your home --”

She gestures to the fresh plaster over your shoulder. The knife had left a good hole. Across from you, the pantry is chained closed and so is the drawer belonging to the aforementioned knife.

“ -- So, dowse it in holy water and burn it.”

“You’re kidding.”

She wasn’t. And the owner of the Antique Store wasn’t either.

The internet agrees with them.

You’ve been doing a lot of research.

Your knee bounces, lip pulled between your teeth as you eye the journal sitting before you on the kitchen counter. You’re worrying, torn between a deep regret of burning lost history -- I mean, the guilt of destroying A. Morgan’s life... the last living document of it...

The pantry door creaks open behind you.

“Will you stop?” you snap finally, words hiking in irritation, “Stop it.”

A moment’s pause.

And then it shuts.

You gawk, eyes darting to the journal as you round the counter. Your eyes narrow, finger darting out. 

“Listen up, Morgan --” you mutter, “I dunno who you think you are --”

The faucet behind you turns on.

“I pay the bills,” you say slowly, “I live here, and you’re more than welcome to stay but you need to stop scaring me.”

The faucet cuts abruptly in a cough. You spin, eyeing it in bewilderment.

“I’m going crazy,” you breathe, “I’m talking to a book.”

Suddenly there’s a hand on your hip. Like someone trying to pass by. 

You let him.

You step out of the shower one morning and there’s a hand-print in the steam of the mirror.

“If you’re tryin’ to peep on me in the shower,” you say quietly. “I’ll kill you.”

You swear you hear a laugh over your shoulder.

Humming. 

It’s like the fading of a song, in and out, and you can’t tell where it’s coming from. It pulls you from your sleep and as soon as you open your eyes you feel the weight of the bed shift.

Silence.

Things quiet down.

No more shattered glasses, no more flying knives, no more exploding bulbs. The pantry stays closed, but the beans keep appearing here and there -- which you don’t really mind.

A. Morgan’s journal has it’s own spot on your kitchen table now.

The touching happens more often. Most recently, you’d felt a hand on your shoulder while you’d sat and watched television in the living room. 

You look over the back of the couch.

“... Hello?”

Silence.

Things in the attic, however, are louder than ever.

You still don’t have the courage to go up there.

You settle on bundling up, after all it’s winter. And you need the coats that are up there. But, there’s something holding you back. You worry that going up there will shift the dynamic you’ve seemed to have settled into with the other guest in your home.

“You know,” you say politely in the direction of the journal as you’re cooking dinner, “I wish you’d keep it down up there --”

The attic floorboards creak and a bang! resounds through the house.

Your hand flies to your heart.

A low rumble of laughter carves through the dining room.

It’s a frigid Sunday morning when you decide to brave it. You pull the hatch down in the hallway, attic ladder folding out as you heave a sigh and try to keep your wits about you.

“I just need my jackets --” you say gently as you ascend the steps slowly, flashlight clicking on in your hands, “I’ll get them and get outta your hair, Morgan -- I...”

Your jaw drops.

The attic is...

“Oh my god.”

A mess.

“What the hell have you been up to...?” you breathe, stepping over mounds of clothes spilling from box overturned on the floor.

The furniture is old -- passed down to your mom’s mom by her mom. Inside are old dresses, old shirts, furs and scarves and hats and... the doors to the wardrobe are open, exposing the now bare mahogany of the back. It’s been emptied, and you breathe a soft exclamation of shock as you near it, stepping over the pastel fabrics pooled on the floor.

In the back of the dresser, there are scratches.

WHERE AM I?

As you read it, your breath curls around you.

You feel like you’ve been shoved into an icebox. Behind your eyes, a shallow grave in the middle of winter flashes like a bad dream. 

There’s a sound over your shoulder then, like a cough, and you spin -- eyes dilating in the dark as your flashlight follows. The whole attic has been torn through.

It smells like tobacco.

The doors to the wardrobe slam shut then with a desperate rattle and you jump, eyes peeled wide as the mirrors fixed to the outer doors glimmer back at you.

The man in the reflection looks scared.

And then he’s gone.

You ask your coworker to help you move the wardrobe one afternoon.

“Nice piece a’ furniture,” he’d remarked as he helped you maneuver it down the ladder, “Where’s it going?”

“My room --” you say, straining to lift the heavy piece, “I felt guilt having this up there in the dark.”

“Nice place.”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

You’re working at your desk when you hear it, head snapping to the sound -- it’s gone in a beat, fading into the back of your mind and you’re left wondering if it even happened.

And... then you smell the tobacco.

Smoke curls in the rays of the winter afternoon sun pouring through the windows.

The reflection -- it’s not you. It’s him. You freeze, eyes trying their best to memorize the figure of the reclined outlaw. He’s on your bed, like a man out of time, hat tipped low to hide everything but the cut of his jaw. He’s looking at you, you realize, and when you turn to look at the spot on the bed, you see there’s an imprint. 

“Thanks,” you says slowly, “You’ve certainly settled in.”

A laugh. In one ear, rattling around and out the other.

Blue eyes meet yours in the reflection.

There’s blood on his collar.

And then he’s gone.

“Who’re you?”

You pull your eyes up from his journal. 

In the wardrobe mirror, his reflection paints him long and broad and rugged. His hat is in hands, calloused and bruised, and he looks pale; his cheeks are gaunt and eyes a bit hollow, but you can see the handsome cut of his profile more clearly now without his hat obscuring the view. He’s hunched over the side of the bed. 

A. Morgan is scared.

“I, uh... I should be asking you that, I think.”

“Arthur.”

Silence. The smell of tobacco is all that lingers behind.

You buy a book -- GUNSLINGERS & THE WEST, a collection of biographies by Theodore Levin. It’s the only thing you can find that mentions Arthur Morgan, aside from a few old newspaper clippings that briefly mention a man of the same name from a town called Blackwater. 

The history is a bit muddied, the newspaper articles only giving you pieces of the picture.

The book helps.

He was a member of the Van der Linde’s... some gang from back in the day. Son of Lyle and Beatrice Morgan. Surname is Welsh. Born in 1863. It doesn’t tell you much more than that., only that Arthur helped Levin composite some of the images and stories in his book.

How nice of him.

“Y’ still didn’t say who y’ are.”

You jump fifty feet in the air.

The bathroom mirror is dark, but you can see him there over your shoulder as the faucet runs -- the glow of a lit cigarette hangs from his lips. There’s the smell again. His spurs jingle as he settles against the sill.

You rub at the sleep in your eyes. 

It’s 3am. 

“Am I dead?”

You don’t know how to answer him. 

He disappears in an exhale of smoke.

On the table in the kitchen, pages of his journal begin to turn.

Without prompting, you tell him your name.

You’re chopping carrots for stew as you speak.

The pages stop.

“I think you’re dead,” you say softly, “I think -- I don’t know. I think you’ve been dead for a long time... I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Your house is quiet for a few days. 

Eerily so.

You’d become used to the weight of someone else’s energy in the house for so long that... well, you’re a little worried that your words in the kitchen the other dat had maybe been cause enough for him to move on.

And that’s when the dreams start.

Laughter. The burn of whiskey bubbles in your throat. There’s a smile on your lips and a hand dragging you to the fire and sweet words being chirped into your ear. 

Suddenly, you realize, this isn’t your life.

“Wha’s wrong, sweetpea, huh?”

Blue eyes glimmer with worry, lacking hollow divide.

The faces around the fire have no discernible features. When you think you’ve nailed them down, they melt into a changing river of expressions. Blurred. Running like rain. Panic rises in your throat.

Arthur’s face is the last thing you see before you wake up.

You’re not supposed to be there.

“I know you.”

You think maybe he’s right.

His hands are on your skin, searing and hot and dangerously tempting. They hike up your thighs, mouth pressed hotly to your own -- the moments twists like a knife in your gut and you’re pushing it away, hands shoving in a flurry of confusion.

This isn’t right, this isn’t your life.

Arthur’s face is flooded with concern. 

A beat passes. Heavy breaths linger between you both. Finally, from above him in his lap, you speak.

“You do know me.”

“Who is she?”

Arthur clears his throat. He’s coughing, heavy and wet, into his arm. Blood runs down his chin. It hurts, the mere sound of it, and his breath runs ragged.

“I was gonna marry her.”

“Is that how you know me?”

He doesn’t need to say a word. You know the answer already.

Fate’s a funny thing.

[marvinswriting]

Northshore's couples, written by anonymous, about anonymous.

a crack idea bear and I had that I took seriously

g/t mean girls

November, 12th

Ifykyk.

Hey, Northshore! Welcome to a new section of the school newspaper. I've been fighting for a gossip blog for a hot minute now, and since the paper is dying down, Northshore is finally allowing it. 

But this isn't just any gossip blog.

This is the place where I'm gonna -try- to answer your most burning questions about Northshore couples in question.

All through anonymity and observation.

To start, let's meet the students. All names have been changed so identities can stay hidden. In the tinies we've got: J, A, and R. Then in the giants there is: D, C, G, K, and S.

Who's with who? Who hates who? Who's got some secrets under the surface? Come back next week.

"Full offense to Northshore, this sounds stupid as fuck." Janis huffed, tossing down the newspaper, letting it fall to the table. 

Karen looked at the small girl of Damian's shoulder.

"Why do you think?"

"Gossip blogs are unoriginal and boring. The school newspaper is grasping at straws."

"They can be fun when done right." Regina points out. "I say we check in next week and find out more about the students it's about."

"Whats-" Cady frowned. "What's a gossip blog?"

"Aww, baby's first gossip blog! We have to keep up with this one. Just for Cady." Damian said.

Karen watched with amusement as her friends discussed gossip blogs and if they were any good.

This will be fun. 

November 19th

Love the feedback from last week guys! You're all as hyped as I am. And no. I won't confirm who your suspicions are. Stop slipping notes under the computer lab door.

This week J and D were seen together. (It's not uncommon.) 

A was seen kissing C when they thought nobody was looking. But don't be fooled, somebody is always looking.

Not to be creepy or anything.

Just- we saw that, A. 

You won't spot R without K or G anywhere near them, don't know if any of them are dating though.

Development into J and D's relationship as D is seen defending J from S. Sources couldn't hear what they were saying but it sounded pretty hostile. Is it just caring friends or something a little more? 

This blog is focused around uncovering Northshore's couples once and for all. Have any tips? There's been a box placed by the computer lab door. Got any other people you want to see covered? Let me know!

Until next week, the anon who writes about anons. Xx!

"So," Cady looked down at her newspaper. "A gossip blog, is just talking about people?"

"Hence, the gossip part." Janis folder her own tiny newspaper, tossing it onto the cafeteria table from Damian's pocket. "And it's stupid."

"I wonder who it's about?" Gretchen said. "I know everything about everybody. But all this info? This is news to me."

"It's obviously about-" Karen paused. Was she the only one to figure it out?

Wasn't she the dumb one?

"Never mind. I dunno who it's about either."

"I don't understand why you care so much." Janis huffed.

"Because its fun to be nosey about lives that aren't ours. Duh." Regina said.

November, 26th

Happy Friday, Northshore!

Wow, lots of you sent in info about J and D. Whether you've cracked the code on who they are or maybe you're just observant of two fellow students- there is no denying they're pretty affectionate.

Since we're on the topic, let's start with J and D.

Kisses. Lots of them.

Romantic, or just friends? The duo themselves give pretty mixed answers so we must take matters into our own hands and draw our own conclusions. J was seen skipping class on multiple occasions and hiding with D. I hope J has a good tutor. I could never miss that much info.

R and G are seen together. K seems like they're third-wheeling. Somebody get them out of there. K, if you need a sos, slip a note in the box bby. We've got you.

If you want to talk about PDA, look no further than A and C. Wow! A hello kiss, a kiss kiss, a GOODBYE KISS? They may not say it themselves but those two are definitely a fairytale couple.

No updates to S. #singleforlife.

Sorry, S. If you're reading this.

"Well, A and C just sound gross." Janis frowns.

