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heli0s-writes · 5 years ago

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III. Paralysis*

Summary: “I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around Bucky’s bicep, his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

A/N: 9.8k words. OOF.

Warnings: Language, robots v. monsters violence, Big Time angst and comfort, smutty bits (dry-humping, thigh riding).

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

He leaves around sunset. Hair combed neatly to the side and freshly shaven, Steve’s dashing in a fitted suit and tie.

In the middle of passing around a basketball, Erik Killmonger, in all his subtlety, whistles, “Looking fresh, white boy!”

Steve smirks, smoothing the front of his jacket, “This monkey suit? I’d rather be in circuitry.”

He’s been laying low since Siegehook, since Bucky’s arm, and since you. But now the story’s changed and he’s gotta get his narrative straight— he’s introducing a new character, changing the players, and guiding the spotlight exactly where it needs to go.

Jimmy Fallon— Kimmel? One of the Jimmies personally flew into Hong Kong for a special taping of his late-night show. Orion racked up eleven kills; it’s another record and the people want what they want.

Fury called the three you of into his office after the network reached out for the umpteenth time. He strategized shrewdly to have Steve on this particular broadcast because it’s not as serious as a news report and not as wordy as an interview. Too many things can go wrong in both: cross-examinations, misquoting, scrutiny after the fact.

Steve works best in front of a live audience. He’ll sit down tonight—broad and tall—smile at the camera and the host, make a few charming quips, and then he’ll let the world know.

James has been hurt. The next breach will overlap his recovery time—don’t worry, everybody, fortunately, there’s a pilot available to step in and fill his place until he’s fully healed. And yes, he’ll be back soon, both in the Jaeger and on the show— I know you miss him, he’s even more popular than me, huh? Broody and quiet, right, ladies? He’s a hit!

Then he’ll laugh and field some questions about his new partner—but keep it vague for both yours and Bucky’s sake.

It didn’t need to be said. You didn’t want to be named, Steve didn’t want to make any assumptions for the future, and Bucky didn’t want to know if anyone thought he couldn’t pilot anymore.

Erik passes and you catch, sidestepping Thor and shooting over his figure which is no easy feat considering his massive height and the way Steve is staring you down. You don’t have to be hooked up to his brain to know what he’s wondering.

Since the trial run, you’ve been feeling the after-effects of the drift in oscillating waves. Sometimes you catch yourself standing ramrod straight, physically feeling heavier, knowing it’s him.

You okay? We talked about this. Yes, you are. No, you aren’t. It’s complicated. He’s fixes his tie the same time you spot a wrinkle. After-effects.

Erik jumps for a rebound when you miss the next basket, getting it knocked away by Thor’s enormous hand. Steve’s already gone when you look back, but Erik is passing again, and your next shot sinks through the net.

“That’s fuckin’ right!” He knocks his elbow into yours proudly, pushing sleeves over elbows until you can see the patterns of scarification up his arms. Feet back and forth on the scuffed concrete with distracted rhythm, you dribble, thoughts still on Steve.

“Hey,” a voice calls over the sound of the slamming ball. Barnes toes the edge of the makeshift court. A jacket is tucked under his arm, baseball cap atop his dark head. “Come on, it’s Friday night and you’re thinking too much. I wanna show you a place.”

He leads with confidence, directing the taxi in practiced Cantonese picked up over the last two years. Then, once disembarked, he peeks back every few minutes on the street to check if you’re still following. Your gait is awkward—steps firm, but lopsided. All off kilter and wound up like a spring.

It’s okay. In Bucky’s experience, food always helps. He’s taking you to his favorite restaurant—hole-in-the-wall Sichuan. He hollers over his shoulder, "You better be prepared for spice!”

Red lacquered doors open with a tinkering sound, a tiny overhead bell signaling new arrivals. A hostess steers through a path of similarly varnished tables and decorated chairs when Bucky asks for a quiet corner. Fish tanks of koi gleam green and blue. Chandelier scatters gold and white diamond shapes on a ceiling painted like a cloudy sky.

Hot tea first, and he sips carefully, gaze moving up to the T.V. behind your back when you’re busy flipping through the menu. A few more minutes pass of your furrowed brow sinking deeper and Bucky’s hand slides quickly across the tablecloth, nudging the booklet from your clutch.

“I got this.” And relief washes over your entire body like rain.

The appearance of entrees breaks your trance. Mai Gai, Char Siu Bao, Dan Dan noodles, and eggplant in garlic sauce—you’re trying to tell him it’s too much, wondering when he even ordered, but he ignores you. Not his fault you spaced out, he says, catch, and a napkin flies directly into your chest.

It makes you laugh, and Bucky secretly wants to tell you that it wouldn’t kill you to do it more often. Why the hell not, anyway? He’s tired of being upset about something that was largely inevitable. He knew the risk of death when they signed up to be Rangers so on the bright side, at least it’s his arm and not his head. At least it’s his arm and not his co-pilot’s. You’ve proven to be more than capable and proven to be someone he can trust with Steve’s life.

If Bucky had any doubts about whether or not that damned Rogers determination would see them through—they’ve been dispelled now.

The drift was sound. When Steve stepped out from the loading dock, he was lighter like half his weight had been sloughed off. When you followed, helmet pulled from your face, Bucky could see where it landed. Your hips, your shoulders, your jaw, all defiant—even if temporarily—coming down from the high of the handshake. Squared and strong, you looked at Bucky and certainty gleamed from your eyes.

You are Orion’s new pilot. He’s gotta give it up. It could be worse.

Bucky’s fingers shift as he unsnaps chopsticks and grabs spoons, the plates on his left clicking quietly, flexing his pointer when it sticks. Sometimes the prosthetic is a little glitchy because nothing’s perfect, but Stark and Shuri are constantly making updates. They use technology from the spinal clamp to connect his synapses, running tests on its reaction time, sensitivity, and functionality. He can feel pressure, but not pain, and wouldn’t it be nice if it applied elsewhere, too?

He passes your utensils over, wrapped loosely in a napkin. It could be worse.

“Hey Barnes,” you call earnestly, running your fingers over an embossed floral pattern on the paper, “Thanks.”

He’s not looking at you yet, firmly on a mission for soy sauce and chili oil. He makes a well of it in a ceramic dish and stirs with a chopstick, moving it to the center of the table, finding distraction in small tasks.

“...Barnes?”

“It’s Bucky,” he says finally, flicking his eyes to your hopeful face, “You can call me Bucky, alright? Usually that’s just for Steve, but you’ve been in his head—know me now, I guess. So you might as well. Hold your horses—I’ll serve you.”

Speechless, you put your hands in your lap and observe him scoop food, the syllables of his offered nickname tapping like a metronome over your curious tongue.

Bucky, you consider, watching the way he moves. Bucky, with his long hair pulled back and out of his cap. Bucky, his soft and worn hoodie, boots drumming gently against the table leg, eyes discreetly glazed over because he doesn’t think you notice the change in his mood.

Bucky, who made you laugh in the Jaeger hangar—even if he did threaten your life upon the first meeting. Who could have let you rot from boredom and worry, but instead took you into Hong Kong to his favorite restaurant without being asked to. Who could hate you—truly, truly hate you—for taking half his life from him, but instead is piling a mound of fragrant jasmine rice on your plate.

“What?”

“Bucky. I like it. It sounds nice.”

A clipped noise of displeasure, “Okay. Don’t fuckin’ wear it out.”

“Bucky...?” You murmur, sly. “Bu-cky. Buck-y.” The tips of his ears swell pink as you continue, emphatically pressing your lips together, letting your jaw hang open, pronouncing with precision. A bite of a steamed bun and you lick the edge of your mouth, “Bucky…hm…”

He sputters.

“Would you stop? Jesus, you’re annoying just like him— no fucking wonder— the two of you. Just fuckin’ darling.” His words are all run together with how fast his frustrated tongue moves, a healthy flush over his cheeks, spoon clinking on his plate.

It’s cute. Stoic, serious, James—Bucky Barnes– just a boy who can’t take a bit of flirting without lighting up like a candle. It’s fun. You like him, Bucky Barnes.

An unexpected ache overtakes you and suddenly Bucky looks more familiar than he ever has. Something excruciating about the soft crinkles of his brow, the way his generous lips draw back to reveal a sliver of his teeth.

He’s Bucky wiping the sweat from his collar in a dirty alleyway, jeans torn at the knees, bruises budding along his knuckles as he yanks up a troublesome blonde friend. Bucky, young and determined, helping Steve into bed every time he got sick.

Bucky, hovering pallid and broken in the drift, hurt and afraid but you felt his resolute strength in Steve’s head even as he howled in agony. Far off and shuffling in transparent layers until he was little more than a specter, but he was there.

His eyes lift again, raising to point you toward the T.V.

“There’s our boy.”

Our boy. And it keeps hurting.

You twist your torso as Steve steps out from backstage, waving and smiling, impeccably poised. He shakes Jimmy’s hand— silently mouthing thank you and hey because the cheering and yelling is too loud to hear him anyway. You try to stop thinking about Bucky anywhere but corporeal and whole across the tablecloth.

“Hey, Jimmy, how are ya?”

“Good—good, Steve. It’s so great to have you on the show again! Wow, you look great! Specimen.”

Steve chuckles modestly, tucking his chin to his chest, “Thanks, you do too.”

“Alright, no need to flatter me, we’re already in love with you, okay?”

You grin the same time Steve does, but whereas he continues to joke and enthrall two hundred people, you grow restless. Bucky refills your tea and drops a crumble of yellow rock sugar in.

“Relax,” he mutters, “It’s fine. He’s good at this. Eat your food.”

And you know this; you know him. Steve’s good when the questions get too personal and when there’s gaps in the conversation—when the cheering interrupts him or when his jaw ticks before he morphs it into a smile.

He’s good when he breaks the news to a hushed audience, gone eerily quiet like they’ve stepped on consecrated ground. Steve gives them those big blue eyes and the room immediately bursts into applause. Some people are crying. The host is shocked into wordlessness.

You feel relieved, getting what you pleaded for. No cameras. No questions. No pressure. The truth is aired, and Bucky seems pleased, too. You’re about to turn around, offer your full attention, thankful for his company, but then something else happens.

Jimmy blinks his stupor away from the blow of Steve’s confession. He takes a sip from his mug and after a short exchange of, thank you for your transparency, it must have been hard— wow I didn’t think you’d drop a bomb like that on us tonight! I thought I was the one with the ace up my sleeve— ha!

He points off-stage and says, “After that, I think you deserve a nice surprise, Steve. Ready?”

Tall, gorgeous, lightly curled hair cascading down her back—the surprise is a woman. She steps easily in heels, an off-the-shoulder red dress hugging tight to her body. Stunning. She waves to the audience and they go wild.

Steve shoots up to meet her for a kiss in front of the host desk, shaking his head in disbelief, tangling his fingers in her silky hair. There’s cheering again and the crying keeps on.

“Oh my god— Jimmy! You sly devil!” He’s overjoyed. “Baby— how’d you—I thought you were working.”

“I can always make an exception for my favorite guy.” She showcases perfectly white teeth and the high apples of her rosy cheeks.

It’s Ophelia Reyez, Steve’s model-turned-actress girlfriend of approximately six months. Her recent appearance on the Victoria Secret fashion show blew up the internet and her last Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover sold out in every gas station you went into.

Their first meeting was at a charity event—raising awareness about pollution in the Pacific, discouraging scavengers from harvesting Kaiju parts after battles. A picture of them standing two feet away made its way through social media the next morning her PR team made contact before noon.

So of course, it was decided; it’s a beneficially mutual relationship, after all. Doesn’t matter if he hates it or not—people don’t want to know that pilots live in a metal box and play basketball on Friday nights. They want to see Rangers in a role— monogamous relationships with beautiful people, white picket fence (or gated community) future in the making, and eventually plump-faced babies in strollers.

Steve’s now back in his seat, shifted so Ophelia is sitting in his lap, turned to the side. His hands are locked around her slender waist—an incredibly believable display of public affection. She kisses his cheek, leans her head on his shoulder, beaming brightly. If you were anybody else, you’d believe it; you have before.

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” you whisper in both awe and annoyance.

“Feeling it, huh?” Bucky speaks plainly around a bite of eggplant when he notices your jaw. That habitual and microscopic signal he’s grown to spot a mile away means Steve’s irritated and pissed off, and now it means that you are, too.

“Yeah,” you admit, shaking your head. You turn back to him, thoroughly bothered, having had enough of the performance.

“Uh-huh. Everyone’s a Fly—even her.”

You sigh at the label. Jaeger Flies, is what he’s saying. Ranger groupies. Derisive titles— and maybe deserved— for men and women who are attracted to pilots solely because they’re pilots. They want the opportunity to be famous or the privilege of being elite.

Even her, Ophelia Reyes. She’ll forever look at Steve Rogers as the Ranger.

Natasha always lamented—usually as she took her earrings off after a date, heels slipping off her pale feet—about another civilian man who worshipped her, and how that would be a dream for most people, to be so adored, so revered, but you always felt her sorrow in the drift mourning a love she couldn’t have.

She wanted the white picket fence. The normal life, normal husband, normal family. Her clean break from the past where monsters could no longer chase her in Decima and nightmares could no longer chase her at night. Behind closed doors, she was all torn open at the seams. And you’d wordlessly tell her shut up because she had a family with you. You loved her too, wasn’t that worth something?

She’d spiral and spiral and nothing was ever enough.

Your stomach twists and it keeps hurting.

Bucky pays for dinner. He asks as he pops a mint into his mouth, “Up for dessert?”

“God, Buck.” You groan, and Bucky takes a second to run that through his head again. God, Buck. Another thing like Steve.

“C’mon, I wanna show you another place,” he says thoughtfully, “Hold on to your hat, punk.”

A lighthearted swat to your back and then he’s shoving the ballcap hanging from his chair on your head.

The streets are lit with all sorts of colors as you follow him through the market, peering at vendors showcasing an abundance of food and miscellaneous items. You keep telling him you’re too full and can’t eat another fucking bite, but he only commands you to walk it off. The crispiest egg waffles are somewhere down this way, and even though he can’t remember the intersection, it should be close.

Between steps and dodging passerby’s, he relates his own experiences of brief PR relationships. A Russian woman one time, and a Greek woman another time. Cross-cultural because it made the PPDC look good—and it was all about looking good. He loathed it, of course, but he’d bite down a couple of months before their representatives would release those asinine joint statements about “conscious uncoupling” – schedules too busy, still have love for each other in their hearts, though.

“Couldn’t tell you those girls’ middle names. We’d get together just long enough for some media circulation—dates where we’d pretend to be offended when pictures leaked on TMZ.”

“Well,” you muse over a vision of Bucky leaned back on Steve’s mattress, returned late and bored of another paparazzi encounter swarming him in the lobby of some hotel. You know it like a dream—his ankles crossed, shoes shucked off, cracking his neck. Fuckin’ wild, Stevie. This girl. My knees ain’t what they used to be.

“Least you got your dick plenty wet, didn’t ya?”

He makes a noise like an engine backfiring—offended like you’ve pawned off his prized possessions or something.

“Jesus—you’re an ass.” He slams the bill of the cap down until it hits you in the nose. Another huff, more cursing, and then he’s saying fuck you before speeding off alone.

You chase cheerily, finding his chestnut head peeking over the crowd with ease because he’s tall and hard to lose in Hong Kong. A few more blocks down with him looking back surreptitiously to make sure you’re not lost, and Bucky ends up being the one who is actually lost.

“Shit. Can’t find the stand,” he grumbles, “Don’t give me that face. These are way better than the ones we passed earlier—fucking all soft in the middle—fresh pandan leaf, alright? You don’t get it.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” you laugh, feeling your cheeks grow tired from the way they’ve been lifted all night.

A stifled, hot breeze of urban downtown mixes with a chilly gust of wind, carrying Bucky’s petulance away though the throng. Blinking, you look around, craning your neck and shuffle to the curb. Stalls with hanging lanterns. Carts lined with pickled mango. Vendors grilling skewers of pork and cleaving roast duck into chunks.

You suddenly dart from him across the busy road and barely avoid a rickshaw balancing two enormous baskets of finger bananas. When you return, you hold up matching green popsicles. One gets shoved into his mouth, other one into yours. Pandan, like he wanted.

“Hey, it’s not bad,” you give it another taste. Lingering coconut, a little bit leafy, but not unpleasant. “Oh shit—cold!”

Bucky licks his lips, stinging red from the ice. You shudder loudly as brainfreeze hits, another chatter of your teeth following when a gust of wind whips through. He shrugs his jacket from his shoulders.

He calls you a dumbass after an embarrassing story about the time you skinny-dipped in a pond near The Icebox in the middle of winter. A handsome man, your eager libido, and a handle of whiskey had been involved. You giggle about being bed-ridden for half a week afterwards, but you got his number and a few good nights in his bed.

“Guess you’re not as boring as I thought.”

You whistle, “Sweetheart, I got stories that’ll put some hair on your chest.”

Bucky smacks you on the shoulder. “Ass.”

The Shatterdome comes into view much later.

What would have normally been a three-hour excursion, at most, has unintentionally into six and you’re nowhere close to tired—not quite ready for it to end. Bucky is bright with energy, too.

The past hours have been dedicated to recalling old tales. One led to another, threads pulled from the most insignificant of mentions—your old Boston Terrier’s underbite; Bucky accidentally knocking Steve’s bottom lip into his own braces in sixth grade and it swelled up so big he could hardly talk; Natasha, unable to pronounce fucking aluminum out of all the damn words in the world; you, unable to pronounce facetious; and then Bucky, trying his own hand at it and realizing he can’t either.

“Fa—fa-shish-shush? Fascist—tus? Factitious… Ah, shit.��

“Buck,” you gasp through another fit, “Bucky—you have to shut up. Oh—Oh my god—my face hurts.”

“Christ, who fucking made this word up?” He turns the corner toward the living quarters, shaking his head. Just you and him between the rooms and his steps slow at the advent of an inbound goodnight.

Bravely, now that you’re in more secluded space, you offer, “I can tell you more... if you want. Anything. It’s only fair.”

“Yeah,” he says, going quiet and careful. “If you want to.”

So, you take a deep breath, bookended by a nervous grin because other than Steve, the only person who knows anything about you outside a confidential manila folder is dead.

“Well, it might surprise you, since I’m just so goddamn talented—"

“Oh, here we fuckin’ go.”

“Kidding. I wasn’t good at anything,” you elbow him before fishing out your key. “Other than getting into trouble.” Clicks of the cylinder and your vault door squeaks open. “Lots of fighting—I was a small kid. Had nothing but the clothes on my back and just the biggest chip on my shoulder.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Yeah. It’s funny. Steve’s alleyway fisticuffs might as well have been your own. You tell him as soon as the PPDC started recruiting again, you were in line. Their standards were confusingly specific and the tests they ran didn’t make any sense, but you passed and landed in Kodiak Island under the austere care of Stacker Pentecost.

Flipping the light on, you invite him inside. “I’d been in and out of foster homes. Barely had a high school degree. Got into… bad work. You know— what do homeless young adults with questionable moral codes do when their 9-5 isn’t paying the bills?” It’s desperate joke to break up the tension but he doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m not judging.”

You plop down on the edge of your table— a spotty metal thing pilfered from a vacated room. He takes the single seat in front of you, moving a dusty glass of water toward the wall, expression only showing attentiveness.

“Well, anyway…” you pause, “I was in the Bay Area after Trespasser— you know, scavenging. But, well, it changes your perspective a little when you’re sneaking through government tape at 3 in morning, stepping over flowers and memorabilia for all the deaths to crouch over a monster’s fucking toenail.”

“Hell,” a sardonic and self-deprecating grin, “I might have been a degenerate street urchin, but someone’s family got taken from them and here I was—monetizing their tragedy.”

Arching your back for more comfort, you splay your left leg over the surface, “Pentecost always said if I was lucky enough, I’d suffer brain damage or radiation poisoning, but might as well die in a Jaeger than in a ditch like I figured I always would. Son of a bitch had my number.”

Bucky’s lips are pursed lightly, eyes are tracing the path of your laces through bent hooks when you wriggle your boot back and forth. He spreads his hand over your ankle, keeping you still.

You swallow when he squeezes.

“Uh— I met Nat at Kodiak.” Bucky is warm. You oscillate between ignoring him and focusing on him, clinging to his hold instead of chasing the thought of Natasha too much. “We were… very similar. Childhood, um, troubles and all that.” You give him a pointed look and he makes a small noise of understanding with no intention to press for details, “She became my best friend. She was the first person I had. My only family.”

A nod of mock irritation and he says, “Yeah. Steve was always a part of mine. Sometimes they say they like him more than me. Can’t blame ‘em.”

“It’s the charm. They make it seem effortless, huh?”

“Fucker can’t take a bad picture to save his life.”

You laugh. “A smile like the goddamn sun!”

“One look into those stupid blue eyes and you’re a goner.”

“Criminally pretty.”

“Hah!” Bucky snorts, “Pretty enough for all of us.”

The floodlight on the wall casts darkness in the shape of your head over his shoulder. Lines of wayward hair caress his neck, tapered strands resting on his collarbones, chestnut glowing orange. His irises stipple forest green when it touches the light, smile nostalgic and lovely.

“Don’t be stupid,” you look at him for another minute longer, “You’re pretty, too, Buck.”

A raise of his brow. Bucky’s mouth opens and closes a few times vacantly. “Thanks,” he mutters finally. Then, bashfully, “So are you.”

Then, a cautious murmur of your name that you almost miss, and he’s peering up at you, deliberately soft. Bucky’s thumb knead small circles over the stitching of your jeans.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

You loved her, didn’t you?

The years sweep through, passing over your face in a range of rapid-fire emotions. Bucky watches them change like shadows of a bonfire. Delight, amusement, longing. Anger, despair, grief. Deep and unforgiving because she was your whole world—all you had— and she left too soon.

You inhale and it sounds like a sniffle— exhale, and it sounds like a sob. No going back now; you did promise him anything.

You loved her, didn’t you?

Of course you loved her. Natasha-fucking-goddamn-Romanoff. Yeah, of course you did.

You loved her like a sister. You loved her like a lover. You loved her in reflexive ways, like mother’s intuition, finding your motivation in the need to protect her even though she hardly ever needed protection. You loved her like precious gems. You loved her like she was made from your own rib. You loved her enough to love unreciprocated.

“Well, you spend years living with someone, in their brain, learning everything about them— every decision in and out of their control that led them up to who they ended up being. Their—all their impulses and all the things they think about themselves. How—how they hate themselves sometimes.”

You’d always said you were the stupid one. Too stupid to reflect on the past and too stupid to let it burden your conscience the way she’d let hers. A running gag whenever her hand jammed putting on a lipstick she’d worn a million times and you’d finally have to do it for her.

Cheer up, Nat. You’re too pretty to cry. You’d line her lips, pat in rouge delicately, encouragingly. And then you’d shut up because there was nothing you could tell her. A million reassurances rolled off her back because they only made her feel worse. She clung onto your care like another weapon in her chest because she couldn’t return it even though you told her you wanted nothing from her but happiness. Jesus Christ, Nat, I thought I was the stupid one.

“When you know someone like that, it’s easy, isn’t it? You see them exactly for who they are and suddenly there’s no longer the concept of good or bad. What else could I do but love her? Especially when she thought so little of her damn self—tried everything to be someone else but—Jesus, if you only knew how radiant she was—”

You shut your eyes. “A smile… like the goddamn sun. Ah, fuck—"

And now you’re crying. You haven’t cried about Natasha in almost half a year because it’s something you track like the entrance bay’s war clock. Five months. Ten days. Zero again.

You’re choking back too many words and you don’t even know why you said all of that. You start apologizing, rattling out more, too much again, desperately like a prayer, pitch escalating higher and higher. “She deserved everything. A life that was completely—solely—hers. A life that made her happy— and why— why her?”

Why not me?

Bucky hears it in the silence. Watches it descend like a funeral shroud, weighing you down until you look as heavy as Steve on his worst days—when he stares at Bucky’s arm, like Bucky can’t see, can’t feel him there. And he knows Steve is thinking, why not me?

Bucky rises to his feet, stepping next to your uselessly dangling leg, resting his left hand on your shoulder and you grasp him, clutching achingly tight, torn to bits. And it’s too much all at once.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around his bicep, then his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

You’re smashed into little pieces, barely keeping your head above water, holding it all in, and no one recognized how you were drowning the entire time.

Solemnly, curiously, he feels like he’s seeing you for the first time but not quite, remnants of familiarity sparks in him—the filmy plastic layer of an old photograph pressing down to reveal something he once knew and finally knows again.

You make helpless noises, staring numbly ahead, tears rolling out like marbles to drop into your lap.

Bucky shakes his head, “I’m fine,” he whispers gently—frustrated—brow furrowed, his fingers rubbing the salt from your chin, “Quit your blubberin’.” He tilts your face up to the light, watching you take a shuddering breath, exhausted from unearthing buried skeletons.

It's wet when he kisses you, supple flesh chapped around the edges from anxious gnawing, swollen hot from weeping. It’s soft and quick, and then he pulls away.

“St—sorry,” he says, mouth pressing into a thin line, lips drawn in and tentatively licked. “Sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have.”

Your eyes are sad—big and vulnerable, inflamed red, confused, worried, something else weaving through the damp gaze. Your strong, small fingers are still tight on him, and even though Bucky pulled away and apologized, he rushes forward again.

His free hand curls around your neck, supporting your head. Lips part and close, pressing firmly, expertly, naturally. It feels like he’s kissed you before and missed it— like a kiss he’s been waiting on for a long time.

Banging on your door jerks him away. You careen off the tabletop, smooth the back of your hair, wipe your face and the vault creaks open.

“Marshal,” Bucky greets.

“Rangers…” Fury’s steps are suspicious, phone in his hand aglow. “I thought we had a plan.”

Your heart is beating too fast, the press of Bucky’s plush lips still warm, the scent of his skin still near. You sense it like an imprint, feel it like a brand. The room spins with an onslaught of possible scenarios—all horrendously unclear.

“Care to explain this to me?” The marshal turns his phone toward you, the lit screen displaying a photo of a dark street, illuminated by red and yellow lanterns. A thick crowd is spread around stalls of fruit and knick-knacks.

The headline reads James Barnes Spotted in Hong Kong with Mystery Woman, and the two of you are circled inside a red ring. You’re teetering off the curb of the sidewalk next to a sewer grate. It’s grainy and distorted, but Bucky’s striking features are clear.

“And this one?”

Bucky’s cap on your head, popsicle sticks between your teeth and his.

Steve Rogers on Jimmy! Jimmy Barnes on a Date!

James Barnes Officially Over Penelope Mercouri.

James Barnes’ Injury?

Fury tucks his device back into his coat. “Not that I care what you get up to on your spare time, but we had a tale to tell. It’s hard pushing an agenda when you’re pushing the wrong way.”

“We just got dinner,” you stutter, an upsurge of guilt rising. The speculation, the kiss, the gut-wrenching reflex that feels like a crime. Fury’s calculating now, looking from you to Bucky, assessing the situation with some pity because you truly look pitiful.

“What you got is PR on cleanup. Potts has been trawling Twitter for the last 20 minutes. For someone who doesn’t want to be in the public eye, you’re making a lot of noise.” He points to Bucky’s jacket still over your shoulders.

You tear it off. “It’s not—”

“Oh no—I won’t be losing sleep any over it.” The marshal’s single eye blinks calmly, “She can spin the story, but you become responsible for this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Ranger, that the spotlight is on you now. And there is nowhere to run.”

And if you didn’t think it could get any worse, footfalls down the hallway reach your ears in a pattern that you recognize immediately. Here he is, stepping into your room like it’s his own, suit jacket over his forearm, shirt halfway untucked and tie pulled loose. His lips drawn together and unreadable.

But you read it: Steve’s seen the pictures, too.

And goddamn, if you didn’t think it could get any worse— the earsplitting alarm announcing sudden movement in the breach startles you all.

“Orion Bravo, report to Bay 08, Level B. Codename Polidori. Category 2 Kaiju.” Shuri’s reedy voice is collected but critical. The thin screen next to your bed blinks on primary colors, wavy lines of activity rising and falling, counting down until emergence. Three hours.

Banner streams down the hall. The ruckus drowns him out.

Fury’s dark skin is ochre beneath the lights, “Category II,” he says, “Should be achievable. Odinsons will be on standby, guarding the Miracle Mile. Maximoffs on the coastline. They’ll come to you if necessary. Shelve your personal troubles, Rangers, we’ll continue this conversation later.”

Circuitry. Battle armor. Helmet beneath your arm. Muscle memory cuts down the time to seven minutes until you’re set to board, but you need more. Just a few—you have to tell him—better now than later—better from your mouth than from the drift. So, you blurt, “Bucky kissed me.”

Steve turns.

“We kissed. It—it’s nothing. I just needed to tell you before we get in. Didn’t want to seem like I’m hiding anything—I’m not.” It sounds so stupid, like a child admitting fault for breaking a window with a too-hard throw. It sounds like betrayal.

His helmet is gripped tightly in the crook of his elbow. Steve’s chin juts out incrementally, chewing on the inside of his lip, the air around him gone stagnant until he makes a noise both like a scoff and a hum.

“Sure. Fine. I get it—you’re lonely.” It’s worse than any response you expected to receive. “You know what I mean.”

It must be a testament to the depth of your connection now— you knowing him, him knowing you in all the ways that can make an argument escalate into atomic warfare. Precision strikes and then the two of you walking Ground Zero in its aftermath.

“Wait—you think I’m lonely?” You block his way out, furious. “What the fuck does that— have you met yourself? Girlfriends who will never see you for who you are. Ophelia Reyez? Katherine Lau?”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“I know exactly what I’m doing—do you? I spent all evening on T.V. for you--”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, Mister Martyr in front of a drooling audience telling white lies and screwing a Victoria’s Secret Angel in some penthouse suite— such sacrifices you’ve made in my honor.”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“What the fuck have you done lately?” Steve snaps, “Other than try to fuck my co-pilot?”