"Don't be negative, Jan." Damian shakes his head at the girl on the table. "They sound cute."

"Overly cute." Cady says.

"I'm glad somebody agrees." Janis huffed.

"Poor K. Thridwheeling a couple is awful." Gretchen sympathizes.

"We don't know if R and G are dating." Aaron points out. "We don't know if any of these people are dating. I'm kinda hooked."

"Well, third-wheeling best friends is even worse." Cady sighs, glancing at Damian and Janis. 

Karen looked at the newspaper in her hands with a soft smile. She had a note to drop off.

December 3rd

Happppppy Friday! I have a big announcement right off the bat!

It is I, the writer, formally known as Anon. But now there's two of us! Me, the writer, and another student- the spy. Between the two of us (and your help from the box!) we're gonna crack these relationships open in no time!

This week's rundown!

R was with G the whole week. There was not one time they were separated. 

A, J, and R were seen in the tiny halls together where  A was overheard talking fondly about C.

Is there a fight for J?

D and S seem to never want to leave J alone.

Although, if you asked the writer, I'm totally team JD. Message for S? This isn't middle school anymore. Being mean to somebody isn't a good way to show your emotions. Message for D? You're doing fabulous, I'm rooting for you. Message for J? Pick fucking wisely. 

I'm a bit biased but my info is not. 

Don't you worry.

Until next week, you know where the box is! Xx.

"Aw, J and D sound like a cute couple." Regina cooes.

"A and C don't." Janis shook her head. "To sappy."

"Is Jan warming up to the gossip blog? And forming opinions?" Damian teased.

Karen shook her head in disbelief. The fact that her friends were yet to catch on-

-they were dense. Not idiots, just dense.

"S sounds like an asshole." Gretchen shook her head. "Bet its a boy. Yknow when a boy would pull your hair in elementary school and you'd get told, oh boys will be boys. He just likes you! Yeah. S is a dude for sure."

"Not every boy was like that. I wasn't." Damian said.

"You're gay." Janis rolled her eyes. 

December 10th

Heyo Northshore! It's the writer. Might I say, you look wonderful today? 

I don't see you but I'm sure you're just stunning.

A must be p r e t t y stupid because they were seen all this week studying with C. A kiss for every problem right? Hey, it's not a bad deal.

R was seen primarily with K this week, throwing off all previous theories.

Must have been a rough week for J. I'd imagine you've got to be stressed as hell to just break down randomly but guess what- they did. Lack of sleep? Hunger? S? Who knows what the culprit was.

But don't you worry, D was quick to whisk them off to someplace quiet.

Love to see it, I want a significant other like that.

The day they confirm their relationship is the day I expect a wedding invite.

See you next week! Xx.

"Wow! Looks like Jan isn't the only one in Northshore who needs to learn when to take a break before the break takes them." Damian deadpanned, lowing his newspaper.

Karen blinked. Are you kidding me?

"I was just tired." Janis huffed. "I needed a nap."

"I dunno man. A and C sound cheesy as fuck." Gretchen shook her head.

"They do. Now J and D though? That couple goals." Janis said.

Karen's hand shot to her mouth as she covered a laugh with a forced cough. "Couple? You think they're together?"

"For sure. They sound made to be!"

Oh dear.

December 17th

Winter break next week! Who's excited? We get full two weeks off this year and I'm so ready for a break.

I'll miss our resident couples in question though.

Not to throw everyone off but-

J spent the week with G. R spent the week with C. And A was with D?

Now granted by the time you're reading this print, this is two-week-old information- but why?

Did you get bored and just s w a p?

Anyway, I guess S wanted into the mix too? Because they took advantage of no D to try and get to J. It didn't work. G was there to protect our favorite JD ship. I'm not saying they're a cockblocker bc I don't wanna imply anything, but S is d e f i n it l y trying to get something out of J. Motive unclear but hey, we can assume :/

Gross.

Anyway, there were multiple fights that broke out that day so idk what yall were on but jesus christ calm down. Not relationship-related but be fucking nice to tineis.

Ugh.

K had no part in this swap of s/o but hey, they weren't third-wheeling anymore. 

Xx!

"Be fucking nice to tinies!" Regina cheers.

"J and G?" Janis frowned at the tiny newspaper in her hands. "Sorry, only know about J and D."

"Janis went from, ew gossip, to I'd die to have JD confirmed, real fast." Aaron pointed out.

"As she should." Gretchen pointed out. "They sound cute as fuck.

"Hands down they're lesbians." Regina said.

Karen shook her head, totally dumbfounded.

January, 7th

Did you miss me! I missed you. Mwah.

Right off the bat-

Uh. The box has been filled with messages from S saying, they do not like J. 

So I guess they're just an asshole.

Hey, just means team JD is gonna win.

Speaking of-

When J was asked directly they said that, I quote "D is the love of my life." But when asking D, I was told: "[J is] just a good friend". Sort your story idiots. The school wants to know!

While S may be out of the running, many sources say JC is a rising ship? Between A and C and J and C, I can't help but wonder, is there a behind the scenes JCA?

Fellow tiny students report A and J not being very close in the tiny hallways though. Now J and R tho-

J is just one lucky mate.

Who's your favorite? Let me know in the box! Xx.

"J and D." Janis says from her perch on Damian's shoulder. 

Karen just looked at her phone.

"You think there's a threesome going on in school?" Gretchen asked.

"Unlikely. I don't even this A and C sound cute. Why add another." Aaron rolled his eyes.

You don't think-

Karen sighed.

She really should tell them but- it was so much funnier this was.

Janis stood up on Damian's shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw without motive. 

Karen turned back to her phone, unsurprised if that would pop up in next week's article. 

January 14th

I love you- signed the writer.

Glad we got that out of the way.

NOW.

This was quite the week for our "couples".

First off, D and J? PDA through the roof.

Idk, maybe it's a special week, or maybe we're paying more attention and they've always been like that.

Those tiny kisses aren't lost on me, J. I see all.

Ugh, so cute.

A and C are-

"Skip this passage," Janis whined. "Nobody cares about them."

Everyone around the lunch table nodded as Karen began to read out loud again.

G kissed R?! R might have given a scowl but bystanders didn't miss the blush. Platonic or something more? That's the big question of this article but hey- this is a big step for all you GR shippers. Sorry to whoever wrote that long letter in the box passionately explaining how JR was peak friends to enemies to lovers. 

Shame.

#JD, anyway, you know where the box is! Xx.

"Fuck A and C. All my homies hate A and C." Janis grinned.

Cady nodded. "They're too cliche. It's annoying and I don't even know who they are."

Karen placed her head on the table with a groan.

She may not be smart, but these people were flat out idiots.

She felt a tug on her hair and looked up, resting her chin on the table.

"You okay, Karen?" Janis stood in front of her, Newspaper held at her side.

"Yeah, just dying on the inside a bit. Yknow, leaf emoji."

Janis made a face. "I don't but uh-" She leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Karen's nose. "Don't leaf emoji. We like you here, alive on the inside."

Karen smiles. "Thanks, Janis." 

January 21st

Just when you think it's all figured out- J kisses K. 

In front of D.

At this point- they're all together. One big happy family. 

I'm still clinging onto my JD dream. 

Speaking off-

S is back. Did you miss them? Me neither.

They just grabbed J like nothing? Anyway, D was there to save the day obviously.

Our great big hero got a pretty precious nose kiss from J.  

I could make their own newspaper section about how cute they are. There is no way you can be that cute and n o t already engaged.

On another J note, if JD doesn't happen, I'd be pretty content with some CJ. C was seen giving J "a nice-sized smooch" (somebody from the box).

No development in the R and G category, just their usual cuteness.

Leave any tips in the box! You know where it is. Xx.

"Uh uh. JD over CJ." Janis shook her head.

Karen just placed the newspaper in her bag. Janis and Damian were quick to become J and D's biggest shippers. They were so good at confusing the school about their relationship status that they had themselves fooled.

Cady and Aaron, who were dating and just won't confirm it, hated C and A's relationship. Calling it cheesy and artificially sweet.

And Regina though R sounded like a bitch and G deserved somebody better.

The whole thing was just crazy. 

"I gotta go talk to a teacher this period. It was fun reading the paper together though." Karen said getting up.

There was a chorus of 'bye Karen's as she walked away.

The newspaper holder in the hallways was empty. Northshore's 'couples' was quick to catch on and save the newspaper program. 

Karen pushed the door open to the computer lab, making her way over to the tiny end.

"Hey, Glen."

Glen Coco looked up at her with a grin. "Got anything for me, spy?"

@realmisspolarbear @smallsoysauce @musicallygt

[totallynotafetishblog]

what you wish for

this is the first fic i’ve ever posted anywhere!! i hadn’t had the desire to write fanfic in years, but go/od om/ens has taken over my life.  

enjoy some sick cr0wl3y a few months after armageddon’t  

(note: adam is present for plot reasons at the beginning. skip 1/4 of the way down [past the break] if you just want that good good in/effable h/usbands content)

After the world didn't end, summer faded into autumn faded into winter, and a biting chill now hung in the air, driving animals into their dens and the family members of climate change deniers up a wall. ("It's in the negatives! So much for 'global warming,' eh?" "That's not how it... climate and weather aren't... never mind.")

The cold had also driven Crowley, who was wont to bask, given his serpentine nature, to locate the most substantial heat source in London. He found himself in a bustling shopping mall sauntering aimlessly between shops, and with no purpose to his visit other than "be warm," he was drawn to the coat racks of an affordable clothing store. He had no intention of buying any of the jackets, but if something struck his fancy, he might miracle himself a copy later. 

As he was feeling the fabric of a rather fetching black peacoat, a voice off to his left said, "Hey, I know you."

Crowley spun around, not sure who, exactly, he was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn't...

"Adam?"

The eleven-year-old nodded and gave a curious look to the demon whom he had met exactly once at the Tadfield airbase. (Twice, if you count the bit where Crowley delivered Adam to the Sisters of the Chattering Order of St. Beryl, but Adam didn't remember that one.)

"How've you been?" Crowley asked, poorly faking nonchalance. He had frankly never considered the possibility that he might run into the Antichrist again, and certainly not at an English shopping center. 

"Alright, 'spose. But this week's been so boring."

"Mm, I agree. Not a big fan of the cold weather myself."

"Oh, no. That's alright. The pond nearby's frozen over and you can skate and slip around and it's loads of fun. But I haven't been able to 'cause my friends are sick and mum says I can't hang out with them. That's why she dragged me out shopping." Adam huffed and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

"Yeah, well, probably beats being sick."

"Being sick's not so bad." Adam brightened. "You don't have to go to school and you can watch movies all day and no one tells you what to do."

"Hm," Crowley said, considering this. "Might have to try it some time."

"You mean you've never been sick?" 

"Nah. Not sure I can get sick, actually."

"That's rubbish. Everyone can get sick."

"Guess I just haven't been lucky enough to catch a cold yet. Here's hoping this'll be my year."

A thin woman who Crowley didn't recognize but inferred was Mrs. Young placed a hand on Adam's shoulder. "Adam, there you are! Come here, I have some clothes for you to try on." Adam started 

to roll his eyes, but a stern look from his mother stopped his pupils from making a full circuit. She ushered him away, and Crowley was left alone at the coat rack once again.

"Well," he said. "That was a thing."

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

Crowley awoke the next morning with the overwhelming sensation that something had gone terribly wrong.

He peeled open heavy eyes, somehow more tired than he'd been when he collapsed into bed the night before, and tried to ignore the hammering in his head and the dull ache residing in his limbs. He hadn’t gone out drinking and forgotten to sober up, had he? 

Upon attempting to purge his body of any alcohol and finding none, he pushed himself into a seated position and he swallowed. The small gesture aggravated his tender, burning throat, and a rattling coughing fit tore through him, leaving the demon hunched over and panting, head in his hands. 

"Ghk," Crowley grumbled. "Fuck."

Grabbing the mobile phone from his nightstand, he stood on uncertain legs and stumbled to the bathroom, catching himself on the sink. He hesitated to make eye contact with the mirror, not knowing what state he would find himself in. Bracing for the worst, he lifted his eyes and was met by a pale, disheveled reflection, a rosy flush across his nose and cheeks, and glassy yellow eyes. Another coughing fit overtook him, and his knuckles tightened around the basin of the sink.

Crowley was fairly certain he was about to discorporate. 

He hadn't done it before, but he couldn't think of any other explanation as to why he felt so positively awful. Though he wished he had some more time to set his affairs in order and find a good home for all his plants, he did, at the very least, have time for goodbyes.

He dialed the only number in his phone which he called with any regularity. After a few rings, Aziraphale picked up. "Hello?"

"Hey, Aziraphale. It's me." 

"Oh, Crowley!" Crowley could hear his smile through the phone. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Yeah, not quite. Something's happened."

Aziraphale's voice dropped to a concerned whisper. "What do you mean 'something's happened'?"

"I mean, I... I think I'm dying, angel."

"You're what? What happened?"

"Dunno. Just woke up feeling sorta...not good."

"Well... 'Not good' is good for you, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but... no. Felt liked I'd been poisoned or something. My head feels like it's full of cement and my throat's on fire a-and..." He paused and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to massage away the building pressure in his sinuses. "...and my nose ihh-is... hih!" In vain, he scrubbed a fist beneath his nostrils, failing to fight off the spidering itch. The phone slipped from his hand and clattered in the sink as he snapped forward, sneezing against the back of his palm. "Huh'ATSHhuu! h'RSHHuh! Nng..."

He sniffled and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror again. Was this what death looked like? Clammy skin and a sore throat and a dripping nose? Frankly, those sounded like the symptoms of... 

Oh.

Clearing his throat, he held the phone back up to his ear.

"Crowley? Crowley, are you still there?" came Aziraphale's worried voice. 

"Yeah, 'm still here. Sorry about that."

"What was that? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it. Uh, actually, on second thought, I'm... fine. I'm not discorporating. Just... forget I called, yeah?"

"I most certainly will not!" Aziraphale huffed. "You can't tell me you're dying then expect me to forget about it. Shall I come over?"

Having never been sick before, Crowley wasn't entirely sure how these things worked, but he'd lived through enough plagues to know diseases could be contagious, and he didn't want to risk dragging the angel into misery with him. "No, no. I'm fine, really. Was just overreacting a bit." He turned away from the receiver and muffled a wet cough into his shoulder.  

"I'm coming over," Aziraphale decided.

"Listen to me, you really d-don't-!" Hissing at his own rebellious body, he tossed his phone down again and tented both hands over his face.  "h-hih-EKSHHHiuu! AKSHHUUh! ihihih...? h'EkSHHHUH!" He groaned, sniffling back the mess before lowering his hands and blearily opening his eyes to see Aziraphale. 

"Christ, Aziraphale!" Crowley cried, staggering backward. "Are you trying  to discorporate me? Could've knocked, at least, 'stead of materializing in the middle of my bathroom."

Eyebrows knitted together in sympathy, Aziraphale frowned and wrung his hands. "I do apologize for intruding, but... Oh, you sounded so dreadful, and I thought you might've been hurt, or, or..." His eyes flicked up and down as he took in Crowley's appearance. "Are those pajamas?"

"Just woke up."

"But it's nearly four in the afternoon!"

With a slight panic, Crowley glanced at his phone to double check the date, and his anxiety settled when he determined he'd only been out for 16 hours, and not 16 days or months or decades. He shrugged. "I've slept longer."

Aziraphale sighed. "Will you please just tell me what's going on?"

"I told you, it's nothing to worry about. I've just got a bit of a cold."

"A cold?" Aziraphale replied incredulously. "What ever do you mean?"

"I mean my throat's scrachy and my nose is all stuffed up and...you know. A cold."

"Right, yes, but how on Earth did you catch it?"

Crowley rolled his neck, produced a half-sigh-half-cough, and exited the bathroom, saying, "Does it matter?"

Not relenting, Aziraphale followed him to the living room where Crowley slumped back into the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table. "Of course it matters. We aren't supposed to get sick, Crowley. Comes with the whole 'angelic healing' business, I suppose."

"Right, angelic healing. Maybe your lot can't get sick, but it seems mine can. We might not be playing for Heaven and Hell any more, but I'm a still a demon, er, biologically, or whatever."

Aziraphale took a seat beside Crowley at that, confusion sketched across his brow as he mouthed 'biologically.' After another second of contemplation, he turned to Crowley and said, "Now, you know that can't be right. You've never gotten sick before."

Crowley rubbed a knuckle under the tip of his nose and sniffed. "Sure I have. Loads of times."

"You most certainly have not." Aziraphale didn't even attempt to conceal his eyeroll. 

"Maybe you just haven't been paying close enough a...atten... ahKSHHHUh! ATSHHiu!!" He held a cupped hand over his face until he was confident the itch was gone. "Attention." 

"Goodness! God bl- ah, gesundheit, dear." He miracled a red silk handkerchief for the demon which Crowley was grateful to accept, though he would never admit that. 

After a productive nose blow, Crowley let his head fall back against the couch. A cough clawed its way from his throat and he belatedly raised the handkerchief to his mouth before sighing and turning his head towards Aziraphale. "Angel?"

"Yes?"

"I may have done something very stupid."

Aziraphale looked wary. "What did you do?"

"So. Right. I ran into Adam Young yesterday."

"The Antichrist?"

"No, the singer behind Owl City. Yes, the Antichrist!” Crowley knew Aziraphale wouldn't understand the reference but was too tired to care. "Anyway, he mentioned something about being sick, and I said I'd like to try it some time..."

"Oh, Crowley. You didn't."

"I did. And apparently Adam can still bend the universe to his whims, so." He gestured broadly at himself.  “Be careful what you wish for, I guess.”

"Should we be...concerned? About Adam, I mean. I didn't realize he still had full access to his powers."

"Well, if he's only using them to give demons head colds, I'd say it's nothing to worry about." Crowley's eyebrows quirked up and his breath hitched one, two, three times before- "heh’EKSHHiu! IKSHhuuh! AKSHhiuu!" He shook his head. "Nguh. Sure is annoying, though."

Aziraphale offered a soft smile and cupped Crowley's cheek with a gentle hand. "Poor dear. I don't suppose we could miracle it away?"

"Probably not a great idea to try and undo the wishes of the Antichrist."

"No, probably not. We could always ask Adam to undo it, though."

Crowley scoffed. "If you want to try driving us up to Tadfield, be my guest, but I think if I drive, I'll sneeze us off the road."

Aziraphale pondered this for a moment, then stood up. "Right then." With the snap of his fingers, a thick white blanket appeared and draped itself over Crowley. "We'll deal with this the human way."

"Aziraphale, what're you-?"

"Hush," he said, tucking the blanket snug around Crowley. "You just rest. Let me take care of you."

"Oh, you don't have to-"

"I want to." Aziraphale brushed a strand of hair out of Crowley's face. "You're always so kind to me." Crowley started to hiss, but Aziraphale continued. "You are. You're so kind and you do so much for me, and, well... I'd like to return the favor." He placed a light kiss on Crowley's forehead. "Is that alright?"

"Mm," Crowley hummed. "Very alright. Thank you."

"Of course, my dear. Now rest and I'll put some tea on, hm?"

Letting his eyes slip shut, Crowley did as he was instructed for perhaps the first time in his immortal life.  

[zombizombi]

hummingbird heartbeat - pt45

It was difficult to take Kent’s -- and Jeff’s, and Jack’s -- advice. Not that they were wrong, because Bitty knew they weren’t. It was just… not his nature, he supposed, to step back like that.

It did seem to work, though. At least a little. Whiskey wasn’t overtly avoiding him any more in the dining hall, at least.

“So!” Bitty said, catching him at breakfast one day, “Your parents are coming up from Arizona!” 

Whiskey gave him a blank stare.

“I know they couldn’t make it to the family weekend game last year,” Bitty continued. “So you gotta be excited!”

“Yeah,” Whiskey said. “It’ll be fun.”

Bitty laughed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah! And, um. You’re starting and all, so they must be so… excited!” He already said excited. Fuck. 

“Yeah.” Whiskey glanced back down at the toaster.

“Whiskey,” Bitty said, “I just wanted to say, y’know, if you ever --”

The bread popped up and Whiskey coughed, snatching it out of the toaster before making his excuses and leaving Bitty to toast his bagel alone.

“I am giving him space,” Bitty said that night, as Kent stripped in his bedroom after repeating his previous advice.

“I dunno, babe,” Kent said as he set his clothes off to the side in a carefully folded pile. “Are you giving him, like. Your version of space or his version of space?”

“Lord, honey, I don’t know,” said Bitty, “how should I know?” How did you know what someone’s version of ‘space’ was? “But it’s not like I can completely avoid him. I’m his captain. We have to interact! So how do I tell him, like. ‘It’s cool, I didn’t see anything’?”

“You mean like how d’you lie to him?” Kent asked, climbing into bed. He’d come by, just for one night, in between games on an East Coast roadie. It was out of the way, and Bitty felt… a bit bad about it, to be honest, but any excuse to have Kent in his bed was worth taking. Kent wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, anyway.

“It’s not, like, lying,” Bitty said. “I mean, what if he wants to talk about it, and doesn’t think he can? Or --”

“If you say you didn’t see anything, then he’ll know you did see something,” Kent said, wiggling under the covers, “because if you didn’t see anything then you wouldn’t have any reason to say you didn’t see anything, so that means you totally saw something. Right?”

“Oh my god,” said Bitty. “Who are you, Joe Hardy?”

“Please, I’d obviously be Frank and you know it.” Kent stretched, bringing one arm up to rest behind his head.

“But Joe was the blond one,” Bitty said.

“Frank was the hot one,” Kent countered.

Was he? “But --”

“Okay, Carolyn Keene, thrilling as this is,” Kent interrupted.

“Carolyn Keene did not write the Hardy Boys,” Bitty said. 

Ignoring him, Kent continued. “We kind of need to talk about your dad before we go to sleep, so --”

“What?” Bitty swallowed. “No, why -- we weren’t talking about him.” They had avoided talking about Coach the entire visit. Well, mostly. Bitty took a breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, honey, I --”

“He’s coming tomorrow, isn’t he?” Kent asked. He had to leave first thing in the morning to catch a flight, wouldn’t be there. “To your game. And you haven’t seen him since what... March, right?”

March. Before everything, before The Kiss. Not that anyone in his family said a word to him about it.

Ugh. “You’ll be long gone before then, so what’s there to talk about?” Bitty snapped, hunching his shoulders. 

“Um,” Kent said.

“There would only be something to talk about if Coach was gonna see you,” said Bitty. “And he’s not. So.”

Kent nodded, looking down at the sheets. He picked at a loose thread, not speaking.

“I’m not being avoidant,” Bitty said, and Kent eyes flicked back up to him for just a moment. “I’m not. And it’s not that I don’t want you to see him, either. He’s just coming to watch us play. Who cares.” 

Kent worried the skin of his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. “I just think, um. It would be normal to have some… feelings about it?” He glanced back up at Bitty.

Bitty sighed. “Okay, yes,” he said. “Fine. I haven’t seen him in a while, but. I’ll see him before the game, and we’ll get a tense and stoic dinner afterwards. It’s fine.”

Kent’s arm slid around him. Gently pressing a kiss into his hair, Kent pulled Bitty down and tugged him close. “Okay,” he murmured. 

“Kent Parson, go to sleep and stop tormenting me with your sleuthing.” Bitty wound Kent’s chain around his finger, rubbing the Saint Michael pendant with his thumb. “You’re getting up so early.”

“Mmm.” Kent nuzzled the back of Bitty’s neck. “All right. G’night, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Bitty said.

The following day was a blur. Kent left before the crack of dawn, barely waking Bitty to say goodbye. Bitty couldn’t pay attention in any of his classes; between the half-sleep he’d gotten once Kent left and the anxiety of the upcoming game, he wasn’t particularly well-rested. As a group of them walked back to the Haus that afternoon, Bitty contemplated how much time he had to nap before the game as they chattered about the weekend.