His words hit like a kick in the goddamn teeth. You slam your helmet into his chest and the polycarbonate shells knock together violently.

“I’m your fucking co-pilot,” you snarl, “You wanted me.”

Steve steadies himself, twisting until he’s snarling at you down the bridge of his nose, “Enough. We’re being hailed, I’m not breaking this record because of you, and not for a Category II. Get your shit together.”

You grind your molars when he pushes you aside, stumbling on shaking legs. Your brain feels gnarled—misshapen and bent up in sharp, jagged points—and as much as you want to stomp his goddamn face in, he’s right: you can’t feel this way. You can’t. It’s your first drop in two years with the best pilot by your side—and you’re responsible for his life. The last one proved disastrous, and you cannot risk that again.

Your suit feels heavier with each step. When you climb in after Steve, the rig feels more obstinate. Your head, chest, heart are all swollen with turmoil and hot rage.

He’s next to you, breathing deeply. You mimic, shelving personal troubles like the marshal commanded.

Out of alignment, the automated voice of the system calls, and you push it back further, grabbing the entire shelf and hurling it into the depths. Steve sends you an incisive look. A blame. You take a breath, another, and another. Fuck!

“Orion.” The heads-up display spotlights Bucky’s face in the control room, emotionless. “Focus.”

You inhale one more time, seeking reassurance in his unwavering gaze—necessary peace in the silhouette of his phantom left arm. Bucky. Steve. Natasha. You. There can be no more loss. You cannot let it happen again.

Levels stabilizing.

To your right, Steve makes a noise like he’s shaking something off.

Neural Handshake complete.

Bucky stands behind the glass, watching aircrafts lower their hooks. A nod of his dark head is the last thing you see before Orion is lifted from the hangar.

There would be a fucking storm.

You’ve always hated fighting in the rain because Kaiju are enormous, slippery, alien amphibians, and Orion’s left fist slides off more times than you’d like. This one’s much smaller than Orion, which allows it the slight advantage of speed, slicing through the water like a shark, corkscrewing for an extra boost of velocity before emerging with a splash from behind.

A miss when you and Steve weave away, hazarding a minor scratch to the right shoulder before Orion’s shield knocks it back.

Despite the vexing evening and the simmering hurt in the pit of your chest, the drift is steady. So, you take it for what it is, cast the rust off your bones, and the two of you do some fucking damage on this thing.

Banner named it Polidori, after the writer credited with inventing the vampire genre. K-Science sonars detected protruding fangs and petal flaps folded on its back like vestigial wings. So, Polidori, he shrugged, it’s cute.

You discover with swift horror that the flaps are neither vestigial nor cute when Polidori pulls one sliver of leathery skin free with a splat. An atrocious shriek rings over the storm as it struggles with its own body, then another shriek and the left pillar continues to stretch, knobby blunt end of its shoulder blade shooting high, ripping itself full of gaping holes in its endeavor.

Banner was more accurate than he realized.

“Orion!” Shuri’s voice is sharp, “Bring it down! Do not let it into the air! Use your cannon!”

You’re frozen stuck, eyes squeezed shut at the sight of stretched membrane. A terrified whimper and a puncture of nauseating memory nicks at Steve’s concentration.

No! Levels spike on the HUD screen. Fuck! Steve is caught in the undertow and the rig jams beneath both your feet.

“Orion! You’re out of alignment! Orion!”

She’s here.

Natasha’s bright hair is unfurling all around you. There’s deafening splintering when the incisors of her killer punctures through Decima’s chest and both her legs. Metal grinds against metal, the sound searing itself into your eardrums—your brain—your heart. Wings are beating—wild flaps of rubbery sails against the downpour—muffling screams from Decima’s cockpit.

It’s as real and cruel as the last time you saw it.

Bi Fang, like the bird from Chinese mythology, beaked and blessed with flight to make up for its one leg. Bi Fang the Kaiju was legless, and Natasha was convinced Decima could take it. You had no reason to think otherwise; five previous kills cultivated your confidence. You had her by your side, after all. Two orphans with something to prove, proving it again and again.

Wings and fangs? No legs? Six is an auspicious number. The smirk on her lips blooms fiercely. You’re laughing when Decima hovers above the water. Alright, Tasha. Six drops.

A tremendous splash and you touch ground.

She grins. Six kills.

Polidori has one limb fully flexed, fragmenting pixels bending into the shape of Bi Fang. Natasha is bending, too, lowering her center of gravity. Her elbows are against her ribs, fists set. This is gonna hurt. Come to–

Come to me! To me!

He’s stepping in ink. In water. And then metal is beneath Steve’s feet. There are flashes of rain, lightning, and he recognizes her dead center of the storm.

Natasha Romanoff, vibrant and joyful through the glass of her helmet. You, next to her, reciprocal smile on your face stuck in hysteria, tears streaming down your cheeks in wide stripes. Steve’s hand is reaching but going nowhere. Echoes overlap of crying and shouting. Yours. Hers. His.

Come to me!

He yells again, but you’ve chased the rabbit too far.

Come to me!

He’s trying his hardest, stretching himself like ropes to bridge the fissure. He feels your fear, your hurt, and for a flash, it eats him whole, spits him out a twisted-up way and his brain screams for Bucky.

Bucky is doing the same through the control room, reaching his will out to Steve, praying their connection still holds despite their distance. He’s yelling for you, too.

“Steve! Get the hell out of it! Steve, you need to get her!”

The ripping of his red left arm loops three times in quick succession before Steve can temper it down. Bucky is howling, crying, sobbing. Steve is breathless, stuck, rattled, steeling his entire body to witness the amputation for another inescapable replay until your frozen body smears across his blurry field of vision.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Bright whites burst behind his eyelids. Flares of panicked emotion. Bucky. Natasha. Him. You. An endless rippling chain of trauma lashing Orion open.

“Come on— Steve! It’s moving! Steve!”

“Buck! I’m— I’m okay! Just— need a second.” Steve scrambles for his sanity, latching on, knowing Bucky’s well— alive and not hurt. Shuri begins urging him to get up faster. Polidori’s moving slow, but it is moving, and it needs to be put down now. She’s calling for the Odinsons—Colossus, be prepared to walk-

The metal under Steve’s feet slides away. Water returns, ink flowering behind it—molasses and murky. His steps are unsteady, chest heaving as he advances through a field of speckled glimmers like fireflies at dusk. Each flicker reflects an agonized shard of your distorted face.

A flit of your voice rushes behind his head. Steve whips around and tries to catch it but no such luck.

Again, to the right, then gone each time he spins. It builds and builds until he feels half-deaf, frantically invoking your name into the ether where it becomes lost in dissonance. Butterfly-winged iridescence scatter and plummet, shrieking, shrieking, shrieking.

Then, nothing.

He finds you crumpled over on Anchorage’s shore.

Decima reaches sand as a crackling mess of Jaeger parts, chest piece ripped clean off the right side. You clamber out of the rig, hugging Natasha’s mutilated corpse. Your drivesuit is split open down to the hip, the glass of your helmet fractured and splattered with blood from your nose– still dripping.

He shakes his head, attempting to free himself of your scarred clutch. You had been hooked into the rawest fear—linked up when she died— gored and broken with half your brain believing it is also dead. Chills race up his spine and breaks him out in a cold sweat. He feels strangled to his very soul.

Then, seizures take you—the casualties of solo piloting—the neural damage come to collect. Nobody know how many miles you steered Decima alone and truthfully, it should have killed you.

Your eyes roll up to the sky, body convulsing before slamming into the ground like a rag doll, shaky fingers still reaching for your co-pilot. Steve shudders quietly, flinching with each impact. A final wail and everything slackens to a dull vibration. You quiver on the sand, howling and crying for Nat.

Polidori’s right wing casts itself loose, jaw opening wide. Steve’s on a time limit; there are only a few grains left in the hourglass. He croaks your name.

A second of recognition triggers from behind the curtain and it’s miraculously enough for you to see him. It’s enough.

He begs. He begs on his goddamn knees, crawling to you.

Look at me, only at me. Come back to me, please. Please. Please.

Steve gathers you in his arms, both of you trembling and afraid. Your suit heals itself, pieces stitching back together, blood little by little disappearing from your nose. Natasha shimmers away.

He presses the glass of your helmets together. He needs to get closer.

Steve? S-Ste-Steve—Steve?

You’re still crying. You’re breaking his heart.

Yes. I’m here.

St-Steve, what d-d-do I do?

You’ve got me now. I’m here with you. You understand?

He can see you struggling to escape, consciousness clawing with nails and teeth to return to the present.

Yeah. Y-Yes.

We have to move.

Steve—Steve—everything hurts.

Just for now. Just for a little bit—but I’ll make it better, I promise. Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. Will you hold on to me? Do you trust me?

Y-yes… Yes, yes. I trust you.

The rig lurches back to life beneath his feet. Jittery and creaking with strain, Orion rocks forward with a rumble. The drift stirs once more, noise giving way to silence.

Steve’s vision clears. You’re back in the present, precariously grounding your strength inside his guidance. You raise an unsteady left arm. He powers it up. Energy surges through the cockpit, tremors running up your side as it charges. Your hand splays. Steve’s palm takes aim.

Activating plasma cannon.

The beam pierces Polidori’s shoulder and its roar chases a simultaneous thunderclap.

A crack of lightning flushes the sky purple. Orion’s right arm lifts high above its head and slams back down, the glowing hot edge of its shield cleaving through Polidori’s skull.

Bucky’s grip on the control room’s railing feels like it could warp metal. Wilson is on his right, other pilots in a row next to him. All is silent.

Through the relay of Orion’s camera, Polidori’s writhes one final time. A death throe—pathetic trilling drowned by rising water, falling into deep darkness. Overhead, Kaiju clean-up advances, jet engines rumbling behind an ashy horizon. Orion’s shield retreats to its side with a wet, sloppy sound. The handshake pulled through. Steve got to you.

Abruptly, the room vibrates with the shouting of about fifty voices. Sam is banging on the railing, strong fists rocking the entire length of it, roaring with glee. The others are even wilder— shoving each other in triumph.

Bucky tunes it out, waiting for quieter confirmation. He can hear the both of you despite the racket. Steve’s steady pants, cut with throaty relief—this one, Bucky’s familiar with. Your small, weak sobs strangled with tears—this one, he’s quickly learned, but knows now in his bones.

“Twelve drops,” you announce hoarsely. Raw. “B-Buck?”

He grins, dazed comfort rushing over, your voice chasing the torture away.

“Twelve kills, sweetheart,” Bucky says, “You did it.”

The raucous celebration in the Shatterdome simmers down around four, sunrise just a couple hours behind the horizon. Unruliness had broken out, triggering a party that lasted from the time Orion got picked up ‘til now, and still there’s chatter in the common room.

It’s normal; Anchorage celebrated too after most kills—as long as no one died.

You’re freshly showered and changed, barefoot as you patter it back to your room. Voices from other beds are lowered as you pass—friends taking banter back to private spaces, couples pressed up against each other. All standard-issue revelry to commemorate the endurance of life.

It’s how these things go. Violence on a massive scale, humanity threatened with extinction—the people closest to death feel it the most. When routine becomes monotony, it’s good once in a while to be stimulated again.

Damn near two thousand people in close quarters—Rangers in perfect form, friendships assembled on the foundation of sharing an exceptionally singular purpose. Even Pentecost in all his grave formalities couldn’t ward off human nature. Plenty of pilots hooked up with each other and other staff in Anchorage and no one cared as long as it didn’t muck anything up on the job. At least the marshal could control that; mishandle your personal relationships and you’d be off the docket for your next drop.

Sex is biology. Desire is human.

It’s hard for you to feel human this morning. Exhausted by the fight and the prior evening—awake now for over 24 hours, you broke away from the commons as soon as you arrived, spending an hour simply breathing in the steam, the habit achingly comforting. Your chest still feels tight, heart bloated with invasive flashbacks.

You used to decompress with Natasha. A few drinks, tales from the cockpit, shadowboxing and putting on a show, glad to be in the company of friends— to be back safely with each other. Then you’d scatter with the crowd, meet her in the showers, and help her wash her hair in silence. Nothing but the trickle of shampoo down the drain.

She’d cry, sometimes. Catharsis, mostly. Curled up in your arms, the both of you cozy in pajamas on the floor. Then off to bed where she’d climb under your sheets, falling sleep with her head on your shoulder, your fingers in her hair.

A love unspoken. A home in the shape of a twin-sized bottom bunk. Cramped and narrow. Too brief.

You sigh. Everything hurts.

A few rooms away from yours, Steve’s door is open just enough for a line of orange to escape. You know he’s there, waiting patiently as he has been. You went near catatonic on the way back, lying down in the cockpit, no longer needing to be hooked up. You shed the armor, holed yourself into the corner of Orion’s hull, and said nothing when he sat by your side.

Walking in front of the light, he places himself in the entrance way until he’s looking at you. His face is a gentle blue shadow, resplendent halo glorious behind his head. He’s dressed in soft pants and a t-shirt damp at the collar. A droplet of water runs down his neck.

It emerges like an orchestral arrangement. Leisurely notes creep into your ears—a tune you’ve always known. Plucks of strings, escalating windchimes. It echoes, the trails on his skin, his measured breath, his percussive voice layering and pleating until there are dozens of him.

Look at me. Come to me. I need you.

You feel it all at once. A knotted, chaotic tempest. Hesitation. Confusion. Ache. Bucky. Him. You. Your eyes lock with his. A mistake and a revelation.

Steve holds out a steady hand. You take a step, terrified, pulled into his overwhelming atmosphere like magnets, your bodies humming a secret frequency, purring for each other.

The drift opened everything up, but the battle tore it all out. The both of you are laid bare, everything else fallen away.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. You’ve got me now, you understand?

You reach the shadow he casts, eclipsed entirely by his bulk. Steve threads his fingers between yours and with a tug, you surrender your worries to him.

He’s kissing you before the door is entirely shut and latched. He fumbles for the locks, wraps his arms around your waist. A click and a clatter. He moans into your mouth.

You exhale from deep inside your chest. He inhales like it’s all the oxygen he needs.

Your hands move to one place, his hands to another. Before your bodies can savor it, the both of you have roamed on, reading each other’s minds, knowing what’s next.

More. More. More.

It’s impatient and fast and Steve picks you up with ease. You forget yourself, forget the world outside the room, outside the three-by-three tile area of where he’s got you lifted, legs wrapped tight around his hips. Fingers dive into the back of your pants, squeezing, up your shirt, pawing at your breasts.

His groans blow heat onto your neck. You arch away, giving him more skin to brand kisses onto. He nips at your throat, light, then again, rough. His voice is raw and thick, husky little clouds making their home on your body.

Gentle sucking on your bottom lip follow each kiss. He takes you to bed, dropping himself onto the mattress, you on top of him. He’s been in your head; he knows what you like. Knows where you want him. Your voice is getting higher, sounds quick and shallow.