“Hops, I can’t wait to try your mom’s baking!” Ford grinned. 

“She watched all of Bitty’s vlog in preparation for the game,” Hops said. He turned to face them, walking backwards up the sidewalk. “Seriously, Bitty, she’s gonna freak when she meets you.”

So sweet. “Then I will surely freak out in return when I meet the beautiful woman who birthed John Hopper,” Bitty said, sliding his key into the Haus’s front door lock. She had to be an angel, raising such a gem of a son.

“I’m texting her you said that!” Hops said, heading into the Haus first.

Bitty followed him in, completely unprepared for the voice that called to them from the kitchen. “Hey! Y’all back?”

Bitty sucked in a quick breath. That sounded like -- but it wasn’t time yet. Surely not. He tugged his ball cap off, following the voice.

“There you are!” Coach pushed away from the counter, smiling. “Got in early,” he said. “That Asian boy let me in -- Chow.”

“Oh,” Bitty said, lowering his cap. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Texted you -- after checking into the hotel, no answer… And I thought it was silly to just sit around,” Coach said. “You know, your mom said this wasn’t like any of the frat houses I’ve seen, and boy, she ain’t wrong.” 

Fuck, Bitty had missed a text. A very crucial, informative text. The one time he wasn’t obsessively checking his phone -- he took a deep breath.

Plucking at the curtain over the sink, Coach squinted at it. “Aren’t these your aunt’s curtains?”

“They are,” Bitty said, because what else could he say? “She was fixing to throw ’em out.”

Coach blinked at him for a moment, and Bitty’s shoulders tightened.

“Um,” Bitty said. “Coach -- Dad. This is John, he’s a freshman, and Denice, she’s our manager. Y’all, this is my dad.”

Coach stepped forward, holding out a hand. “You can call me Coach!”

“Hi, Coach Bittle!” said Ford, shaking his hand.

“Wow, hi!” said Hops. “You look just like Bitty.”

Did he? Bitty frowned.

“You’re a football coach? My brothers play football!” Ford grinned as Coach smiled at her.

“Oh, hey! Whereabouts?” he asked.

“They’re only juniors in high school… But we currently live in San Diego,” she said.

“Okay!” Coach said. He frowned a little. “Hm, now -- football and California. Then how in the world did someone like you get roped into hockey?”

Ford laughed. “I --” 

“Dad,” Bitty said, interrupting them. “Some of the guys are gonna take naps before we head to Faber…”

“Oh, all right,” said Coach, waving a hand. “Just getting to know the team. It’s a pleasure to meet y’all.”

“Nice to meet you, Coach Bittle,” said Hops.

“Nice to meet you, Coach Bittle!” Ford smiled.

Coach cleared his throat and followed Bitty out of the kitchen to the entryway. “Well! I’m glad I could stop by before your warmups,” he said. “If any of your crew want to come with tonight -- there’s a little restaurant downtown where we can watch your friend Kent’s game.” Coach was smiling, but Bitty hadn’t missed what he said.

Your friend. As if that was all Kent was to him. Bitty narrowed his eyes. 

“See you, Junior,” Coach said, a moment later.

“Bye, Daddy,” Bitty said.

Before anyone had an opportunity to ask any questions, Bitty went upstairs to his room, tugging the door shut behind him. Leaning against it, he shut his eyes for a moment. 

Family day was going to be fine. 

The afternoon game started off a little chippy and stayed that way, with both teams taking penalty minutes and Dartmouth scoring on their first powerplay. Everyone on the bench chattered about the members of their family in attendance -- Tango’s mom had quite a mouth on her, if Bitty did say so himself. He tried not to think about Coach in the stands.

It had been a long time since Bitty really felt paralyzed by a check. He shouldn’t have even fallen after the hit, it was barely anything, but -- but he did, legs shaky and everything, ending up with both hands planted on the ice. Bitty took a breath. Fuck, he had to get up.

“Bitty, man!” That was Dex. 

Bitty took another breath.

“Hey.” That was Whiskey. ���Can you get up?”

Bitty took a breath again.

They lost the game.

Coach asked Bitty, after catching up with him -- and his coaches, and his teammates -- in the dressing room, if he was ready to go watch “his friend Kent’s” game.

“Yeah,” Bitty said.

Coach drove them to the restaurant in a rented truck, going over points of Bitty’s game and occasionally talking about Kent’s upcoming game.

Or rather, Bitty’s friend Kent. Coach made sure to put friend in front of Kent’s name.

He just kept saying it like that, every time -- “your friend Kent.” 

At the restaurant. During the game. In the car to go back. He never called Kent anything but Bitty’s friend, not once.

As they got into the car to head back to the Haus, Bitty couldn’t take it anymore.

“You know, your mama and I’ve been talking about this winter break… your friend Kent --”

“He’s not my friend,” Bitty said, trying to keep his voice even.

Coach sighed. “Come on,” he said. “You’re getting snippy because you’re --”

Getting snippy? Getting snippy? Really?

“If you don’t like us together, then just say it,” Bitty snapped, losing any semblance of control over his tone, “but he’s my boyfriend! If you don’t support it, then just say it!”

“W -- so I fly all the way up here to watch you play because I don’t support you?” Coach huffed. “Where’s the sense in that?”

Because flying up to watch your son’s game was totally the same as supporting his being gay. Absolutely the same. “Watching me play a sport and admitting I’m dating Kent are two different things,” Bitty said. He crossed his arms over his chest, pulling them in tight.

“I know you’re with him,” said Coach. “I’m trying not to make it a big deal.”

Not to make it a big deal? It was a huge deal. They were -- not the point, that wasn’t the point. “Then stop pretending that he’s not my boyfriend!”

“I never said he wasn’t --”

Oh, lord. As if just calling him Bitty’s friend constantly wasn’t basically the same thing? “You haven’t once acknowledged --”

“You want me to treat it like it’s normal, then?” 

Bitty sucked in a sharp breath. The memory of Kent’s mother shoving a pamphlet for conversion therapy across the table sprang into his mind, unbidden, and something in his stomach dropped.

“Or what,” Coach went on, “you want me hollering and marching in a damn parade and getting all the rainbows --”

“Just treat it like it’s something that exists --” Bitty interrupted, but he didn’t get to finish, either.

“How? You didn’t tell us!” Coach snapped. “We had to find out from the TV --”

“Because -- I just want --” Bitty swallowed. This is why I didn’t tell you. “I want you to say there’s nothing wrong with it!”

Coach sighed, pressed a hand to his forehead. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

Christ. 

He’d known it would be like this. Bitty had always known that, even before those kids at school locked him into that closet. If Coach wanted to pretend he hadn’t known Bitty was gay for a long time, that was fine, but Bitty knew better. They’d known forever, his parents. They’d always known. Nobody ever talked about it, nobody said anything except the stuff Bitty heard in church, but he wasn’t stupid. Coach knew Bitty was different a long time ago, knew he wasn’t the kind of boy strong men wanted to have as a son.

“I want you to tell me I’m not messed up!” Bitty’s eyes burned. Weak. “Please,” he said, bringing a hand up to cover his face as the tears spilled over. “J-just tell me you don’t think I’m messed up. I know you’ve always thought I was.” Bitty sniffed a little, but it was fucking useless. He was turning into a sobbing mess in front of his daddy and there was nothing he could do about it. He sucked in a hitching breath, scrubbed at his face with one arm. “Because I didn’t wanna play football and all the baking and the girly stuff. Please, just tell me that you -- that it’s okay. You don’t think I’m messed up.”

“You’ve never been messed up,” said Coach, and his voice was maybe softer than Bitty could remember ever hearing it. “I never thought that.” His hand descended on Bitty’s shoulder. “And you and Kent being together… that don’t make you messed up.” He paused. “You know that.”

Bitty knew that? How could -- how could he sit there and say that? They never talked. Not ever, not Bitty’s whole life, and he just -- “Daddy… how am I supposed to know what you think?” Bitty asked, not looking at him.

After a moment, Coach pulled his hand away. “I’ll take you back to the Haus,” he said.

( the whole thing is on AO3 )

[beckzorz]

PREMONITIONS (1/5)

or, Adventures Adjacent to a Six-Year-Old Seer

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Words: 2566 Summary: On Halloween, your clairvoyant niece leads you straight into Bucky Barnes. It could not have gone worse. Warning(s): A gunshot, a bullet, light swearing A/N: Happy (month of) Halloween! Here’s my contribution for Kari’s (@until-theend-oftheline) Marvelous Halloween Challenge! My prompt was ‘costumes.’ The challenge covers the first part of a multi-chapter story, which I will try to finish posting by the end of the month! Also I, drew the header and made the Reader based on myself because I have no imagination :P

“Uh oh,” Gemma says. At six-years-old-plus-just-one-week, your niece’s voice still chirps high and sweet, but you can tell there’s something wrong.

“What’s the matter, cutie?” you ask, kneeling next to her on the sidewalk.

Gemma screws up her face and adjusts her Captain America mask over her eyes to better see you in the light of the streetlamp overhead. Her round trick-or-treat bag is shaped and colored like the superhero’s famous shield, and her tiny uniform is bright blue even behind your dark goggles. It’s all you can do to keep from smiling—but then there’s that nagging in your gut at her confused expression.

“I dunno,” Gemma says. “But I think it’s over there.” She spins around, bag swinging, and marches off down the street.

You spring back up and follow closely. Gemma always had a knack for knowing where to go—or at the very least, she was damn bossy and it always seemed to work out okay. Even her parents had to admit she was right more often than was good for her. You sometimes wondered about her ego, but if she didn’t have one of her little schemes in mind, she was perfectly reasonable for her age.

Something wrong on Halloween, though…

You’ve never been a big fan of holiday shenanigans. Fireworks are underwhelming, turkey isn’t half as good as chicken, and Halloween is just a mess. It’s not even seven thirty, but you’ve already picked up more candy wrappers off the street than you can count. And Gemma had tired out earlier, leaving you to carry her for an ungodly period of time. Fortunately, she’s got her energy back, so you don’t have to carry her anymore.

The best neighborhoods yielded their fruit, and Gemma’s bedtime is creeping up on you. You were en route to your brother Matt’s place before Gemma got her latest idea. At least she’s still headed in roughly the right direction.

When you turn onto the main street, you grab Gemma’s free hand. Your plan had been to stick to side streets, but Gemma has other ideas. It’s no strain to keep up with her brisk pace. She’s walking fast, but she’s tiny for her age.

Fallen leaves crunch underfoot. Halloween might be a pain, but autumn? Autumn is good.

“Oh! I know.” Gemma jumps happily.

You come to a stop in front of a closed real estate office. “Oh? What is it?”

“It’s a bang bang.”

“A bang bang?” It’s your turn to screw up your face. What the hell does bang bang mean?

“Up there,” Gemma says, pointing.

You follow the line of her tiny finger and swivel your head to stare up and across the street. Your goggles are too dark to see above the light of the streetlamps; you push them up into your straightened hair and squint up at a shadowed rooftop. The sky is dark, but you can just barely make out the shape of a person up there.

“It’s just someone…” You trail off, eyes still trained upwards. They’ve hefted something up, something long and skinny held perpendicular to their spine. Your heart stops; is that a rifle?

“Bang bang,” Gemma repeats.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. You pick Gemma up instinctively and look back up, shielding your niece with your body. Where are they aiming?

Please, god, not for us. Not for Gemma…

But the barrel is focused north of you. You turn to stare down the street.

Your stomach drops, and you start to run north. Gemma’s bag of candy bounces noisily against your back, her feet against your thighs.

Gemma had insisted that you dress up to match her. Not like Captain America, but his friend from the war. She hadn’t insisted on a specific costume, but it seemed easiest to get a black leather jacket, goggles, and a silver glove; you already had black jeans and black ankle boots fit for kicking in doors.

You didn’t get the point before, but as your feet pound the pavement, you see it now.

You see him now.

You bend just long enough to set Gemma down a few buildings away from the target—she cries out in protest when she tumbles to the ground—and you keep running. The target is looking at his phone, a gallon of milk held in his other hand. You barely note that he’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, of all things, over a long-sleeved tee that hides his arm.

“Sergeant Barnes, get down!” you call.

The Winter Soldier glances up, sees you, freezes. You don’t stop running, and in another second you barrel into him with all your might. He grunts and stumbles back. A buzzing sound whizzes by you as he topples back. Your eyes widen as you fall—did a hot poker just go in your hip?

Shock floods you as you land heavily on top of Bucky Barnes. Your head falls forward; the sidewalk is rough against your forehead. He grunts and grabs your upper arms to push you up enough to see your face.

“What the hell?” he says. His blue eyes are wide.

“Bang bang,” you pant. You wince and put a hand by his ear to prop yourself up. A hot, wet wave passes through your left hip. To your left, you see a burst-open gallon of milk. “Ugh, I’m so sorry. I think someone meant to shoot you. Maybe?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and in between breaths you realize that you are quite literally lying down on top of the Winter Soldier.

You are lying down on top of the Winter Soldier while dressed as the Winter Soldier.

Heat floods your cheeks. Your hips are on his; one of his legs is caught between yours, his thigh pressed tight against your groin. Oh god, really? Of all the times to finally get some action, it had to be now? With this guy? He might be a superhero, he might be oddly gorgeous despite the surprise on his face (gosh, those lips!), but you literally just ran into him and knocked him to the ground.

And so much for getting Gemma home on time. You’re barely two blocks away from Matt’s place, but nope.

The thought of your niece jerks you into action. You push yourself up and sit back on your heels, but a stinging in your hip makes you pause, still straddling his leg. “Gemma?” you call.

“What?” Gemma is almost next to you already. You tug her in close and breathe in deeply. Your hip still feels oddly warm and wet.

“Are you okay, sweetie?”

“Uh-huh.” Gemma wriggles away. “It’s okay now.” She finally notices the man you’re sitting on and gasps in excitement. “Look!”

You wince. “Yes, I saw.”

Bucky Barnes shifts back and sits up. His face is guarded now, but his eyes are still that steel blue.

“What the hell,” he said, but it wasn’t a question. “Where’s the bullet?”

“What bullet?” you ask, frowning.

“There was a gunshot,” he said.

“Bang bang,” Gemma said unhelpfully.

“Not now, Gemma,” you scold. Another wave passes through your hip—oh. A gunshot. A bullet. You reach back; your silver glove comes back red and shining. “Oh, huh. Shit.” You glance at Gemma and quickly stuff your hand in your pocket. She’s looking elsewhere; thank god. A few people have started to cluster around you, and you meet the eyes of the middle-aged woman closest to you. “Could you call 911?” you ask. Her eyes widen.

“I’m on it,” someone else said. A teenager; good. He’s got a smartphone. He turns away and starts rattling off the situation and location.

“Es el Captain America!” someone exclaims.

“Gemma, stay here,” you order instinctively. You reach out with your clean hand and drag her into your lap. The last thing you need right now is for Gemma to run off. She wriggles until you squeeze her tighter, then she slumps back into your hold with a huff.

You’re still sitting on Bucky’s leg, but with the realization that you’ve been shot, you’re afraid to move.

“I’m sorry we’re squashing you,” you tell him. “I, uh, don’t really want to move.”

“Fair,” he answers. His gaze has softened. He reaches out, then pauses. “I’m going to put pressure on that.”

“She’ll be okay,” Gemma announces.

“I wish I had her optimism,” you grumble to Bucky, but you can’t help but grin a little.

His eyes light up. “You seem to be doing okay.” He puts a hand on your hip and presses tight.

There’s a sharp, searing pain now that wasn’t there before. Your eyes widen in shock; you clench your teeth hard against the agony and pull your bloody hand out of the tiny pocket so you can clench it into a fist.

“Nevermind,” Bucky mutters. “Shit.”

“Buck!”

Steve Rogers skids to a halt beside you, his spangled shield on his arm.

“Hey man,” Bucky says. He doesn’t look away from you, and you slowly manage to recreate a normal expression. “Sniper tried to shoot me. The usual.”

“The usual?” you gasp. “Fucking hell.”

Steve glances between you, Gemma, and Bucky, his long face screwed up in confusion. You can’t quite blame him—you hadn’t sworn this much in front of Gemma since before she could talk. And there was the matter of your costumes, too.

“They got her instead,” Bucky adds.

That gets Steve’s full attention. He crouches beside you and puts a large hand on your shoulder. His eyes flit from your face to the bloody silver glove held away from your niece. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Ma’am?” you sputter. You cough and glance at Bucky. The pressure on your hip is still worse than you’d expected, but his thumb is rubbing little circles on your back. It’s a sweet little distraction, enough to make you feel comfortable addressing your next comment to him and not Steve. “Insult to injury. Literally.”

Bucky’s eyebrows fly up. His eyes crinkle with the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen. Your breath catches.

“Sorry,” Steve says, and you jolt in surprise. You’d almost forgotten him, crazy as that seems. “Are you okay?”

“According to my niece—” you squeeze Gemma with your right arm— “I’ll live.” You can’t see Gemma’s face, but you can imagine the absolute amazement there. The design on her candy bag is echoed large and more than real in the shield propped next to you.

“I’m sure you’re right, captain,” Steve says to Gemma. He speaks seriously, without the condescension of most grown men. Steve looks back at you, a question in his eyes that you aren’t sure you can answer.

“She should be okay,” Bucky says. “Not too much lost.”

“She’ll be fiiiiine,” Gemma trills. “I know it.” She bounces happily on your lap. The jolting is uncomfortable in the best of circumstances. This… isn’t the best of circumstances.

“Can you keep still, sweetie?” you whimper.

“Come here, Gemma,” Bucky says. He holds out his free arm—his metal arm, incidentally—to Gemma, and she jumps up at once to lean against his shoulder. Bucky puts his arm around her and squeezes her arm. “Your aunt is very brave,” he tells her. He doesn’t look at you, but your cheeks warm all the same.

“I know,” Gemma said. She stacks her feet one on top of the other and props herself on Bucky’s shoulder, tracing the clashing red and green hibiscus against the blue background of his shirt with one skinny finger. “She’s the best. I told her where to go and she did it.”

“You told her where to go?” Steve asks.

“She’s got good instincts,” you interrupt, glancing at the crowd jostling around you. No one had come too close, but you’ve had a realization, and with it comes a sudden sharp fear.

How had Gemma known? This was nothing like her usual little stubborn schemes, where something little went well—a parking spot opening up, perfect weather in the park, meeting a friend by going the long way home. This was big. This was scary. And this was way out of a six-year-old’s league.

“I saw the guy on the roof, and I saw the gun, and I ran for it,” you continue.

“You didn’t run for it, you ran to me.” Bucky’s thumb stills against your back. “Why?”

You blink. Isn’t it obvious? “Because people should know to duck when they’re being aimed at?”

Bucky blows out a breath between his teeth. He opens his mouth, but the shrill horn of a siren cuts through the noise before he can speak. Blue and red lights cast eerie shadows as the crowd parts to clear a path for the approaching ambulance.

“Where’s Mom?” Gemma asks.

“Shit,” you answer. You fumble for your phone in the pocket of your leather jacket. Blood from your glove smears on the screen, and it’s an effort to tap the right icon to call your sister-in-law. The bright lights are wreaking havoc with your vision, and the siren cuts through your skull like a knife.

“Let me,” Steve says. You pass the phone to him wordlessly, and he speaks in even tones to Gemma’s mom.

You sigh and close your eyes. Your head droops forward, and before you know it your forehead is pressed against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Hey, hey, stay awake,” he says.

You open your eyes—yikes, his shirt is horrifically bright—and suck in a shuddering breath. There’s a vague smell, one you can’t identify, but it’s too heady to be detergent. Maybe you are passing out. A small hand pats your head, and a little smile flashes on your concealed face. Sweet Gemma.

The dampness on your glove seeps through. The feel of blood on your fingers makes you shudder against Bucky’s shoulder, and he turns his head to whisper soothing reassurances in your ear.

Finally, the ambulance and siren stop. EMTs come with their stretcher. The transfer from sitting on Bucky’s leg to lying face-down on the stretcher is less painful than the insane pressure of the bandage they tape down. You turn your head to look up at Bucky. Gemma has somehow gotten picked up and has her legs wrapped around Bucky’s waist.

“You okay, sweetie?” you ask her. Bucky’s wiping his bloody hand on his jeans out of Gemma’s sight.

“Mm-hm.” She nods sharply. “Captain America saves the day.”

The EMTs begin wheeling you away, and you see your brother and sister-in-law pushing frantically through the crowd. “Gemma! Gemma!” her mom cries.

“There’s Mom and Dad!” Gemma wriggles in Bucky’s grip, and he’s forced to put her down and jog after her towards her mom. Matt runs straight to you, Dracula cape flapping behind him.

“Shit, are you okay?” he gasps, panting for breath.

“Gemma says I should be,” you tell him. You crane your head to look past him; Bucky and Steve are now both talking to your sister-in-law Sarah, who has Gemma cradled in her arms. Bucky glances back to you. You shoot him a little smile, but then the EMTs start to roll you away and the cluster of bystanders blocks your view.

Of all the pains of the last fifteen minutes, the pang of losing sight of Bucky is perhaps the worst.

Matt holds tight to your hand and climbs into the ambulance with you. The siren starts up again, and you’re driving away from the street, away from the crowd, away from Gemma.

Away from Bucky.

Read Part 2 here!

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[kob131]

https://queenypie.tumblr.com/post/180408886658/rwby-and-how-it-treats-its-women#notes

Oh goody, trying to point out ‘problematic’ material.

I’ll get this out right now: older women are treated the absolute worst by this show; they’re treated worse than black people, worse than LGB characters, and worse than the younger women.

The ways in which women are treated can be divided into three categories: dead, evil/terrible person, or brushed aside. Dead obviously describes Summer, the one potentially kind mother in this show. The second group is what Willow and Raven fall into. The last category is for Glynda, and Kali.

A. Willow is not shown to be a terrible person. Fuck, she’s played more as a victim than anyone else. meanwhile her male counterpart Jacques is treated as WORSE than the Hitler-esque character.

B. Raven is a terrible person but her gender has nothing to do with who she is as a person. 

C. Kali is most certainly NOT brushed off since she’s constantly acting as a second Sun.

D. Glynda’s is the result OF problematic shit with her VA.

And E:

Dead: Ozpin

Evil/Terrible person: Jacques, Adam, Tyrian, Watts, Fennec, Corsac

Brushed off: Taiyang, Klein

Looks like the women are doing better than the men here.

In Glynda’s case, she is given one major action scene in the very first episode of the show before being relegated to Ozpin’s maid. Either she fixes the streets, she fixes the school, or she fixes Qrow’s or someone else’s mess. 

Because Kathleen said some super sexist shit but nope, not gonna mention that.

Then there’s Kali Belladona, who gets to lucky shot someone with one of her guard’s guns before dropping furniture on another guy; meanwhile, her husband gets to knock people around.

Kali Win Record: 3-0

Ghira Win record: 0-0

So when’s the post about Ghira getting shafted.

Then we have Willow Schnee, who isn’t so much a character as she is still just an abstract concept. We know more about her from lore and exposition than actually seeing her in action. We also have the other horrible mother Raven, who is the only woman -besides Glynda- who gets to do anything action oriented.

A. We also only know that about her father, Nicolas. So...

And B. Again, Raven’s gender has nothing to do with who she is as a person. She’s also treated with more sympathy and more attention than Jacques so it STILL doesn’t work. Fuck at least Raven has an impact on the plot, UNLIKE Taiyang.

Being a bad parent or being passive isn’t objectively a bad thing, however I just listed every major older woman in this series to date. I could talk about Salem, but she would just fit into the evil category. 