Steve guides you with one hand on your hip and the other beneath your thigh, soft pajama bottoms pressing against his. He groans each time you rock forward, needy for more contact against his groin.

You’ve been in his head, too. He likes feeling hands in his hair, so you grip his flaxen strands. He likes hearing, so you make a little more noise. He likes seeing his partner helpless because of him, losing all control, falling apart for him.

So you do.

Pleasure rushes from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, his name burning in your throat. It’s an incredible shock and you’re spellbound, enraptured by him drinking in the parting of your swollen lips. Quickly, he places you on his thigh, enormous and strong, needing a better position to see— to feel you on him. Hungry attention, eager eyes, pleading like a mother tongue.

“Keep coming for me. Just like this— don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

The shamelessness of it—your underwear soaked to your pants. The fever of it—his body like a fire, low, husky begging just from watching lighting up your spine. It’s extraordinary adrenaline— the heightened and profound connection of knowing one another in every way—as if you were made for each other.

Animal instinct liberated from human sentience. Desire pursuing release. Two bodies colliding and igniting.

You can’t stop the next cresting wave, crying out again.

Steve pushes you on his leg repeatedly, back and forth, solid and firm between your thighs even as you shudder and whimper, telling him it’s too much— you’re too sensitive. He kisses your neck, jaw, chin, cheek. He doesn’t stop moving.

“Hold on to me.”

A bead of sweat collects on the dip of your cupid’s bow. He looks at how sweetly your skin shimmers as you shiver, how your pupils are blown wide, how you look so perfect to him. He presses his forehead to yours, looks into your eyes like the way he did in the drift.

You reach for him and rub in quick strokes, fumbling when he rocks you back, gripping when he rocks you forward. Parted lips hover, “One more time for me—ah, please,” he begs, “Before I do.”

But he’s too late and too heated. Steve makes a mess of his sleeping pants, taken over the edge by how you feel without hardly feeling you at all. He buries a groan into your shoulder, riding it out with indelicate thrusts into your palm.

“Oh,” he murmurs, “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”

He’s blush pink and beautiful when he remembers himself again, rubbing his cheek against yours. He knows what you’re thinking— the realization in the comedown, the leaching fear of what could have been a mistake. But it isn’t, and Steve remains faithful to your body.

“Stay. I’m sorry—for hurting you. I’ll make it better.” Velvet kisses to your lips and you shake your head, apologies no longer necessary.

A whisper of his name like it’s the most radiant word. You cling to him, kissing him, answering only to him.

In the afternoon when Steve is still sleeping, you retreat to your room. You pause at the sight of Bucky already on your bed, caught in the bleary focus of his gaze. With lashes soaked wet, his throat constricts around a forceful swallow.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking on the syllable. He pats the space next to him and you come sit, turning your knees until they knock into his.

“Bucky…”

He laughs like you’ve told a joke, like the sound of his own name is a funny thing escaping your mouth. “Hoped I could catch you last night, before—” he laughs again. “—Before bed. Just wanted to—I guess I don’t know what I wanted to do.”

The hurt resurfaces. You find him through the rose-dappled lenses of Steve’s eyes. Those warm summers with two boys running wild, effortlessly devoted to each other. Your heart swells like you’re there, gazing at russet locks flying in the wind. Years and years between them—Bucky’s smile, lopsided and carefree. Steve’s gaze, illuminating Bucky in every memory.

“Bucky,” you say again, so wonderfully soft, he thinks, even as his chest feels stretched to bursting. “You love him.”

He places his temple on your shoulder, face hidden by the long strands of his hair.

“You’ve been in his head. He’s easy to love.”

“Yes,” you agree, touching his bangs, pushing them over his ear, streaking four affectionate lines through, “He is.”

“So are you.”

Bucky turns into your palm, smiling openly, like the truth is the simplest thing in the world.

#steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #stucky x reader #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #pacific rim #marvel #reader insert #fanfiction

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suntrastar · 4 years ago

Text

abstract: chapter 3

chapter 2!! you can also read it on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 9520. i am deranged. someone euthanize me i beg you.

Author’s note: jesus fucking christ. this is so long for no reason. probably kind of poorly written. that is okay though. i really really appreciate the support you guys have given me for the last 2 chapters!! i was a bit iffy about joining tumblr but i’m glad to be here now :) please comment and reblog!! i appreciate it so much!!! ily all ok now enjoy this mess!!!

“You want to paint me?”

Rina looks at you, shocked, mouth agape, lone cherry tomato speared on her fork.

“Yeah,” you say, and smile with your straw still in between your teeth. “You in a field of flowers.”

“You want to paint me in a field of flowers?”

“Yes- that’s literally what I just said.”

The bustle of the restaurant is loud enough to drown out the rising volume of her voice. Thankfully. She’s being excessive, again- as if this is the first time she’s ever been the center of attention- but you’re fine with it today. You almost like it.

Today, her enthusiasm is almost contagious.

“I know,” Rina says “Duh. But, like, it’s just so crazy to me that you want to put me in your second solo show ever- I mean, why me?”

“Because,” you say, and almost leave it at that, just to mess with her. “Because you’re my best friend, and the whole thing is focused on people I know. And your hair would look so good with poppies, and-”

“I’m your best friend?”

“Obviously,” you say, even though to her, it might not be that obvious. “Who else?”

“That is so sweet,” she says, and leans back in her seat, dramatically clutching her hands over her heart. Rings sit on each of her fingers, gold and heavy stone. “You are too nice to me.”

She’s really milking it. But you’ll let it slide.

Rina gives you a self-satisfied smile, which you return without too much trouble. She’s so overwrought and showy with how she sits, limbs sprawled all over, like they’ve been blown into disarray by the wind. Her hair, still glossy red, is parted down the middle and made up in two French braids, tips just barely brushing her shoulders. The hair ties don’t match.

She has no best friend. She probably has, like, five other people just like you, who she calls on when she feels like it, whenever she wants company, when she feels like humoring someone. Or when she wants someone to listen to her talk.

It comes as part of the lifestyle- can you really blame her?

“I know,” you say, veering back on topic. “Bucky gave me the idea.”

You do it on purpose.

Her eyes go wide.

“Bucky?” She says, incredulously. Like she doesn’t believe you.

The feeling of being incompetent comes quick in a flash, and it takes too much to put it away.

You’re not incompetent- his number is in your phone, after all, isn’t it?

“The Winter Soldier, I mean,” you say, and the words feel all wrong in your mouth.

“No . Shut up. You are not on first-name basis with the fucking Winter Soldier.”

“Oops,” you say.

Her jaw drops.

You’re grinning too hard. She didn’t expect this from you- you didn’t expect this from you! You take a bite of your food, some garlicky chicken thing you can’t pronounce the name of, to delay your response. It gives you time to think of what to say next.

Rina waits, stunned into silence.

“We’re… talking, I think,” you say. “I asked him for his number.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Yep.”

There’s a story there, that you won’t tell her.

You texted him a day after class, on Tuesday. Was that too soon? You didn’t care, your mind was too muddled with so many other things- icy blue eyes and different techniques for drawing wrinkles and this week’s shopping list and the best color that went with orange-red, and the laundry that you still hadn’t done.

You were too giddy to get smart with it- all you sent was a simple Hey.

All he sent back was a simple Hi.

Then, once you had read over his message too many times, you turned your phone off and pretended it never happened.

It’s too nerve-wracking. And pointless. You’re going to see him on Monday again, anyway! There’s plenty of time to text him- everything doesn’t have to be so immediate- you’ll get around to it before then, for sure.

You just have to stop thinking so much.

“I cannot believe you,” Rina gushes, and from her expression, you believe her. “You’re all grown up! I am so proud of you. That man is delicious, I cannot-”

“Do not describe him as delicious, oh my god.”

You burst out laughing as Rina raises one eyebrow, filled in dark. Her eye makeup always kills. “Am I wrong?”

“Well… no, but…”

***

Steve leaves, but Bucky stays back at the end of class to help you clean up. Acrylics again, and it’s the second-to-last class, so you had finally brought out the canvas.

Canvas means more fun, but more mess. More paint splatters on the tables, more brushes with clogged-up bristles.

Bucky doesn’t smile as he says bye to Steve, and it makes you feel a certain type of way , but you stick to business. Cleaning supplies are pulled out, paper towels are ripped from the dispenser. Bucky starts on the tables while you roll up your sleeves and start the sink, preparing to start on the brushes.

God- these brushes.

If these brushes were washed incorrectly, you would cry. They’re new, and high-quality, and the bristles are still soft and not yet frayed or discolored, and the handles are made of thick, clear plastic, and they come in different sizes and styles, and you can barely believe it, but they all even have rubber grips.

They’re really nice brushes.

“You didn’t text me back,” Bucky says.

You wish the sink was loud enough to swallow all sound, swallow you up within it.

Still, you look over your shoulder, giving him a pained smile while he scrubs at a spot of dried paint. He looks back at you, but you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Of course you didn’t text back- thinking less is way harder than it seems.

“I wanted to,” you say, “but I got nervous. Sorry.”

You turn back to the sink. It’s a little easier to breathe without having to look at him.

“You got nervous,” he repeats, voice still so unreadable.

Is he mad? He always looks mad, always sounds mad- you can’t ever tell if there’s anything behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, and shrug, like it’s no big deal at all, like you chicken out of things all the time, like texting is always such a cause for concern. “I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ugh.

The sink water slowly circles the drain. You don’t look past it, only keeping your eyes on the sink and the remaining brushes- it helps calm your heart, a little. Bucky is probably on the last few tables. All of the paintings have been neatly propped up on the drying racks.

Bucky painted his entire canvas yellow.

You are so dumb.

“Um, okay” you say, shutting off the sink. The really nice brushes are all neatly piled up on the counter on top of a folded paper towel, washed and drying. “What if I was like, ‘hey, Bucky, after this class ends and I’m not your art instructor anymore, would you want to meet up sometime?’”

You turn back around and lean against the sink. It’s an effort that deserves applause- you look so collected, while your heart is beating way too fast, and Bucky, its forever opposite, just stands behind a table, spray bottle in hand.

Your hands are sweaty.

He nods slowly, and it’s a victory in and of itself- the action nearly has you weak at the knees.

“Meet up,” he repeats, voice low, like a halfhearted growl. Disdainful, kind of. “Like a date.”

You wipe your hands on your apron. It’s a totally normal, totally relaxed movement. But then you’re wishing that you wore something cuter- was this sweatshirt really the only thing you had? Do you not own, like, a blouse, or something? Didn’t you just do your laundry?

Fuck, you’re being annoying.

“We don’t have to call it that,” you say. “We can just… hang out. Eat something. Go on a walk.”

You say it casually, but honestly, you like nice dates. Dates at art museums, dates at fusion restaurants, dates at movie theaters showing indie films in foreign languages. Anything eccentric, haphazard. Spontaneous.

But you also like seeing him smile, and you like to talk, and you like to be listened to- and he is giving you that.

This is a different type of everything. It’s all upside down, inside out, twisted over in itself. You have to approach it all differently, maybe it’s because he’s too quiet or too famous or too dangerous or whatever the hell, but none of it matters.

What matters is that you want it.

You’ll realign your compass.

“Okay,” he says. “I like walks.”

“Great,” you say, and go on without hesitating, because long nights have you tired and hesitation is for the weak, “I like you.”

Bucky Barnes, real, unfitting name James, clutching dirty paper towels and a spray bottle, smiles at you.

It’s wrong, but you could just bite him.

A sudden, unprompted thought hurls through your mind- you want to paint him.

***

The last art class.

It was once long-awaited, but now, you’re actually sad to see everyone go.

You buy a tray of cookies. It’s the least you can do- everyone has been so nice to you, so respectful and cooperative. Everyone has made things fun. You don’t know if you were doing anything right, but it sure as hell has been enjoyable.

Crumbs might get in the paint, but’s a small price to pay.

“Knock yourself out,” you announce.

The tray is set out on the middle table. You forgot the package of napkins back at your studio, so you gesture to the paper towel dispenser.

Then you long for the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes, because unlike these people, they wouldn’t be looking so dead at the prospect of free cookies.

You shake your head and return to your perch, tucking your feet behind the legs of the stool.

Eventually the conversations trickle out, slowly turning the room warm and lovely and bright. You listen in, a little, savor it, and hop back up. There’s nothing to do- might as well make some idle chitchat, one last time.

Shonna uses a small brush to add purple highlights to the feathers of a pigeon. It’s gorgeous- and you don’t even like pigeons- but you like her painting style and the jewel tones she’s adding amidst the grey, and the orange beak, and the washed-out yellow background she’s painting over.

“Wow,” you say, and she adds another purple highlight with a flick of her hand. “I cannot stop looking at this pigeon.”

“Thank you, honey,” she says, without looking up.

She’s too focused for you to stay for too long- you have to leave the pigeon for others. Marcie waves you down and gives you the latest update about her son, abandoning her half-painted rose while she launches into a bit of a tirade- her son wants to pierce his nose, isn’t that ridiculous?

“Hey, I wanted to pierce my nose when I was his age, too,” you say, and spout something about self-expression that makes her frown.

Ahmed chimes in. You have no idea what the blob he’s painting is supposed to be, but you like it. “I’ve been trying to tell her the same thing! These kids are modern now- these are just the things they do!”

“These are just the things we do,” you echo.

Marcie heaves a heavy sigh.

***

You head over to a few more tables, and it goes by too fast and too slow, but then you’re suddenly there in the back, with your star student, and your…

With Bucky.

“I really like how this is turning out,” Steve says proudly, as you approach them.

Then, he adds, almost childishly, “Don’t look until I’m done.”

He has a half-eaten sugar cookie sitting by his paint water.

“I won’t look” you promise, and all at once, you’re almost emotional- he is such a nice guy. He’s like the human embodiment of a golden retriever. “Don’t worry.”

Steve nods, pleased and nervous at the same time. You pointedly look away from the painting as you slide into a seat, across from Bucky and his yellow canvas.

Yellow and black canvas. He’s hunched over with a fat-bristled paintbrush in hand, adding black stripes, blobby and unevenly spaced, but still unbelievably straight.

It is all so cute.

“Very bumblebee-esque,” you say, and his forehead creases. “I like it.”

Steve smiles.

Bucky adds another line. He didn’t take a cookie. He should’ve- the chocolate-chip is so good.

“Thanks,” he says.

And Steve just smiles wider, and you almost kick him under the table, and Bucky gives you an unsmiling look that turns you to jelly.

Hat aside, he is looking exceptionally pretty today. All hair and eyes and bone structure- it makes you want to do something, like reaching out and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Like running a hand over his jaw. Catching his stubble under your fingertips.

Parting his hair down the middle and French braiding it.

Taking a picture- it'll last longer.

“I'm going to miss seeing you guys around.”

Steve gives you a surprised look and shakes his head. He has one arm protectively curled around his canvas, even though you’re still not looking.

“Oh, I’m sure one of us will be seeing you around,” he says, and grins.

You glare at him.

Bucky laughs.

***

The goodbyes aren’t as bad as you thought they would be.

People leave with a simple goodbye and a brief thank you, shrugging on their coats and gingerly clinging to their still-damp artwork. Marcie makes you promise her that you won’t pierce your nose. One woman who would always come to the class with a huge coffee cup sets her painting aside to sweep you into a hug.

It’s very gratifying.

Steve and Bucky linger.

Shonna does, too, but for a completely different reason.

You want to give her Rina’s contact. She probably has some painting class available, if Shonna’s interested in that sort of thing, if she’s okay with being around so much personality.

And you also want to give her your contact- so she can keep on sending you pictures of those birds.

“One sec,” you tell her, and reach for your purse, sitting on the counter.

Bucky is standing closeby, remarkably closeby, and you accidentally brush against him.

He goes rigid.

But you’re busy pulling out a pen and a scrap piece of paper, and then you’re using the counter as a hard surface to write against, shoulders angled away from him, and you’re talking all the while- you don’t have the spare second to be concerned.

“This is my email,” you say, adding a smiley face after the address. “Send me your art. And, like, talk to me. Send me your grocery lists, if you want- I don’t care. Here.”

Shonna takes it and gives you a smile. There’s a glimmer of something in it, a knowing.

“Thank you,” she says, and laughs a little, and you suddenly fiercely miss your mother. “I’ll keep the last bit in mind.”

She looks past you. Steve, standing a few feet away, holding the canvas he still hasn’t shown you, nods respectfully. And Bucky, standing near the counter, still near you, even though he’s looking at you like you’ve scalded him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says.

You almost ask, “to what?” But she’s already left- Shonna and her pigeons are gone.

Steve steps up fast to take her place.

You still have no time to think.

“So, this is the finished product,” Steve says with no preamble, and with a great flourish that makes you laugh in delight, he turns the canvas around.

Oh.

Wow.

You’re not dizzy.

But you will be, if you keep on looking at this- a tangle of vines on a wall, with blooming flowers in what should be the wrong colors, dappled in light from a window you can’t see, drawn from a strange perspective. The leaves are really big and the vines are really small, and then it’s flip-flopped, and he has a hot-pink underpainting that he didn’t fully cover, so there’s pink in the leaves, pink on the wall. Pink in the un-pink flowers.

“Fuck,” you say, and then go quiet.

Steve tenses.

Now you have two very strong men looking at you weird.

You should probably fix that.

“I don’t- I don’t know what to say,” you say, stumbling over your words, feeling cotton-mouthed. “There are no coherent thoughts going on in my head right now. I’m just- where did this even- how did you even come up with this?”

“I tried to do that thing you said,” Steve says, sounding uncertain. He shifts and the painting moves with him, sending pink flickering over your eyesight. “No empty space. Because it’s boring.”

What is this called, again? Artists supporting artists?

“It is boring,” you say in agreement, and your voice comes back to you, all at once. “And holy shit, you pulled it off so well. I’m obsessed with the pink underpainting- it’s everything. You literally invented pink. And can we talk about these vines? How long did it take you to draw them all tangled up like that? And the flowers- you even gave them little stems, ugh. And all the colors! And this lighting- I’m sorry, I have too much to say.”

Like watching a flower bloom, Steve unfurls at your praise, blush deepening with each compliment. It’s so wonderfully endearing, and internally, you sigh in relief.

“Thank you,” he says, and bursts into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. “Also, we have one more question.”

“We?” You ask, and Bucky clears his throat.

You turn to him.

Already, you have a whole slew of problems- you have to sketch out an emerging idea and place an order for new brushes, ones with rubber grips, and you have to cook dinner when you get home because lately you’ve been ordering too much takeout, and you have to organize your closet, and you have to give an adequate and peppy response to whatever Steve is about to say-

You’re bursting at the seams.

There isn’t much room for anything else. Any concern.

“You have something to say, Bucky?” You ask, and waggle your eyebrows.

He doesn’t crack a smile- just how you like it.

“I do,” he says, smugly, and then says your name in a way that ties your stomach up in knots, that has you thinking of flowers and chiffon.

“We were wondering if you’re free tomorrow,” Steve says, and then invites you out for drinks, for tomorrow evening.

So you’ve passed the initial threshold of friendship, and now you’re onto group drinking! That’s exciting- and you’ll get to see Bucky, and you’ll get to postpone that tedious process of planning out a date- a hang-out, and you’ll have an opportunity to show up in something besides jeans and sad sweatshirts.

There hasn’t been a chance to show it off to him, yet, but you can dress.

Steve mentions another friend named Sam, who might join, too, if that’s okay with you.

“I’m cool with it,” you say. “The more the merrier, right?”

He has to be a decent guy, if Steve associates with him, and you like new people.

But doesn’t Steve also associate with, like, Tony Stark?

That man is oh-so problematic. He rolls out with a new scandal every month. He’s had enough scandals that he could release a line of red-and-gold-themed calendars- with the dates of each scandal marked in. Each month could have its own photo, too, coinciding with the dates.

Tony Stark, making peace signs at a court hearing. Tony Stark, wasted on a yacht. Tony Stark, in the middle of an interview where he bashes people who have absolutely nothing to do with him.

“That sounds like fun,” you say, and Steve lets out a breath of relief, “but I have to ask, about Sam? Is he, like, a…”

An Avenger? A genetically-altered individual? A prominent public figure with a stupid amount of money?

“He’s a really nice guy,” Steve quickly says.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Bucky says, immediately after him.

***

As it turns out, Sam Wilson is not a pain in the ass.

He is really nice, but more importantly, he is funny.

Bucky texted you the address a few hours ago. You walk into the bar and at once, you’re assaulted by an excess of dark- dark floors, dark lighting, dark accents on the decor. None of it is dingy, just low-lit. It’s a nice place.

It might be a little too nice- nothing like the sticky-floored, rowdy sports-themed bars you usually hit when you’re in the mood to get hammered.

You catch the back of a head, wavy brown hair and thick shoulders, in a booth tucked into the corner. Steve, sitting opposite him, against the wall, catches your eye and waves you over.

Next to Bucky is a guy you’ve never seen before, Sam. Black skin, close-cropped hair, looking over his shoulder to flash a grin at you. Even in a simple shirt, you can tell that he is built.

He’s an Avenger, then. Maybe.

You’ve just barely slid in beside Steve, and you’re grinning and making some dumb comment about the disaster that is the New York subway system, when Sam fixes you with a gleeful look and leans forward.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, casting a side-eye at Bucky. “I’m not joking when I say this- I was starting to think that Barnes made you up. He’s always doing crazy shit like that. Anyways, you will not believe why I’m actually here.”

You humor him, because why the hell not? “Why are you actually here?”

Already, you can tell that he has that vaguely-ironic, purposely-stupid sense of humor, which you always find absolutely hilarious. And you want to know what he means by crazy shit.

Bucky looks up at you for a few charged seconds, telling you something you can’t decipher, and then ducks his hand back down to stare intensely at his drink. Something amber, with ice cubes.

“I’m here to make sure that you don’t feel bad. Because these two fossils,” Sam says, and Steve winces, “can’t get drunk. But I can! So if you wanna get trashed, I’m game.”

Under the dimmed lights, Sam’s teeth shine perfectly white. All of Steve’s friends seem to have perfectly white teeth.

“It’s because of the serum,” Steve says, and you just gawk.

They both can’t get drunk?

Because of their fucking superhero vaccine?

“What the hell,” you say, and rest your elbows on the tabletop. Bucky’s gaze follows your arms, starting at the hems of the sleeves, trailing up to your shoulders. “That’s so… Steve, if you can’t get drunk, then why are you torturing yourself with that beer?”

“It’s for the feeling,” Steve says quietly, blushing pink, and Bucky is still quiet, and you have a feeling that this has something to do with nostalgia, or World War II, or something. The good old days.

Sam catches it too, so he buts in, quickly bringing the conversation back to something less layered, less wired.

He’s a man with nothing to hide. He tells you who he is with no hesitation, without trying to skip over or disguise anything- he’s open. He’s a war vet, too, and now an Avenger- he’s the Falcon. He has, he says, a pair of fancy-ass wings. And the coolest outfit.

“Wait,” you say, and you’re suddenly dying to know, “what does it feel like to fly?”

His eyes light up.

“You know when you’re trying to sleep, and then you randomly get that feeling that you’re falling, and your stomach does that thing?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that, but you can control it. It’s fucking amazing.”

He launches into a whole spiel, talking your ear off about the feeling of high-altitude wind on his skin and aerodynamics and some science-y things you don’t understand, and you get your own beer and enjoy the sweet feeling of getting buzzed on a weeknight, and as the edge you constantly have on yourself shifts, the seats shift, too.

You don’t know how, but you end up next to Bucky, in between him and the wall. Not touching, but close. Sam is across from you and Steve is next to him, and all of a sudden they’re talking about Chex Mix.

“If the Avengers were Chex Mix pieces,” Sam says, throwing the word Avenger around casually enough to make Steve’s hesitations seem horrendously uptight, “I would be the garlic chip. The best part of the whole damn bag. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, those chips are definitely the best part,” you say, adopting a mock-seriousness. “And Tony Stark would be one of those knobby-ass, crunchy little mini breadsticks.”

Sam mirrors your expression, nodding gravely, like what you’re both evaluating is a highly intellectual subject. “I completely agree. And for Rogers- man, you’re a pretzel.”

You narrow your eyes. “Square or circle?”

“Uh,” Sam says, turning to survey poor, unprepared Steve, looking equal parts bewildered and embarrassed. “Square.”

“Great choice. And Bucky?”

“Bucky…” Sam hesitates, and the briefest smile flashes over his face before he schools his expression back into objectivity, “Bucky is one of those original Chex squares. Sorry.”

“That’s cold,” you say, and Sam smiles again, and leans all the way back in his seat, bringing his hands behind his head.

“He’s not one of the yellow squares, though- those are actually good,” Sam starts, grin growing wider by the second, and you can’t tell if it would be rude to laugh. “He’s not one of those squares with extra seasoning, either. Bucky is just one of the plain brown squares. The wheat squares, or whatever the hell. Have you ever, like- have you ever wondered what the sole of a shoe tastes like? Or the eraser on top of a pencil? That’s what those taste like- that’s what he is. Just one of the plain Chex squares.”

Your jaw drops.

A roast like that from a halfway drunk man is absolutely scathing.

Bucky just levels a glare.

He’s used to this, you think. Is that his crazy shit? That he never reacts to anything?

You’re definitely a little tipsy- this is obviously no time to get wasted, but the edge has certainly been taken off, the corners of your world having gone hazy. In a lull, you watch a well-dressed man standing by the vestibule doors lean past your field of vision and receive what you think is a kiss on the cheek.

Without thinking, you lean close to Bucky and cup a hand over his ear.

Maybe he won’t react, maybe he will, but you’re not going to give him the time for either.

“I think that you’re the garlic chip,” you whisper loudly, and you’ll probably cringe yourself into oblivion over it when you're sober, but you think he shivers- and then he snorts.

“Thank you,” he says, and Sam putters out, giving you an amazed look.

***

“Heyyy,” you say later, turning to Bucky, when time has passed and you’re no longer on the subject of Chex Mix and he’s still a little too quiet. “What’s up?”

He’s quiet and troubled, drinking what might be whiskey like it’s water. Is it whiskey? You didn’t think that people actually drank whiskey- just kept it around in crystal decanters and silver flasks to look cool, like they’re main characters in a movie.

“The sky,” he says dryly, like you didn’t say that same exact shit when you were in middle school, hopelessly thinking that it was the slickest comeback.

“Very funny, James,” you say, and he huffs, and you feel a brief flash of panic, and then you’re almost apologizing, when he grins.

You know maybe three whole things about him, but you’ll press yourself up against him right here and now, under the low light of a fancy bar, with rain sliding down outside the window panes, with his friends right across the table. You don’t care.

His friends can tell.

“We’ll be right back,” Steve says suddenly, making a very showy display of getting up with Sam. Both of them send you obnoxious grins and suggestively raised eyebrows.

Bucky glares. You can’t stop smiling.

“You kids have fun,” Sam calls, and you laugh.

Just you and him, then. The mood shifts fast, turning from one thing to… another. Bucky’s eyes reflect the window outside, falling dark and darker, and you’re slipping, too.

“You look really nice,” Bucky says, and his eyes dip down in the slyest fucking move- you’re almost proud of him for it, for having such game.

A spark of heat flashes through you, as he takes you in slowly, like he’s trying to savor it.

You opted for a slightly tighter shirt, and a pair of jeans, but they’re your nice jeans. The ones without any weird streaks of paint on the thighs. And you wear a beaded necklace, and in your ears, a pair of fun, delicate hoop earrings, dangling with charms in the shape of crescent moons.

“Thanks,” you lean back, into the wall, letting your voice drop to match the tone of his. “You do, too.”

He just stares at you, unamused. Still dark, and dangerous.

Purple chiffon, you think, and marigolds. The flower was meant for another friend, but she’ll have to manage, because now, you can only see Bucky with marigolds, with no room for anyone else.

“So,” you say, before the silence carries on and makes you do something stupid, “Done anything fun lately?”

He tenses. Again.

There’s all these things that you know you can’t ask him, things about his job and his hobbies and his metal fucking arm, which you still haven’t seen- which you’re fine with, but, like. It’s the fact that he has a metal arm in the first place- he is so detached from everything you know, and you aren’t sure if you know how to navigate it all. You don’t think he knows how to navigate it, either.

He’s hesitant, you think. But not unwilling.

You’re just going to roll with it.

”I watched a movie today,” he says, sounding so smooth that your clutch on your drink wavers. His eyes are raking you over, cold.

Red marigolds. Not the orange ones. Red marigolds with the little golden borders on the edges of each petal.

“Which movie?”

He shakes his head. “I forgot the name”

“Okay, well, what was it about?”

“Talking dogs.”

You laugh and he smiles, and then you feel light enough to float. “Talking dogs?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he takes a sip. His mouth is very pink. Layers, you think, layers and overlapping, to make the fabric look hazy. Washed-out. “They talk when their owners aren’t home.”

“That sounds right up your alley,” you say, and you’re giggly and he’s all smiley and maybe you’re being embarrassing, but whatever, because he’s looking at you like he’s never been smiley with anyone else before, and you really, really want to lean in.

You’ll wait.

***

Sam comes back with Steve a little bit later, but it isn't until you’re getting ready to leave when he brings it up.

“You’re good for him,” Sam says, while Bucky and Steve have gone to pay. Your drinks are on him- how chivalrous. “Honestly, you’re probably too good for him.”

You laugh as you shrug on your jacket. “Doubt it.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. You realize at once that he’s about to say something heavy, something concerning. “He has been through some fucked-up shit. It’s not his fault, obviously, but it’s always there. He’s never going to get over it. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep. He just stays awake, for like, three whole days at a time. Sometimes he just disappears. He never tells anyone where he goes. Sometimes he does this thing where he-”

“I get it,” you say quickly, and he must be able to see your sudden dread, because his face softens.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to know- that that’s what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Thanks,” you say, and zip up your coat, and then pat your pockets even though you know you have everything, just so you have an excuse to not say anything. Sam gives you a long look, before sighing and pulling out his phone.