Except, you know, not by anything but circumstances she couldn’t have seen coming.

By contrast, older men can be good (Ozpin?, Port, Oobleck, Qrow, Tai, etc.), fatherly (Tai, Klein), complicated (Ozpin, Qrow), Evil (Watts, Hazel), Assholes (Jacques); While women can be categorized in 3 groups, men run the gambit, and that’s not okay.

Dead, brushed off, brushed off, relevant, brushed off, brused off, evil evil and evil.

Also, you rejected Kali but accept Taiyang and Klein, both of whom have contributed LESS to the show than Kali. So nice try,

Looks like the guys actually have the shaft.

Also, wanna know what this also sounds like? Sailor Moon, better go call THAT Author problematic!

Then we turn our attention to the main generation, rwby, nora, Pyrrha, and many others. Pyrrha has the obvious problem of her entire character revolving around Jaune, while Nora only -but still glaringly- has the problem of her backstory being 90% focused on Ren. Weiss has the whole dance arc in volume 2, which relegates her to a trophy for Jaune to fight Neptune over.

Okay, let’s go through this shall we?

A. Ruby has shown more mourning and development over Pyrrha than Jaune.

B. Nora is an active character while Ren does nothing 90% of the time and is often times needed to be bailed out by Nora *cough* Nucklevee Hazel *cough*’

C. She also had most of Volume 4 to herself. So....

D. Weiss also got to demand Neptune be beaten up for flirting with another team but god forbid Jaune ask her out 3 times.

And then volume 4 hits: Ruby gets her character develop stolen by Jaune,

Right up until Episode 10 where Ruby takes Jaune’s character and keeps it under lock until an ENTIRE VOLUME LATER and even then the guy’s actions amount to jack and shit.

Weiss has to be rescued by her butler from her evil dad

Said butler’s entire character revolves around Weiss.

Blake runs to see her father and Sun

Both of whom are treated as inept and useless while her mother is the only one shown to know what to do.

and Yang has to be talked down to by her dad

Where she insults him and no one bats an eye at him. Also: HIS entire character revolves around Yang.

So 0-4, you failed.

When one or two of these things occur, it’s not a problem (minus the Jaune bit); when it becomes a pattern, you messed up.

And yet when it becomes a COMPLETE pattern with men, no one cares.

Where are the adult female role models? 

Dunno, where are they in Sailor Moon?

Oh right, the only one who isn’t evil/a bitch (Kali) gets to talk to Blake personally for one minute and it’s only to say that her father wants her.

All while giving an air of ‘I know what is best for both of you’ while Ghira is portrayed as a completely awkward idiot who can’t talk to his own daughter.

Volume 5 at least has the decency to give the female leads agency again, but Raven is suddenly treated like an obstacle instead of Yang’s goal, while Weiss is nearly killed so that Jaune can unlock his semblance.

A. An obstacle that takes up the majority of the screentime sure.

B. Jaune then proceeds to heal her and do nothing after removing the one impact he had on the battle.

And C. Ren is thrown against a wall and needs bailing out by Nora, Adam gets one shotted by Blake, Mercury is treated as a prop while Emerald gets some actual characterization, Jaune does NOTHING, Sun accomplishes nothing, Leonardo is treated as a joke unlike Raven, Qrow gets tossed around like a ragdoll and Ozpin/Oscar do basically nothing.

And yet no talk about this.

Volume 6 has, to date, given us a topless genie for no real reason other than sex appeal, and Salem’s backstory, where she only became active when a man entered her life and became evil because that man died.

A. So...Salem is Jaune and Ozma is Pyrrha then?

B. Salem is also the only proactive one between the two, she manipulated multiple world leaders BEFORE becoming immortal, she cheated the MALE gods, she’s the one portrayed as in control of the relationship with Ozma and she is the one who actually has agency.

And C. And yet examples of male fanservice (like Ironwood losing his shirt)go unnoticed.

And finally, the bit that has been said many times: when a female in this show acts out, does something compulsive and rash, they’re punished for it. Yang flying at Adam to protect Blake and Winter attacking Qrow for egging her on; both are reprimanded after. Jaune losing his temper and attacking Cinder? Obviously a hero, because despite Weiss nearly dying, he healed her and unlocked his semblance, so that makes it okay in the writer’s eyes.

A. Qrow is also reprimanded (in fact, MORE SO than Winter)

B. Jaune proceeds to remove HIS OWN AGENCY and do nothing the whole fight.

C. He utterly fails to do anything to Cinder, gets saved by Ruby and gets insulted for his actions while being portrayed as helpless. Yeah, real great hero.

For a show that wants to focus on four young women, it has an awfully tough time treating women as equally unique as the men. Older women in this show are either good because they’re passive and obedient (Glynda/Kali/Winter) or active and evil/rebellious (Raven/Salem/Cinder/etc.). Younger women must be taught by fathers or male friends on how to act. While that’s not what the writers intended, it’s what the show comes across as saying.

Except Winter rebelled against her father

Kali messes around with everyone and is treated as the more level headed of the two.

And Glynda’s temper is glossed over while Ironwoods paranoia and Qrow’s alcoholism is over looked.

Raven gets sympathetic moments.

Salem is THE most proactive person in the show 

And Cinder is the longest running antagonist.

Now let’s go through the male characters shall we?

Torchwick: Repeatedly humiliated and defeated by four students constantly with only his FEMALE minion making him threatening: Gets killed off with no fanfare.

Port+Oobleck: Irrelevant

Ozpin: Is used for the development of Salem, is the toy of the gods and cannot do anything to stop Salem.

Jaune: Loses all agency and becomes a background character to the point his only development in Volume 5 is basically the writers (mostly Miles) telling him to shut up and look pretty.

Ren: Hasn’t won a fight since Volume 1, needed to be bailed out by Nora from both the Nucklevee and Hazel, barely says a damn thing and is overlooked for Nora most of the time.

Cardin: Asshole bully with no redeemable features (unlike Weiss)

Mercury: Is ignored by the narrative for Emerald all the time and said about two lines in Volume 5. Is also shown to be less moral and more evil than Emerald

Taiyang, Klein and Ghira: have no characters outside of being father figures to their respective daughters. Unlike Raven and Kali.

Jacques: Is treated as Snowy Satan to make Weiss, Winter and Willow look good.

Nicolas: Is only shown in a WOR to set up Willow, Winter and Weiss’ conflict.

Whitely: Is treated with contempt and derision by the narrative despite being in the same situation as Weiss.

Adam: Is no more than an abusive ex and evil racist to make Blake look better. Unlike Illa and Sienna.

Tyrian: Utterly insane, gets humiliated by Ruby.

Watts: gets pushed aside by Cinder

Hazel: Entire character revolves around dead sister.

Need I go on?

From where I stand: Male characters either have no personality outside of female characters (Taiyang, Klein, Ghira, Whitely, Nicolas), treated with far less care than their female counterparts (Torchwick, Adam, Whitely, Jacques, Mercury), have no character (Cardin), are just evil with far less sympathy than their female counterparts (Tyrian, Watts, Adam and Mercury), have their agency taken from them (Ren and Jaune), aren’t proactive (Ozpin, Port, Oobleck) and more.

But hey, can’t stab the creators over problematic shit with guys. Or showcase the guys issues since it would destroy your argument.

[orionwhispers]

Devil Like Me (Part IX)

(A/N I know its been a while but I hope you love this next part! Sort of a “filler” but big things are coming! Love you all, thank you for being so kind and patient) 

Then

Winter had slipped away, and the breath of spring was lingering in the air. You sighed, feeling content as the warmth of the sun bathed your limbs. You spread your fingers along the metal of the car, smiling at the heat radiating off it, sending shocks along your fingertips.

"That exam was hell."

"Tell me about it." You murmured, falling back into your comfortable position on the hood of Jasmine's yellow car.  You exhaled, glad for the fresh air, a welcome change from the stuffy classroom you had spent the past two hours in. Until the stench of smoke tainted your nostrils. You immediately recoiled up, grimacing at the stale smell, and stared blankly at Jasmine, her slender fingers grasping a lit cigarette.

"What?" She questions, pulling the rim of her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose.

"Since when do you smoke?"

She glances at the roll between her fingertips and shrugs, "I dunno. I just did."

You swivel your eyes and kick her lightly, "This wouldn't have anything to do with Greg would it?"

"Er - no."

"Good." You smirk, watching as she inhales, before breaking into a fit of deep coughs.

"Fuck it." She laughs still spluttering, dropping the smoke onto the floor and crushing it between the soles of her boots, "I thought I could get into it! But its so gross."

“Greg's gross." You childishly retort, giggling as she slaps you on the stomach, face pulled into a frown but her emerald eyes shining wildly.

You watch through hooded eyelids as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a stick of gum, then grabs her phone and checks the time, a photo of you both beaming widely set as the lock screen "About half an hour before we need to get back to school."

You tap your fingers in acknowledgement, feeling Jasmine's presence slink next to yours. Through the top of your sunglasses, you can see the view, the ocean in the distance, the light dancing on the top of the water. It was a relief to be out of the confinement of the classroom, the past few weeks had been hell. Studying for exams until your eyes felt sore, living on a diet of red bull and mac and cheese as you tried to cram your head with as many algebra equations as you could. Your bedroom was scattered with college leaflets and scholarship applications, left bare as you grew tired lying about how ecstatic you were about the laws of gravity.

The tops of the trees in the forest came into your line of sight, the bushy green needles protruding your thoughts. You directed your attention to a seagull perched atop of the post office, you didn’t need to think of him. But if you did - you'd think about how it had been months without a trace, not so much as a twig snapping in the distance as you drove to school. His absence had been strange, a relief at first. Finally, you could concentrate on your life without disturbance, but as the days turned into weeks you realised that you liked the distraction, the feeling of having someone watching from the sidelines. You couldn’t help wondering if maybe you had been too harsh with him on the night with James, but you shook away that thought as soon as it entered your brain, he was a monster, he didn't care about you.

“Greg's going to be 18 in a couple of weeks."

"Good for him."

Jasmine ignored your comment and turned to face you, cheekbones glossy from the heat of the sun, “His Uncle owns a cabin up in Ivywood.”

You nod, thinking of the small town a couple of hours from where you lived. You had spent a few odd summers there, it was beautiful and popular with campers.

“He says it’s right near the lake.”

“Lucky him.”

“He’s going to throw a party - a small get together - to celebrate, he wants you to come.”

“He wants me to come or you want me to come?”

Jasmine rises to her elbows, brows furrowed in distaste. “Y/N! I don’t get why you don’t like him?”

You sigh slightly, the truth was there wasn't much wrong with Greg, sure he was a bit arrogant, but he was harmless. Jasmine was far too good for him, and you found his failure to realise that irritating.

“It’s not that I don’t like him - it’s just I doubt I'd bring much to the party.”

“Well, it’s not like you’d be spending the weekend alone. There will be other people!”

“Like who?”

“Well, I'm not exactly sure on the numbers, but his Uncle says he can have it for the weekend! So it’ll probably be me, Greg obviously, Josh, Laura, Ashley, Mike and then you and Ren!”

You nod along recognising a few of Greg's best friends and fellow teammates but fall short at the last name.

“Ren?”

A smug smile grazes the corner of Jasmine's lips, “Oh yeah, I haven’t told you! Ren is Greg’s cousin, I told him all about you -”

“You told him about me?” You screech, shaking your head in disbelief, one of Jasmine's favourite hobbies was trying to set you up, usually with guys you had nothing in common with.

“Duh! You’re my best friend! It was only good things I promise!”

“Jesus Jasmine.” You sigh, rubbing your forehead and gazing out into the distance, partially hoping the ground would swallow you up.

“Cmon, Y/N.” Jasmine murmurs, crawling towards you, her voice soft. “You’ve had a really hard time..” she glances quickly at the fading bruise below your eye, now a muted grey colour. “-and I thought that maybe it would cheer you up!”

“I'm really not interested.”

“You always turn down the boys I suggest! Do you want to be single forever?”