Obviously, Sam is trying to tell you that Bucky is damaged.

You’re not in the business of fixing things, but you’ll take him as he is anyway, because...

“Sam?” you say, and he looks up from his phone.

“Sometimes,” you start, and swallow down whatever anxiety is starting to surface, “Sometimes he’s being all quiet and moody and angsty and whatever, I get that same feeling that you’re telling me. But then, like, he just does something. Like, he’ll make a joke, or say something, and then it’s like-”

You struggle with your words- it’s like everything you want to say is there, but you can’t reach it. Sam slides his phone into his pocket, and Bucky is coming back, with Steve in tow, moon and sun, peas in a pod. You wonder if Sam makes their duo a trio, if he’s the third invitee to their slumber party, or if he’s just on the fringes.

“It’s like- It’s like, okay. Like, I know who he is and it’s all okay.”

He nods, and smiles at you, and you sincerely hope that he isn’t just on the fringes.

***

The paintings of your parents are finished- and they are good. So good. Every detail is there, every color. Every line. The wrinkles and the flowers and the lace neckline of your mother’s dress. Looking at them makes you feel so proud- it’s been forever since you were able to properly convey your thoughts onto canvas.

They’re big, too. Larger than life. You’ll have to rent one of those orange U-Haul trailers to transport them.

On a new canvas is Rina, only halfway painted. She looks good too, even though right now she’s just a head and a torso and two floating feet, because getting the colors on her legs right is harder than you thought. It’s tricky to paint the shadows and contours without her legs just looking bruised- there’s so many flower stems overlapping with the skin, so you don’t have a lot of room to work with.

You’ll figure it out.

You might be a little in over your head, actually. Confident- a little too confident. You don’t even have this painting done, and you’re itching to start on another. A possible recipe for disaster, but every time you have a spare second, in the shower or on the subway or when you’re trying to fall asleep, you find yourself thinking about it.

Not in bits and pieces the way most of your thoughts are, but a fully formed concept; a real, true image brimming with fullness, already starting to spill over into everything you do.

You have it all figured out. You know what techniques you’ll use. What composition, what colors.

You text Bucky.

Nothing crazy. You know you could scare him off, or maybe not, not anymore- by the end of the night at the bar last week, you sat next to him and bumped up against him and whispered in his ear, and right before you left he flicked the charm on your earring, watched it sway, and then he smirked- and you almost died.

You text him Hey, and then set your phone on the farthest surface you can find, pointedly avoiding it. Rina’s calves need attention- you have paint to mix.

Ten minutes later, your phone rings.

You can’t help it, you’re weak-hearted- you drop everything and dash to your phone, dodging your carts of supplies and hopping over a stack of toppled canvases that you never bothered to pick up, and pick up on the third ring.

“Hi,” you say into the receiver, slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” he says, and he sounds slightly out of breath, too.

“Um,” you say, and laugh a little, with the heady rush of nerves flooding in, “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I called because I’m a slow texter,” Bucky says.

You feel so fluttery. When was the last time you felt this fluttery?

“Oh. That’s okay. I was just wondering if you... wanted to meet up sometime soon? Tomorrow, maybe?”

Tomorrow is Saturday, a day off. For you, at least- do Avengers get days off?

“Okay,” he says, and you swear he sounds pleased. You want to cut straight to something else. Skip, jump, leap over all of these steps, so you can get to what you really want to tell him. “I think I can do that. Where are we meeting?”

“There’s this little cafe we can… we can head there first, I’ll text you the address, but I have this idea,” you say, and wait for his invitation to continue, with your heart beating dangerously fast, thrumming like it might just burst through your ribs.

“What’s your idea?”

Thank you, you almost say, but don’t.

The steps are skipped, formalities disregarded- you just tell him.

It’s the perfect time- there’s that currently rare, pretty daylight that grows with each passing day streaming in through your windows unfiltered, blocked by no blinds or curtains. You pace a little, at first, right in the sun, and then sit down on a stool, toeing the smooth wood floors beneath, cradling the phone.

You start it off simple, with the marigolds.

Red marigolds, you specify, because you feel like you have to. Then you delve deeper, into chiffon and lighting and this thing you want to try out with layering, where two elements that overlap go by a completely different color scheme. Like, you say, like the flowers are red and the clothes are black, but the places where they meet are electric pink or orange or blue or something else unusual and distracting.

Save for the sound of his breathing, Bucky is quiet. You can tell that he’s really listening, probably sitting down somewhere and focusing on you, not doing some other task with your voice as background noise. He doesn’t interrupt when you go off on a tangent about the importance of natural lighting or contradict yourself with opposing statements on color choice, or when your words start to deteriorate, when they start pouring out so fast that they slur together and become less than coherent.

Your mind is going even faster- you can see the image even when you blink.

Something at the back of your thoughts tells you to stop, to slow down. You need to chill out.

But the idea is so vivid, so you can’t- you don’t, not until the idea is totally exhausted and you give a final sigh and go quiet, not until after giving what could count as an entire fucking speech.

When Bucky speaks again, he sounds tentative.

“I… like it,” he says, and maybe he’s holding his phone at a bad angle, because his voice is quiet.

“You do?” You say, instead of asking something else, with a sudden bad feeling in your gut.

“Yeah. But…”

You know what he says without him having to say it.

It feels like you’ve been punched.

The picture behind your eyelids burns brighter.

“That’s okay,” you say in response to his unsaid words, speaking too late, so that it's obvious that it’s not okay.

Your heart is sinking, as if it has any right to, as if he’s in the wrong. How did you go from high to low so fast?

You scared him. You put too much pressure on him too fast- it’s exactly what Sam said, that he’s all levels of wary and weird, and little things can set him off, because of everything that he’s been through-

Even if he was someone else, though, even if he was normal, he would still say no- anyone would say no to being given such a request out of nowhere.

Well, Rina didn’t, but she doesn’t count in this situation, does she?

“Sorry,” he says.

That hurts worse.

“Don’t apologize,” you say quickly. “It’s not like it’s not going to work now- I mean, it’ll be fine. Are you still down to meet, though?”

“Sure,” he says, too late.

***

Bucky Barnes does not like anything in his coffee.

He takes it black, black like his clothes, black like his soul, black like whatever other emo shit you can come up with.

It’s not that funny anymore.

Still, you keep up with it- you’re funny and talkative and charming and everything else, because you don’t know what else to do. The subject will be broached, it’s inevitable- you’ll broach it, even, but you still have to figure out how.

He’s subdued. And wearing his stupid hat, again, and you would give anything to knock it off so you could really see him, and he’s cautiously cradling his mug in a way that makes you ache everywhere.

The cafe is busy and decorated with a specific aesthetic, one that you would call manufactured bohemian. Potted plants and quirky photographs and drinks that all have fancy and ridiculous names. The baristas wear yellow aprons, and if you have a membership card, every tenth purchase gets you a free sugar cookie iced with a smiling sun.

Your cappuccino foam is dissolving. Sometimes, even though it’s mostly tasteless, you swipe it up and eat it with a spoon. Today, it seems like a bad idea- frivolous in the face of his silence and your unmotivated charisma and this stupid idea lingering between you two, like a friend that’s overstayed their welcome.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, and wonder why you feel so jumpy for saying it. “For bringing that thing up yesterday.”

To your own credit, you still sound confident.

He looks at you so darkly that you wonder if you should be afraid. Have there ever been others in your seat, afraid?

You’re not afraid.

“It’s fine,” he says, and continues staring at you like it’s not fine.

“I’m just- I was just thinking out loud,” you say. You feel like you have to explain yourself, prove something to him, so that you won’t wilt. “It was just an idea that I thought could be cool. I told you because, no , wait. I mean, I know that I- fuck. I’m sorry that it made you uncomfortable. That was really dumb of me.”

He tilts his head, eyes sliding over, and you shiver.

He looks bored.

Which is unnerving and terrifying as hell, because you have this carefully hand-crafted, precisely-cut image of who you are supposed to be, and it is not meant to be boring in the slightest, but he's bored, and you’re going to lose it.

“I said it’s fine,” he says, monotonously, giving the sudden impression that he’s about to leave. But he’s just sitting in his seat, unwrapping his hands from his mug and setting them on the table, while your hands are on the verge of shaking. “It didn't make me uncomfortable.”

If that was true, then you wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place. You wouldn’t be stumbling over yourself to say something so simple.

It takes considerable effort to keep your gaze steady. “Okay. But I still- I just want to say a thing really quick.”

“Say it.”

He’s being mean.

But this thing has been eating at you for a while now, so you don’t care.

“Um, so, we’re really different people,” you start, and before you second-guess it, you adopt your speaker voice, the teaching voice, the smart one. He has to know this about you- you’re smart. “And you obviously have all of your own things going on in your life that I can’t even imagine, and if you ever want to, like, talk about it, I’m here, but I also don’t care.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You push on.

“Like, it’s not important to me. If you want it to be, then it’ll be, but if not, then it’s whatever. I'm not- when I see you, I just see you. Does that make sense? Like, I don’t really think of any of that other stuff? If I’m supposed to, though, I’m sorry. I… I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

You don’t get nervous often, but you let out a small, nervous laugh.

It’s like your heart and head and lungs are suspended, frozen in ice while he takes your words in. The door to the cafe chimes and a large group of people step in. Middle aged women, all wearing athletic clothes. Devil’s ivy grows on the wall farthest from you- how chic- with vines snaking forward in your direction, reaching for you in green and streaky white.

He smiles.

All you see is teeth and creased eyes and a low, uncreased brow- you want to kiss him.

“Tell me the idea again,” he says, and leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, and you watch his forearms shift and strain against his shirt, and then you clear your throat and look away and try to focus.

You inhale and gather everything, hoping that this time, you’ll be able to make it make sense.

***

One thing spirals into another. Your words were building and building, rising like a crescendo, overwhelming you to the point where you just said it outright, and-

He’s now in your apartment.

He is literally in your apartment.

You watch him survey the area- the clutter, the mismatched furniture, the crooked posters and photos and artwork hung up on the walls. The subpar paint on the walls that you didn’t choose, the cabinets made of old wood with newly replaced handles.

The entire place is creaking, becoming worse for the wear with each passing day. You could probably afford nicer, but it doesn’t matter, because you love it here- you’ve formed an emotional attachment that goes beyond sad paint and constant repairs. Your home is cozy.

But right now, with Bucky in here, it’s suddenly cramped.

“I want you to sit over here,” you say, and facing a great window, rounded on top with those gorgeous little decorative swirls, which is your favorite part of the whole place, is an armchair. It’s a steal you found at an antique store, with little tassels lining the back of the seat, upholstered with the tackiest floral print you’ve ever seen, but it’s perfect for what you’re trying to do.

The sun is shining strong and unfiltered- he’ll be lit up.

Bucky sits. He looks on edge, and beautiful.

You want to make this easy for him. But you might be too swept away in him to make any efforts- you’re still in shock that he agreed to this in the first place, so disoriented with him being here, in your place, that your trains of thought keep on derailing.

You’re closer than you wish you were, closer to losing it.

“Perfect. Give me one second.”

You go to your room, which isn’t really a room but a sectioned-off alcove with a bit of wall blocking it from view, no door- weird architecture, but whatever, to retrieve your supplies. Tape and the neatly folded swatches of fabric and your camera.

Photography isn’t your thing, but you need reference material.

When you return, he’s looking pensive, and dazzling. His arms fall tensely on the sides of the chair, but his hands dangle so gracefully, and the light catches his face and colors it golden- you are going to lose it when it comes to painting his eyes. They’re blue, but you see them as suns.

“You look great,” you say, and he blushes. You’re ready to pounce, right now.

The fabric is a little bit awkward. It has to be draped upon him- Bucky bristles at your actions in a way that tells you he’s never done anything even remotely like this before, but you persist, and he lets you.

“Get out of the chair really quick.”

“Okay.”

Bucky gets out of the chair. You hop up on it, to tape the corners of the fabric to the ceiling. It’s a flimsy attempt, but they hold and flutter just fine.

He takes you by the hand to bring you back down.

“Careful,” he says, as you make the daunting two-and-a-half-foot descent, and he squeezes your hand in his gloved one before you make him sit down again.

You are buzzing with electricity. Another point to him- that was smooth.

The loose ends of the fabric are tricky, You try at first to tape them to the back of the chair, moving back behind him to reach. Bucky’s head stays perfectly still, and the chiffon looks wrong. It looks weirdly stiff.

So you drape one on him like planned, sort of dripping down his shoulder in a bunched-up purple river, and let the other hang freely, swaying a little from the fragility of the tape.

You move back around to face him.

“This is perfect,” you say, and grin, because this is finally happening. “You look perfect.”

He’s staring all intensely again. You want to come close to him, tell him how lovely he looks, straight out of a dream. You’re so pretty, you almost say, but you have some semblance of rational thought left in you- and so you stay quiet.

The camera dangles from its strap around your neck. You take it in your hands and power it on. The settings are adjusted, and you fiddle with the shutter speed and focus and everything else before bringing it close to your eye, expecting this dream-

He’s all tense, again.

It’s the lens, you immediately think, even though that doesn’t really make sense. You look like- you look like him when he does his things. Lenses and targets and crosshairs. How is this thought so immediate?

You’re just trying to take a picture.

“Relax,” you say, and it does absolutely nothing.

“I am relaxed,” he bites out.

He’s really not. There’s something shifting in his face, something discontented, a brewing storm. His hands are starting to harshly curl into the armrests, digging at the upholstery, distorting the flowers.

The chiffon looms.

“Fix your hands. Like, move them- no, turn them back,”

You’re stooping over to fully capture him, almost ready to take a knee.

His hands flex and stay as they are, stressed and taut and not right, and the rest of him is still so-

You bring the camera down.

***

He’s in this ugly chair, surrounded by fabric, and you’re pretty and wearing a pale pink sweater, and you’re aiming a camera at him, for a picture, but he feels like a target.

White-hot adrenaline and cold and dark dread pull at both sides of him. He feels like a total mess.

Is this they all felt- how they all feel, when he is aiming at them? He tries to do things differently, now, but the tragedy still takes place, the trigger is still fired- the deed is still done. Karma, he thinks, retracing its path, coming back to bite him through you.

You’re frowning. He wants to apologize.

You take the camera down and let it dangle from the strap at your neck. He just had your hands in his- he wants them back and wants to get as far away from you as possible.

“This isn’t working,” you say, and straighten back up, placing your hands on your hips. You look powerful, and he might be trembling from clenching his jaw so hard. “You are not relaxed.”

“I’m not,” he agrees, and you sigh and fix him with a look that isn’t pity- he’d bolt if it were pity, but steely resolve.

You take the camera off your neck, and gently bend over to set it on the floor. Then you sit down beside it, wincing as your knee makes a noise, and giving him a bemused little smile that he wants to just-

Your head level with his knees as you sit, cross-legged. Hands splayed over your lower thighs, careless and carefree. Your posture slouches a bit, relaxing the way he is not, and it's relieving.

His hands grip the chair like a lifeline.