A certain face flickers in your mind momentarily, but you blink, forcing it out of your head.

“He’s really nice. But even if you hate him, it doesn't matter! Imagine a weekend away, swimming in a lake, roasting marshmallows and just relaxing! Just think about it at least!” She holds out her hands and tilts her head, reminding you of a dog wanting to be thrown a ball.

“Fine. I’ll think about it! No promises!”

Jasmine squeals engulfing you in a hug, the scent of stale smoke and fruity perfume surrounding you both as she presses a kiss to your cheek. You settle backwards, gazing out into the distant town, rose-tinted from your glasses, memories of the past few months clambering over your brain. Who knows, maybe a weekend away could be fun?

Now

You pace around Rebekah’s spacious bedroom, bare feet padding against her luxurious fur rugs as you cradle a mug of steaming coffee. The faint lull of the radio is floating through the air and a few of her expensive candles are lit, making the air smell of sage and sea salt. The blonde is staring at you in anticipation, eyes wide like a tiger ready to strike.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” You ask, taking a sip of your syrupy brew, pretending you don't know whats coming.

She sighs dramatically, “Do I have to spell it out for you? What happened between you and my brother?”

You shrug, slouching onto her armchair and folding your legs. “Nothing, we talked - that's all.”

“Bullshit!”

You trace your finger along a drip of coffee trailing the side of the mug, watching Rebekah in the corner of your eye striking her hands on her hips, prodding you for more.

“We just.. talked. I mean you couldn’t even call it that, he’s not exactly happy to be speaking to me at the moment.”

She quirks a brow and tilts her head, watching you in a sceptical manner. You felt slightly bad lying to her, but whatever was happening between you and Klaus felt so private. Your relationship always had done. To onlookers it probably seemed beyond puzzling, you were destined to get hurt the minute you became involved, but nobody understood the connection you had - as cliche as it sounded. But now, things were different, the past two years had changed both of you, and you couldn't erase the past. You were handling him like a glass ball, determined not to shatter his fragile state.

"Oh sure. I bet you both had a lovely civil conversation, that sounds about right. "

You take a slurp of coffee, nodding along to Rebekah's story nonchalantly, but the blonde isn't taking the bait.

"Y/N! You were kidnapped! You practically vanished into thin air, Klaus went bloody mental. I haven't seen him act that psychotic since.." her voice trails off momentarily, eyes darting to yours before she falters and smooths out her dress. "Look never mind, but seriously, you can't possibly be telling me that he didn't go berserk when he found you? He used to try and stop you leaving the house to buy milk for Christ's sake. "

You snort remembering Klaus' overprotective melodramatics as you lean back against the plush furniture. You exhale loudly and push yourself up to Rebekah’s line of sight. “I'm not denying he went mad - he almost killed Damon.”

“He had it coming.” The blonde scoffed, venom in her voice. “You both must have been in quite a hurry to leave, I mean, you left behind your daylight ring. You never go anywhere without it.”

You trace the band around your finger, the weight of it comforting you. One of Klaus’ men had returned it to you this morning, you had no clue how he had acquired it but you weren't complaining. Leaning forward, you plucked at a feather sprouting from Rebekah’s pillow and rolled it between your fingertips.

“That girl... Elena.” You test the name on your tongue, watching as Rebekah's head momentarily picks up, a look of distaste on her crimson lips. “She said that Klaus wanted to hurt her and her friends.”

“Would that be so bad?” Rebekah asks, leaning forward and applying a coat of mascara to her full lashes, “The girl is a whiny bitch.”

You tut slightly, humoured at her annoyance. “What’s going on with these people? What has Klaus done?”

Rebekah places her mascara tube down, eyeing herself in her rose gold mirror as she runs her fingers over flyaway tresses sprouting from her hairline. “Katerina.”

You pause for a moment, the name is familiar but you can’t exactly place it. You squint, trying to focus as a thought pops into your mind. “Katerina? As in…“

“Crazy, psychotic Katerina who ruined Klaus’ plan and spent 500 years running from him? Yeah, Elena is her doppelgänger.”

You let out a low whistle, it feels strange being able to put a face to a name; well almost. You had once heard the brothers discussing a woman called Katherine, whispering in hushed tones about where she might be hiding. You had later managed to pry it out of Klaus - by sitting on his chest until he gave in - and he spun you a tale about a moonstone she had once run with.

“So - Klaus is extracting revenge on Elena because he can't get at Katherine?”

Rebekah snorts, “Something like that, another Petrova doppelganger…”

“Equals another shot at breaking the curse.”

“Bingo.” Rebekah finishes, turning to face you.

“So, Klaus is going to sacrifice the girl?”

The blonde meets your eye line momentarily, before smacking her lips and shrugging her shoulders. She clasps her hands together, delighted at how she has pulled herself together, “Shall we go and have some lunch? I bet its a relief to not be cooped up in that room.”

“Bekah..”

“Y/N.”

You roll onto your back, mumbling in contempt, frustrated at how much people pick and chose to tell you. It was exasperating that you were expected to stay in Mystic Falls without knowing what was going on around you.

“Look, I wish I could tell you but I hardly know myself. You know as well as I do that Klaus does whatever the bloody hell he wants, and I’m sure he doesn't want you involved and I don’t particularly feel like being in a coffin again.”

“How can he not want me involved but yet keep me here without so much as a conversation?”

Rebekah shoots you a sympathetic look, perching on the edge of her bed and offering a thin smile. You assume you aren't going to get much more out of her about Elena and the curse, and you try to act nonchalant as a particular question bubbles at the edge your lips.

“What about that other girl…” You pause, tapping slightly on the ceramic mug pretending to conjure her name as if it hadn't been at the tip of your tongue for hours. “…Caroline.”

“Oh, Caroline.” Rebekah tightens the strap of her stiletto heel, taking a cautious first step before steadying herself. “The blonde bimbo. She’s newly turned but she's harmless, more or less.” You raise a brow, egging her for more information, “She’s one of Elena’s best friends, oh so preppy and irritating, the poor little mite is terrified of me though.” She giggles and turns her head back towards you, flashing her pointed fangs and letting out a mock snarl. You laugh softly, rolling your eyes before diverting your attention back towards a loose thread on a plump pillow, mind whirring slightly, what she said shouldn't bother you, but it did.

“Whats the matter with you?” Bekah asks from the corner of the room, adjusting her belt and shooting you a quizzical look.  You wave a hand casually and take a sip, trying to mask your feelings. “It's rather hilarious to see her around me, I remember at the ball…”

She falters, spinning around as if on autopilot. Her azure eyes meeting yours, her brows furrowed in question. “The ball.” She finishes, murmuring to herself, you could almost see the gears turning in her brain as she pursed her red lips. “Klaus left so suddenly - ” Her face is sympathetic, eyes soft and kind “You saw them together didn't you?”

You exhale loudly, knocking your head back and running a palm through your hair, Rebekah’s mouth turns up slightly before spreading into a total grin. “I knew it!” Her voice is shrill and high pitched as she leaps towards you like a kitten. You stare back at her, bemused at her statement. “I knew there was a reason he left like that… Holy shit! Why didn’t you tell me?”

You push yourself off the armchair, suddenly feeling hot and overwhelmed with the situation. “I'm sorry, I was a bit busy being burnt alive by a stranger to tell you about my boyfriend dancing with another woman!”

Rebekah raises an arched brow towards you, mouth turned into a smirk. “What?” You ask feeling completely lost and bewildered at what you had gotten into.

“You said, boyfriend.”

You falter slightly, backtracking in your mind as you realise your mistake. “Yeah…  well, I meant.” You pause, exhaling loudly and flopping back into the furniture, head buried in your palms. “Shit! Fuck!”

You hear Rebekah lowly chuckle as she kneels before you, her hands are delicate as she places them over yours, folding them together in your lap. “She doesn’t mean anything to him. She's just a pawn in his game.”

“I don’t care.” You lie.

“I know. But if you did… I’d tell you that he doesn’t care about anyone, no one except you.”

You snort, “He has a funny way of showing it.”

You both still for a moment, the only noise is the trees whistling in the wind outside. Rebekah rubs comforting circles across your hands and you're so grateful for her presence. You suddenly begin feeling embarrassed, it seeps through your pores and insecurity is dripping in your mind.

“I'm being stupid.” You sniff, wiping the start of tears you had no idea were forming. “I left. It was my choice, he had a right to move on. I can't stop him.” Your voice is wavering but you remain firm.

“You still love him,” Rebekah says, its more of a statement than anything and you know its true, there's no point denying it.

“I never stopped.”

The blonde rises to her feet, mimicking your movements as you head towards the door. “Are you going to tell him?”

“No.”

“I think you should, I think you both have more to say than you realise.”

You take one step forward and then immediately move back. You purse your lips as if sucking on a lemon and point your toes as if you are going to take a leap, before pulling your leg backwards. You feel ridiculous but so many things are stopping you from moving across the hallway. The house is mostly empty, Rebekah left soon after your chat promising to catch up with you later to talk about your predicament - something you weren't looking forward to. Kol was long gone, probably off harassing an innocent civilian and you hadn't seen Klaus or Elijah since the previous day. You were used to being alone, and you found comfort in the presence of your own thoughts, the only noise being the occasional mumble from Klaus’ minions downstairs. You now had free reign of the house, but only stayed on the highest floor with the exception of Rebekah’s boudoir. You didn't feel comfortable roaming around the halls and felt safe in your own space. You couldn't risk trying the front door and even if it miraculously opened you didn't have the urge to run, there were still things to sort out here.

But here you were, stood still like a statue at the step leading to the second floor. Its large and open presence daunting but the secrets withheld behind the doors coaxing you towards them. You should feel guilty for even thinking about rummaging around someone else belongings, but you and the Mikaelsons were hardly strangers, and besides, there was only one person whose mysteries you wanted to find. You gave yourself a mini pep talk, basically telling yourself to grow some balls, as you took a feeble step forward. You smiled inwardly and curled your toes into the rug, watching as your feet carried you ahead. You slipped open the first few doors, to no avail. All were grand and extravagant, but not what you were looking for. You came to the last door, further back than the others, perched under an archway in solidarity. You scoffed at yourself, you should have chosen this one first. Even the wood was unwelcoming, a deep ebony - almost completely black, a sharp contrast to the light surrounding you.

Gingerly, you grasped the brass handle, cursing at your feebleness. You reluctantly pushed it open, listening as the door creaked in protest. Your feet prowled forward as you hit the hardwood floor and smiled to yourself at the comforting silence. You had almost expected an alarm to sound or to fall through a trap door into a lion pit, two things you wouldn't find that surprising from Klaus. You sigh as you peer around the room, a feeling anchoring in the pit of your stomach. The chamber is lavish, but not in an overwhelming way. The colours are deep and almost comforting, a mix of coppers and reds, the curtains are drawn, engulfing the room in darkness. You cautiously pace forward, taking in as much as you can manage, it smells familiar, in a way that makes your heart lurch in your chest.

The room looks entirely unlived in, the bed made and the drawers tidy and closed. The only sign that he was ever here is the lingering acrylic smell, and the art perched on the wall. You creep forward, your fingertips tracing along the edge of a mahogany dresser as you reach the edge of the large canvas.

It takes your breath away.

Once upon a time, mornings were a time for lounging in bed, covers draped over your cool form as you observed Klaus through sleepy eyes, his hands moving against his work, a small smirk on his lips when he realised he was being watched. The memory is unwelcome and you clench your fingernails into your palm to force yourself to forget, the instant pain shocking you into silence. The painting is of a forest, filled with lush trees, the bark twisted and gnarled reminding you of crashing waves against the shore. The sketch is dark and distant taking you back to a time long ago, you almost reach out and touch it, but stop yourself before your fingers disrupt the art.