“Why isn’t this working?” You ask, more yourself than him. “You were so- nevermind. Or, Let’s… um, wait. Maybe- Can I?”

He’s always thought of you as so put-together, a born speaker, but now you’ve been stammering and stuttering all over his heart, and he doesn’t know what to do.

You reach out with your hand, hesitantly, wavering. The scar smiles pink.

He nods- his head nods, his body is moving outside of itself, and he feels sheltered and exposed, nearly covered in purple fabric and vulnerable and sitting above you, all of him bared for you to see. Hot and cold.

Your hand goes on his knee.

He’s so alarmed that he almost lashes out- he wants to think, but you’re giving him no time to-

Your other hand is reaching out, tugging at his own, and you bring yourself up to your knees and lean back on the balls of your feet, balancing. Your head is still below his chest and tilted so he can’t see your eyes, and you’re holding his hand like it’ll break.

There’s a dry-erase board fastened on the opposite wall, next to all of the other eclectic clutter. It’s filled in with a to-do list- the words COOK SOMETHING are scrawled at the top in angry red marker. He focuses on the words as you play with his fingers.

You gently trace a thumb over the ridges of his knuckles; he’s suddenly so ticklish that he flinches and chokes on a word that he doesn’t know how to say.

You nudge his hand over to the side, drape the fingers down, and your other hand is still burning his knee, setting him alight-

You’re molding him. Setting him to look how you want, manhandling him in the softest way possible. Should this feel violating? Rude? It feels good- purposeful. He’s letting you do this, and his heart is beating hard, but he can still hear your breathing and his breathing and the white noise of the traffic on the street below, stories away.

You take your hand off his knee, and nudge at his left hand, and he thinks now, how fucking stupid this is- if it’s his fucking hand, why does he wear this stupid fucking glove?

He goes to work it off and you understand, and if he wasn’t wanting so badly to be still for you, stay here as you take your picture, he would grab you by the necklace you’re wearing and drag you closer.

The glove is pulled off and dropped to the floor and the silver of his hand winks in the sunlight.

“Oh,” you say softly, and there’s a crack in your voice, and his voice would crack too, if you asked him to speak.

There’s this look on your face. He doesn’t know if you want to hold his hand or kiss it or put his fingers in your mouth, it looks like all three and he is all unfurled, too, because he is sitting back in this ugly armchair and you’re holding his hands again, and you’re backlit by the sun- like a vision sent straight from the sky.

You fix his hands.

This feels intimate- more intimate than kissing, or anything else. This feels like skipping steps.

After a moment, you pry your hands off of his, and lean back.

Wordlessly, you take the camera and stand up, and you fiddle it and back up, back to where you were at first, far away. Then you’re bringing it close to your eye, looking at him through a lens, and the shutter clicks once, twice.

You bring it back down.

“You got it?” He says, and his voice sounds rough- he sounds parched.

You look at its little screen and bite your lip. “Yeah.”

“Can you come here for a second?”

You look up at him and he’s glad that he couldn’t see your eyes before- they’re dark. “Yeah.”

The camera is tossed to the side, again, and you walk like you’re floating. The steps have been skipped, but Bucky will have to go back to them anyway- he doesn’t like to leave any stones unturned-

And so he waits until you’re close enough, and then tugs you down by your sweater- he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s reaching and reaching-

You laugh or smile or do something else sweet, but he’s too caught up to tell. He pulls you down to him, and surrounded by you and sunlight and fluttering purple chiffon, he kisses you.

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4birds-of-a-feather · 5 years ago

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Chapter 27 - Wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight (when it’s exactly twelve o’clock that night) [part 2]

Birds Of a Feather

(In the previous chapters: Layla and some of the guys are trying to prepare a decent New Year’s Eve party, while Eddie and Sara went to watch the final installment of The Godfather saga; an attempt of Ed to become closer to Sara failed miserably)

“Ok, so, I have a ball” Sara was still shaken when she got home and it took her awhile to steady her hand and insert her key correctly into the lock. But what she heard Layla say from the living room, as soon as she pushed the door open, managed to break the bubble of numbness she fell into after the movie. “Alright, go on” Mike prompted Layla to continue as he was sitting right in front of her on the couch, together with the other friends who were forming a sort of semicircle around the girl. “I’ll give it to you, then I’ll give it to you, then to you, and you…” she went on with the game Sara knew too well, addressing the guys one by one “Then I’ll give it to you, Sara, hi!” Everybody in the room turned to greet Sara briefly, only to focus back on Layla a moment later. “Then I’ll pass it to Mike again, then to Stone. Who’s got the ball?” the girl concluded and asked. “SARA!” Mike shouted animatedly. “Hi to you too, Cready. I see you’re already in overdrive despite the early hour” Sara smirked as she hung her jacket and approached the group. “I’m very happy you’re here Miss Fancini but… I wasn’t talking to you, that was my answer to Layla’s game. And I bet I’m right, am I not?” Mike talked gently to her, then turned to question Layla with almost crazy eyes. “No, it’s actually Chris who has the ball” the girl shrugged. “CHRIS?! How can it be Chris? You didn’t even look at him!” Jeff complained from his seat. “It’s Chris, sorry guys. Wanna try again?” “No, thanks, I’m already tired of this and I guess I’m not the only one, am I right guys?” Stone tried to stop the game, not because he was actually bored, but more to prevent the mess his bandmates were gonna make until they’d find the solution. “OVER MY DEAD BODY!” Mike blurted out. “Nobody’s leaving until we guess the right answer” Jeff added. “You mean until I guess the answer” the guitarist pointed out. “Yeah that’s exactly what I meant: until I guess the correct answer, ha!” Ament retorted. <Fuck, this is gonna be rich…> Stone thought as he sipped his beer and enjoyed the show. “Shall I do it again then or not?” Layla chimed in during the verbal fight and everybody nodded yes. “Right. Now… as y’all know by now, I have a ball” she added with a devilish smile. “Oh Jesus” “Shut up Stone! Go on, babe” Jeff yelled and the girl was almost surprised the bass player was using an endearment term to call her instead of the usual Four Eyes or other funny nicknames. <He’s probably being kind only to get some hints> she soon realized. “I pass the ball to Matt, then I give it to you” Layla pointed at Sara and then at different guys in the room and in the end she asked again who had the ball. “Is it Jeff?” Chris tried to guess out of the blue. “Yes, Chris, it’s Jeff! Good job! But why?” the girl pointed at Cornell who suddenly had all eyes on him. “YOU! HOW DID YOU DO IT?!” Mike yelled at the singer who wasn’t really aware of being at the center of the attention in that moment. “I don’t know, I thought… maybe alf… alp… you know the letters, as they go…” Chris hardly mumbled something. “ALPHABETICAL ORDER! IS IT? I KNOW IT IS! AM I RIGHT?” Jeff basically stole Cornell’s answer since he wasn’t in his own mind. “No, that’s not the right answer” Layla shook her head no but Jeff insisted. “What? Of course it’s the alphabet! You said it was Chris, then me” “Did you forget I was the one who had the ball on the first round?” Stone added with an annoyed voice “Then it was Matt, then me again. What kind of alphabet do they teach in Montana?” “Oh right…” Jeff sulked then squinted as if he was trying to concentrate more on the possible solution. “You’re following an order anyway, are you?” Matt asks. <The first question of the evening with some sense, thank God> Layla sighed internally. “No, that’s the point, I’m not following any specific order” she replied but someone misunderstood the answer. “ARE YOU TELLING ME YOU’VE BEEN MAKING FUN OF US FOR AN HOUR AND YOU’RE JUST CALLING PEOPLE RANDOMLY?!” Mike stood up but Sara pulled him down on the couch. “Hey, just relax! That’s not what she meant” she admonished him. “I only meant I’m not following an order but THERE IS a reason why I’m calling people. The reason is that… they’ve got the ball” Layla explained calmly and Mike’s face finally turned back to its natural color. “So it’s because of something we got…” the guitarist nodded but ignored something that someone else was ready to point out. “… And how did you know what she really meant, Sara?” Stone asked right when someone rang the doorbell. “Right! How did you fucking know?” Ament growled and all of a sudden Sara was the focus of the whole attention. “Well, that’s because I was the one who taught her this game” she candidly replied, reaching into a bowl of chips. “WHAT?” Mike gasped and the doorbell rang again. “Err, isn’t anybody going to answer the door?” Layla said, timidly standing up. “Lemme do this, so I can put an end to this stupid cross-examination” her best friend was quicker than her, and went to the front door munching. “Oh, it’s you” she dead-panned, taking a step to the right to let Eddie enter the apartment. “Yeah, I-I just took a walk” he said, stepping inside “Where’s everybody?” “In the living room, wasting time without getting anything done” she shrugged and made her way to the other room, with the guy right behind her. “Hey, it’s Eddie!” Mike enthusiastically greeted him, then patted the space beside him “C’mere, buddy, our dear Layla has been entertaining us with the most mind-blowing game that mankind could ever experience!” “Is that so?” the singer smiled at the girl, then plopped himself where his bandmate had pointed. “It is, indeed!” Cornell chimed in, then looked in Sara’s direction “And her friend, here – what was your name again, darling?” “I can’t believe this… you’re so full of shit, Chris” she snorted, stuffing again her face with other chips “Audrey Hepburn, that’s how people call me” “I can see why, the two of you could practically be sisters!” he retorted, sipping some beer for the umpteenth time “Anyway, as I was saying, miss Hepburn here has confessed to be the one who taught miss Layla this trick of the mind, so we’re gonna extort the solution from her!” “... Over my dead body” “Nobody’s gonna reveal anything to anyone, you’re all gonna play honestly and ask questions and find the solution using reasoning and deduction” Layla tried to have the guys focus on the game. “In that case I think you’d better go and buy an inflatable number 2 balloon because we’ll most likely be still here one year from now without knowing the solution” Stone said, making Layla laugh. <Why is she laughing? Does she think I’m joking?> “Haha, come on! It’s easy! Ok, Eddie you probably don’t know but… I have a ball!” “Alright” Eddie tried to concentrate, especially because he didn’t want to make a poor figure with the girl. “I give it to you first” “Ok” “Then I’ll give it to Mike, then back to you, then back to Mike once again. Then I’ll pass it to Sara, then back to you. Who’s got the ball?” “Uhm… I got the ball” “Yes! Why?” “WHAT?” Jeff yelled. “Beginner’s luck” Mike mumbled between gritted teeth. “Because.. I was the last one to get it?” Eddie tried to guess. “Pfffft! As if it was that easy!” the bass player snorted and had a sudden revelation “Wait, it’s because he arrived last! You’re following the order in which we arrived, right?” “Nuh-uh, I’m following no specific order, I told you! And Eddie’s answer was only 50% correct anyway” Layla went on and dropped another hint. “What do you mean?” this time it was Stone that asked, taking it personally: he pretended he didn’t care but he felt he HAD to find the solution. “Somebody else has got the ball too” El shrugged and the guys went nuts. “WHAT THE HELL??” Mike cried. “... Two balls?” Jeff followed. “Balls usually come in pairs anyway” Chris joked and the room went silent for a couple of seconds before everyone burst out laughing. “Hahaha, you idiot! By the way, Eddie and Chris both have the ball” “Sara, please, put an end to this. Can’t you see we’re suffering?” Matt chimed in, still in stitches. <Weeeell, if YOU ask me, I can’t say no> Sara pondered and it was like her roommate could read her mind. “… NO FUCKING WAY” she hissed and in that instant Sara knew that, since the F word was pronounced, hell could start any minute now. “I don’t wanna know the answer, I wanna play! Try me again” Eddie clapped his hands and winked at Layla. <If I had an actual ball, by now I’d have squeezed it until it exploded…> the girl thought as she went back to being her usual smiley self, trying to act nonchalant. “That's because you’ve just arrived! We’ve been racking our brains over this fucking ball for an hour!” Ament complained, then turned around and, unexpectedly, offered his best puppy eyes to someone else “Ok, Sara, what do you want to spill the beans?” “Cough, cough! I have a ball!” Layla ignored the comments and started it all over, while the other girl gestured zipping up her own lips. “Please!” the bass player pleaded once more, and Sara turned her face just in time – apparently, the puppy eyes were working better than her expectations suggested. “I’ll give it to Mike, then to Matt, then I’ll give it to you, Sara, then I’ll keep it to myself.” the other girl continued, adding another new element “Now, who’s got the ball?” “Now I can see: balls are brain cells going lost during this game” Stone joked but was immediately shushed by everyone. “Is it… Mike?” Eddie tried. “No! It’s Matt and Stone” “... Jesus Christ” Mike face-palmed, letting himself fall on the floor. “And nooow, Sara and I are gonna give you all a moment to ponder” Layla stood up and literally pulled up her friend from the couch and dragged her away from the living room. “El, I don’t know what’s happening to me but I’m starting to pity them. The caveman even begged me! Maybe I should give them the solution…” Sara remarked, still surprised by how low Jeff could stoop to have the solution. <Pity, sure… and Matt’s charming smile has got nothing to do with it, right?> Layla thought as she pushed her friend even more away from the gang’s protests. “C’mon, you don’t have to stay here and tell ‘em the answer!” she exclaimed, while the other girl rolled her eyes. “Look, I’m not partaking in this madn-” “Run along, you have to get changed and ready for the party! There’s no time to waste by dawdling here!” she took Sara by the shoulders and dragged her until they were in front of Jeff’s ex-room “I’m sorry but for the hair and make-up this time you’re kinda on your own, I have to supervise the preparations” “Great loss, now I’m actually offended” the younger girl dead-panned and then faked a noble, detached voice “You’re free to go, servant” “Your Grace is so full of understanding, I shall never thank you enough!” Layla laughed and quickly went back to the living room, afraid of how many different kinds of damage could be awaiting for her, while Sara finally opened the door in front of her. “Nice try, El” she smirked, eyeing the jumpsuit that was lying on her bed “It would be a real shame if somebody were to completely ignore your innocent suggestion…” The girl caressed the velvety texture of the clothing and simultaneously went for one of the dresser’s drawer handles, pulling it towards her without looking at it, but it was apparently stuck. “Oh, fuckin’ great… That asshole obviously couldn’t check if the room was falling to pieces before chivalrously lending it to me” she muttered, trying again with more strength; once again, the drawer didn’t budge. “This is ridiculous – whatever, just lemme grab something quick from the closet so El won’t feel the urge to bug m-” While she was pulling, Sara heard a faint metallic sound, so she looked better and finally found the bitter truth: the closet and every single drawer inside her room had been sealed up with a plethora of lockets. “What in tHE FLYING FUCK IS GOING ON HERE??? EEEEEEEEEL!” she roared, running away from that living nightmare and demanding immediate explanations from her so-called best friend.