Your hand brushes against an askew paintbrush sending it hurtling onto the floor, you curse lightly as you watch it roll underneath the bed. You bend down and clamber onto all fours, feeling the cool flooring under your palms. You scramble forward, heaving the great blankets grazing the ground, huffing at their excessive size in contrast to your small frame. You extend a palm, determined to find the missing apparatus before he notices its absence. You sigh as your fingers brush various specks of dust and a stray sock before you come into contact with something firm. You clasp your hands around the hard interior and tug it towards you, falling backwards into a more comfortable position. Your eyes graze over the object in question, its a kind of sketchbook bound in leather, you tease the front cover wanting desperately to prise it open but unsure of what you'll find. Its been well loved, dog-eared and creased along the dark spine. Curiosity gets the better of you and you rip apart the pages, the paper rough against your fingers.

Its a sketch of you.

You cant place the date, but your hands trace the pencil strokes, it's so similar to the first you received, capturing every essence of you, from the curve in your nose to the arch of your eyebrows. You turn the page and there's another, this one of you bundled up as you visited the beach one year, cheeks rosy and a wide smile as you stared at the open water. You flick the page, there's another, and then another. Each yellow page filled with sketches of you, all from the past, ones of you curled up reading a book, then side profile and smiling, trips from a time long passed. You feel tears trickle down your cheeks as you sniffle, a lump growing at the bottom of your throat.

You turn to the next page, and a small rectangle drops onto the floor. You unfold it slowly and realise its a map, slightly crinkled and worn with unmistakable scrawled handwriting across various regions. All sightings of you, possibilities of where you could be found. You exhale loudly as you come to terms with what you have discovered, you finger the creases in the map as you try to work out all of the words before you notice a small piece of paper sticking to the back of the journal.

You pluck it out, and your fingers trace the fine material, you know exactly what it is. Its a photo of the both of you, the only one you have. You had managed to sneakily take it of Klaus before he could protest, both of you in the reflection of a mirror. You grinning like a child at the camera, pleased with your hidden photo and Klaus in the background, attempting to control the fire roaring in the cabin you had rented for the night. You both looked so happy and utterly normal, not a care in the world as you enjoyed each others company. As soon as he heard the camera click, he pounced, demanding you tear it before you shoved it away with a laugh, distracting him and teasing him from the developing polaroid. You completely forgot about the photo that weekend, too caught up in bliss to remember where you had left it and your heart clenches as you realise he must have found it somewhere and kept it for himself.

A guttural moan escapes your lips before you can silence it, and the tears are flowing hard and fast, but before you can weep in peace the front door slams open and the house is filled with a chorus of voices. You wipe your damp face with the back of your sleeve and leap to your feet, returning everything to where you found it and leaving the room noiselessly. Avoiding all contact with people and not making a sound before you manage to lock yourself in the bathroom, running the taps to silence your deafening sniffles and looking at your weak form in the mirror. The day's events were clattering around your mind like a bowling bowl and you felt a surge of determination, you needed to see Klaus and talk to him - you needed to -

"Hey! You can't go up there!"

You turn towards the bathroom door, tuning into the voices rising from behind it. You edge forward, brows furrowed in concern before a knock jolts you from your mind.

"Y/N... It's Bonnie... I need your help."

[partlycharlie-archive]

(we ain’t) got no time

chapter two: fuck bitches, get money link to chapter one

summary: He does jazz hands. Why did he just do jazz hands? Who is he, Howard Stark? Yikes, too soon. word count: 1,505 warnings: awkward kids a/n: this was me making the 5k requirement, so. thanks so much to my amazing artist @massivespacewren and my beta @capolleon <3 love you guys

art!

read on ao3

“You know you should tell him, right?”

Bucky groans, flopping over the back of the couch in dismay. “I know. Fuck me, I know.”

Steve shakes his head. Smirking like the asshole he knows he is, he says, “You’re an idiot sometimes -”

 ---

 “- you know that?”

“Yes, I’m well aware, thank you.” Tony rolls his eyes from his precarious position, and Rhodey sighs in response.

“Okay…” Rhodey trails off, voice scratching a little with the shitty quality of the video call. “So what are you -”

 ---

 “- going to do about it?”

Bucky sighs. “Fuck if I know. I don’t think I can afford to tell him, but -”

 ---

 “- I can’t go on much longer, to be honest.” Tony groans, almost reaching up to scrub a hand down his face before realizing that his position relies on his hands for balance.

“Well. I don’t really think there’s much -”

 ---

 “- I can do to help you here, buddy. You already know what I think,” Steve says, the smug smirk on his face betraying his innocent facade.

Bucky grumbles unintelligibly, and Steve lifts a hand to his ear in response.

“What was that? I didn’t -

 ---

 “- quite hear you.”

“Fuck you, Rhodey, you know what I said.”

“Yeah, well.” Rhodey lifts an eyebrow in response. Just one.

Asshole.

Tony sighs. “Blah blah blah, tell Winter you’re Tony Stark, blah blah blah, your relationship with him won’t -”

 ---

 “- last, blah blah blah, you can’t start a relationship with lies, blah blah blah…”

Steve’s smirk twists into something more sympathetic. “You know you have to tell him, right?”

Bucky swivels around, almost hitting Steve in the face with his right foot as he settles back into an upright position. He makes a weird sort of groaning noise - a hhhhhh sound.

 ---

 “Yeah, I know.”

 ---

 “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna do it. Hoo boy. Gonna do it. Okay. Alright.” Bucky starts to pace around the room, almost tripping over Steve’s feet as he walks past him.

“Yep.”

“Okay. Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. Okay. Yep, everything’s fine. Ohhhh yeah, okay, I’m gonna do it!”

“Yep.”

“Yeah. Okay!”

“Yep.”

“What should I wear? Maybe the red button-down with the checkered stripes?”

“Yep.”

“What about the blue jeans? Hmm… no, the black ones are better, right?”

“Yep.”

“Shoes?”

“Yep.”

“Well, obviously I’m going to wear shoes but which ones should I wear?”

“Yep.”

Bucky blinks rapidly.

“You’re not paying attention, are you.”

It’s a question, not a statement.

“Yep.”

He sighs and drags a hand down his face. “Mother of God…” Bucky turns around to face Steve, who’s sitting on the edge of his bed with his phone in his hand, probably playing some ridiculously addicting game.

“Steve. Steve. Steeeeeve. STEVE.”

He finally glances up. “Yeah?”

“I hate you.”

Steve smiles softly. “I know.”

“I’m leaving now.”

Steve’s face crinkles up suddenly. “With that shirt?”

Bucky glances down at himself, then looks back up at Steve with confusion. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”

 ---

  HHHHHHH.

“What do I do?”

A series of beeps.

“Well, yeah, I know I have to tell him. But when? What? Where? Why? Who?”

Another beep.

“Okay. Who: Him. What: Tony Stark - genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist - is Iron Man - superhero, badass extraordinaire, all-around awesome dude. When: Fuck if I know.”

Angry whirring.

“Listen, Dummy, I am procrastinating this announcement as long as humanly possible, okay?” Tony points a wiggling finger at the robot, who boops it with his arm.

“Anyway. Where: Here? Probably here. Probably. Yeah. Here. Okay. Hoo boy. Okay.”

DUM-E boops him softly on the nose, and Tony lets out a noisy sigh as his body deflates.

“Okay. Why: Oh lord, why -”

“The Winter Soldier is requesting entrance, Sir. Shall I allow him to enter?”

“Oh, motherfucker Jesus Christ son of a bitch.” Tony looks down at himself; greased - everything, really, bare feet, probably baggy eyes…

Ugh.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, fine, let him in.” He spins around in his wheely chair (whee! Ha, Tony is such a child) to face the doors in preparation.

The doors slide open and Winter enters, this time with Tony’s eyes following him. He doesn’t think he could handle it if this time Winter has another panic attack because Tony decided to be a dumbass and ignore him.

“Hey, Winter, what’s up?” he says, smiling widely. DUM-E leans out from behind him and beeps softly.

“Hey.” Winter steps into the room and the doors close behind him, leaving his back flush to what looks like solid glass (but, you know, solid). “I, uh. Wanted to talk to Iron Man about something?”

“Oh!” Of course he does, you dumbass, why would he be here to see you? “Yeah, I’ll go get him.”

Slip through the private entrance, slip the suit on, slip back out, and -

“Hey - Winter! Didn’t expect to see you here.” Iron Man’s voice is warm (and sappy! Stop with that!). “Tony said you had something you wanted to talk to me about?”

Winter’s cheeks lift from behind the domino mask, and his eyes flash a brilliant blue. “Yeah. Yeah, I, uhm - I had something I wanted to tell you.”

“Yeah… so did I, actually. Good timing?”

Fuck, Tony did not think this reveal was going to happen so soon.

Ugh.

“Haha, yeah.” Tony can’t help but notice that Winter’s laughter sounds like the singing of a thousand little fairies, even through the voice modulator.

Ew. That was a little too sappy, even for him.

“So, um. Mine has to do with my identity?”

Holy shit.

“Oh, wow,” Tony coughs out, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck (metal? Metal neck? Ugh.) in a nervous motion Pepper has told him multiple times he needs to get rid of, “me too! What a - ha, what a coincidence. Wow.”

Winter’s eyes widen. “Oh! Oh. Okay. Um. I guess I should go first, huh?”

Tony’s eyes dart nervously around the room despite knowing Winter can’t see him. “Um. Yeah? If you’re comfortable with that, obviously.”

Instead of responding verbally - which, yeah, Tony can understand that, he’s nervous as hell too - Winter just reaches up to the back of his mask and undoes the fingerprint-scan locks, one by one. He rips of the mask, and -

Holy shit. That’s James Barnes.

Barnes’ smile comes out more like a grimace. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“Did I just say that?”

Barnes - should Tony be calling him Bucky? - laughs again, this time a little less nervous. “Yeah. You have a habit of doing that. So does Tony, come to think of it.” He smiles fondly.

Why does Tony feel jealous? Bucky’s talking about him.

Still.

What the fuck?

That’s Bucky Barnes. James Barnes! James Buchanan Barnes! Fuck!

Tony’s been flirting (fuck, he’s been flirting) with Steve’s best friend!

Oh motherfucker.

Tony realizes suddenly that Bucky is waiting for him to say something, and in the next moment comes to understand that he’s just been provided with the perfect segue.

(Which, by the way (ha, another segue), why is segue pronounced like segway? The English language is a lie.)

“Ha! Speaking of Tony.” Tony blinks twice, then scrunches his face up for a long second, and the suit starts to unfold around him. “Tada!”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “No fucking way.”

Tony’s face twists into what is probably the most awkward expression ever. “Yep.”

He does jazz hands.

Why did he just do jazz hands? Who is he, Howard Stark?

Yikes, too soon.

“Wow.” Bucky scratches the skin above his eyebrow and blows out a massive breath. “Damn.”

“What, you disappointed?” Tony tries to play it off as a joke, but he thinks his voice ends up coming out just a little bit too sincere.

Bucky’s eyebrows crease. “What? No - no, no, no, how could I be disappointed? Tony, I’ve had a crush on you for ages now. I mean, come on. You haven’t noticed? It’s been getting kind of ridiculous, actually. Steve keeps riding my ass about it - guess he’ll be glad to find out I got it all worked out.”

Huh.

“But. What?” Tony’s face feels frozen in confusion. He glances around the room a few times, then looks down at himself and across to Bucky. “But. You only ever come in here for repairs or to see Iron Man - also me, I guess, but not really?”

“Okay, yeah, but - ohmygodthisissoembarrassing - half the time I come down here for repairs I did it to myself ‘cause I wanted to spend time with you. Have you not noticed that it’s always, y’know, a snipped wire? Or a loose gear, or whatever? Easy shit? Oh - plus, I usually spend a bunch of time with you before I ask about Iron Man - or you, whatever - because. I dunno. I like spending time with you?”

Huh.

Interesting.

“Can I kiss you?” The words come flying out of his mouth before he can even consider them. Tony cringes internally, waiting for the backlash, but luckily Bucky smiles widely before he can start apologizing wildly and fucking up his chances.

“Fuck yeah.”

And -

Fireworks.

Fuck yeah.