“I can’t see why you’re making a fuss about this? You love that jumpsuit, don’t you?” Layla was rubbing her temples as she tried to stay calm and talk to her friend through the door, which had been locked by Sara from the inside. <I should have made the room keys disappear, how could I forget?> “Yeah, I love it, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I want to wear it!” “It’s lovely and looks great on you and I didn’t buy it for you to keep it in your closet forever! I wanna see my present finally put into good use” That seemed to shut Sara up, leaving her with her mouth open but no words coming out of it. “And I bet everybody’s gonna love it, especially the guys!” Layla added, making the worst mistake. “... OH YEAH, THAT WILL SURELY BE THE MAIN REASON FOR ME TO WEAR IT” her best friend regained consciousness “PLEASING GUYS IS MY MISSION IN LIFE” she roared back, while Layla tried to convince her to lower her voice. “Shhhhhh fuck, I was almost there!” the girl cursed at herself for talking too much and went back grasping at straws “Who said anything about pleasing anyone? I just meant that they’ll appreciate your party outfit and won’t make any unpleasant remarks about it. Plus they’re mostly drunk, what they say makes no sense anyway, so who cares? And since when do you care about men’s opinion? A bunch of guys now stop you from doing what you like or wearing what you want?” “THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY GODD-wait a minute, it actually makes sense” “Of course it does! Come on, get out of that room, please” Layla insisted, pleased with herself for pushing Sara’s right buttons. “... I don’t know, it seems like a stupid thing to do; after all, it’s you who wants me to wear the jumpsuit, not me” “Jesus…” Sara’s friend rolled her eyes “Right, since you don’t wanna wear it, don’t do it. But remember I’ve got all the keys so I’m really curious about what your alternative choice of clothes will be in the end” “My pajamas would work too, you know?” Layla wanted to smash her own head against the wall or against the door so she could open it and put an end to this, when she finally came up with something. “Alright, put your pjs on… Wait, that’s not a bad idea at all! Let’s all put pajamas and turn this into a slumber New Year’s Eve party! Sara, you’re a genius” “... I didn’t think you would have agreed with my idea, but-” “I’m gonna go and tell the others! I heard Jeff sleeps in the nude, did you know that?” “YOU HEARD WHAT?!”

************************************************************************************************

“There she is! Where have you been? We were talking about you!” Matt waved to a girl who was slowly pushing her way through the crowd, and the whole group of people near him turned around to see who was coming. “All good things, I hope” “If you’re dressed like that? Always, Sara” the drummer winked at her, then threw his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer to him; needless to say, the girl blushed to the roots of her hair. “Is that a jumpsuit with the zodiac?!” she heard a loud gasp and turned in the direction of another girl, shorter than her and clinging to her boyfriend’s arm, whose eyes were literally shining. “Yep, it is” “That is so gorgeous! Can I come closer to better see it?” “Yeah, no problem” “Oh my God, you’re an angel! Thank you!” the other girl almost squealed in excitement, then jumped in front of her and began to study her garment “This is real velvet, I can’t believe it! Where did you find this gem?!” “I think it’s that shop in Pike Place… Vintage Clothing?” “... the place where Xana used to work” the girl had turned to face again her boyfriend and share a knowing look with him, then refocused on her “I doubt I’ll ever find something as cool as this, but thanks for the tip” She offered her a genuine smile and her hand to shake: “I’m Demri, by the way, and this is my boyfriend Layne” “I was the one who told ‘em to come, hope it’s alright!” Chris chimed in, giving a nudge to the Alice In Chains singer. “You did the right thing, Cornell; they’re cool enough to hang with us losers” Sara grinned, then waved back at Layne “Hiya to you as well, stranger; how are your bandmates doing?” “Oh, Jerry is with a girlfriend of his and Sean and Mike went to do a tour of some of the hundreds of parties that this city has to offer – but I wonder how Mike will react when I tell him that I went to the same party that you attended” the guy smirked at her “Did he come to visit you at your workplace?” “Nope, thank God” “Fear not: he will… soon” “He’s gonna get me fired! Please, can’t you come with him so you can keep him at bay? Pretty please” “Hey, it’s not my fault if he doesn’t understand a single thing when you’re nearby… his brain short-circuits” “So you’re the one who has poor Mike wrapped around her finger! I can see why” Demri joined them again, giving the girl a little nudge “If it helps any, he seems pretty serious about it – I, for once, have never seen him acting like that before” “I don’t know, I’m not that keen on trusting men… seems like a waste of time” Sara shrugged, then followed Layla with her gaze: she was talking with Stone and Ed and seemed really invested in drinking what was inside her glass.

“Can I get one more try?” Eddie pleaded Layla, who was chatting and drinking with him and Stone in the middle of the living room among the party guests. “No, you can’t” Gossard answered in her place, officially because he was fed up with the game, but actually because he wanted to be the one to guess the solution right. “Sure you can! But, as I said, I’ll tell the solution after midnight” the girl replied sipping her sangria through a straw. “Alright, alright eheh, no pressure, I swear” Eddie put his hands out laughing and his guitarist friend rolled his eyes so hard for a moment he thought his retinas detached. <No pressure? Tsk, that’s your problem, man. What about putting a little pressure on this girl for a change?> “Ok so I have a ball, then I-” Layla started but was soon interrupted by a stranger’s voice behind her back. “Who’s got a bong?” Stone didn’t need to look up to the person who spoke to know who it was and a smile appeared on his face. “Hey Lukin! I thought you’d never come” Gossard patted his friend on his back. “Uhm, now that’s not something I hear that often... too bad you’re not a girl, Stoney.” Matt replied and finally noticed the other two people looking at him with the same perplexed expression on their face “Hi, so where’s this bong of yours? I’m ready” Layla laughed as the guy clapped his hands once and then rubbed them together. “She said ball, not bong, you asshole!” Stone explained barely holding his laughter. “Yeah, right, hehe, it’s a game, you know? Anyway, I’m Layla, nice to meet you” she stretched her hand out and he looked at it suspiciously before shaking it. “Nice to meet you too. But you shouldn’t play with people’s feeling and promise bongs that are not actually there. That’s not nice at all” “Oh, sorry… well, I’m sure somebody brought something to smoke, don’t worry” Layla was almost apologizing for doing nothing and that made both Eddie and Stone laugh. “Who needs bongs? We can always make a pipe out of a can, do you remember?” Stone said referring to older times. “Yeah, and that’s when we came up with the motto Who needs a bong when you have coke?” Lukin explained, suddenly serious, as he was a teacher talking to his students. “Smoking through a coke can? Isn’t it dangerous, with the chemicals and everything?” the girl retorted. “Chemicals are not as dangerous as Matt Lukin” Stone remarked while Eddie introduced himself too. “Nothing’s as dangerous as Matt Lukin!” another guy came up from out of nowhere and put his hands on Stone and Matt’s shoulders, then his attention focused on the girl in the small circle “Layla?? Hiiiiii!” The color drained from the girl’s face once she recognized the guy’s face. “Steve! Hi!” she faked an excessively big smile and both Eddie and Stone, although for different reasons, noticed something was off. “Wait, do you know each other?” Stone asked confused. “Well, either they do or they’re champs at Guess my name” Lukin pointed out. “Huh… well, yeah, I know her, she’s the girl who works at Scarecrow Video” “THAT ONE?? OUCH!” Matt almost yelled, only until Steve squeezed his shoulder very hard. “Yeah, and I know him as a customer, ehehehe” Layla went on. <... And as the guy who asked me out and I had to turn down> Layla told herself as she thought about Steve coming to the shop and striking up a conversation with an excuse to get to know her. She didn’t understand he was flirting with her – not even the fact he used to come over to the shop ever so often opened her eyes. The fact he started to rent at least a couple of movies every day gave her a sneaky suspicion. “And how do you know each other? I’m Eddie, by the way” Vedder tried to make his handshake as firm as he could. “Steve” “Yeah, I’m good at Guess My Name too” Eddie continued. “The new singer, huh? Well, Stone and I used to be in the same band. Did you tell them about Green River or is it a taboo topic?” Turner joked trying not to make it too obvious that he was drooling all over Layla. When he asked her out and she turned him down, he didn’t take it too well. He knew she had a boyfriend, she didn’t miss a chance to casually drop his name during their conversations. <But he wasn’t in Seattle after all… I mean, he was in a different city, in a different state… he was in fuckin’ Massachusetts! Why waste your time and your youth with a long distance relationship?> “Oh yeah, you told me you were in a band! But I think it was a different band, or I didn’t get the name right maybe” Layla chewed on her lower lip trying to remember the band name he had told her. “I told you about Mudhoney, that is my current band” “MUDHONEY! That’s it, yeah, now I remember!” “Well, now I’m in Mudhoney with this guy over here and another couple of guys, who are not at the party” <Thank God!> Stone thought, picturing a fist fight between Mark Arm and Sara as very likely. “He said that guy over here because he doesn’t remember my name anymore” Lukin said shrugging. “He remembered hers though… and she remembered his, he must be a regular customer, right?” Vedder realized his comment was out of place the moment he said it but it was too late. “Yeah, sort of… not now though, I mean, not as much as I used to” Steve answered. “Oh, and why?” “Well-” Turner started to speak but Layla interrupted him out of the blue. “I’ve never tried with a coke can but once I smoked pot through a carrot” the girl gave her statement and Matt’s attention focused on her right away. “What?” “And once I got high with a snorkeling mask too” “WHAT??” Stone and Eddie yelled at the same time, as they probably found the second option weirder than the first one for some reason. “I like your attitude. Can I become a regular too?” Lukin suggested, then turned towards Steve “Ehm, can I? I’ve got no bad intentions, I swear” This exchange didn’t go unnoticed to Stone and most of all to Eddie, so Layla had to come up with another diversion. She started jumping and waving around her arms like the wings of an eagle, apparently wanting to get everybody’s attention. “HEY GUYS! WHO WANTS TO PLAY A GAME?”

“Another one?” Jeff walked up to Layla and then acknowledged the rest of the group “Hey, hi guys!” “Yeah, we haven’t even finished the first one yet!” Stone complained. “Oh but I wasn’t thinking about a riddle, I meant something different, like a group game” the girl explained trying to ignore both Steve staring at her and Eddie staring at Steve. <Is this some kind of weird Mexican stand-off or something?> Layla asked herself in disbelief. “Make it a drinking game and I’m in” Lukin gladly accepted. “I had no doubt about it” Steve laughed. “MAKE IT STRIP POKER AND I’M IN TOO!” Mike yelled as he appeared out of thin air, coming back from one of his frequent trips to the bathroom. “Cready, I swear to fuckin’ God, if I hear you babblin’ one more time about this heckin’ strip poker, you can bet your sweet ass I’m gonna tie you up to a chair and force you to listen to Barry Manilow non-stop until your brain oozes out of your nose like fuckin’ pudding, understood?!” Sara had just stomped in their direction, making her opinion about the guitarist’s suggestion crystal clear. “... you’re no fun, Sara” McCready gave her his signature puppy eyes, along with a big pout, but the girl replied with a punch on his arm. “Yeah, in fact I’m not joking at all: you know I can do it and I will, so don’t tempt me” “Sara Fancini? Is that you? I can’t believe it” Steve chimed in and finally Sara turned around and registered his face. “... Well, I’ll be damned! Steve Turner!” she replied surprised. “If we were playing the drinking version of Guess the Name as I’ve been suggesting for hours, I’d be already drunk now” Lukin mirrored Mike’s pouting face while a bunch of guests had stopped to see what was happening. “You know her too. Wow. Are you a regular at Easy Street Records too?” Eddie narrowed his eyes at Turner as he addressed him. “I’ve known this guy for longer than six years, what do you mean ‘a regular’? A regular loser? A regular pain in the ass? Oh wait, you’re not in Jeff’s band anymore, so you might stand a chance in life, after all” Sara smirked and couldn’t help catching a glimpse of Ament’s angry face when she said that. “I haven’t seen you for a while though, I didn’t remember you being so harsh” Steve pointed out with a smile. “... You tell me” Jeff remarked through fake coughing. “Oh right, you were in their band and Sara knew you back then” Eddie finally joined the dots. “Earth calls Eddie, Earth calls Eddie. Good morning Eddie, glad you’re finally back with us” Stone joked prompting an awkward and embarrassed look from the singer. “And where does this bullying against Jeff come from? I honestly remember you were getting along so we-” Steve insisted, dredging up the past, but he was promptly interrupted by Sara. “DID I HEAR SOMEONE SUGGESTING ‘NEVER HAVE I EVER’?? LET’S DO IT” “Someone who? I didn’t hear anything” Mike pointed out as he looked around. “Also because we’re not at a sixth grade party?” Gossard added but Layla immediately loved the idea and ignored him. “Yeah! That’s exactly what I was thinking about: a nice group game. I’m in!” “My idea of group games is a tad different but… ok, as long as it’s about people drinking and falling down on the floor I’m in” Lukin shrugged and joined in as other guests did. “It can involve drinking?! COUNT ME IN” McCready chimed in again, going near Lukin and sharing a high five with him.

#Eddie Vedder #Jeff Ament #Pearl Jam #Eddie Vedder fanfiction #Pearl Jam fanfiction #grunge fanfiction #Jeff Ament fanfiction #Birds of a Feather #chapters

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smooti · 5 years ago

Text

Nicknames

Lucio x Fan!Apprentice

(I saw a post talking about how Lucio seems to nickname people he likes, i.e. ‘Noddy’ for Nadia or ‘Jules’ for Julian, so I thought it’d be cute if he nicknamed the Apprentice during his route too. So I kinda wrote some of the labyrinth bit but with dumb nicknames.

... If anyone can find that original post, please link it, I cannot seem to find it again u n u)

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

“How long have we been in here, do you think, Tammy?”

“...I-I s-still don’t know that.”

Tam was getting sick of the cold, sick of turning corners in this labyrinth, sick of… Well. It was nice having someone here with them, much better than being alone, but…

Lucio let out a very long sigh of annoyance, walking much too fast for Tam’s tastes. It didn’t help that between his height and his heels, it was two steps for Tam every stride he made. He stopped and waited for Tam at the end of a stretch, tapping his foot impatiently.

“C’mon, Tammy, you got to keep moving.”

“...It’s Tam.” They finally mumbled, stopping their walk forward. They stood in the snow, glaring at Lucio.

“What’d you say? Couldn’t hear you!” Lucio said, looking out at the path forward, and Tam wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. They decided to speak louder this time, just in case.

“It’s pronounced Tahm. Not… Taym. And definitely not Tammy.”

Lucio looked back, an odd expression on his face, an eyebrow raised.

“‘S just a nickname. Thought it’d be cute, like you.”

He gave another one of those crooked smiles, one that made Tam oddly afraid. Not… of him, just… afraid of… the consequences of it. They shook their head, clearing it of thoughts.

“...W-w-why do you say stuff like th-that.”

Their stutter was getting worse in the cold, it was making their teeth chatter. They blushed. Tam were never good at speaking, let alone speaking their mind, let alone speaking their mind to someone who, for how bratty and goofy he could be, was still a Count.

Well, was a Count? He obviously still thought he had the authority, anyway.

Lucio walked back over to Tam, a look of genuine confusion on his face now.

“Like what?”

“Like… nevermind. Let-let’s just k-keep walking.”

“Hey, uh, you sure you’re… okay?” That made Tam pause. It wasn’t like him to ask about someone other than himself.

“...wh-why are you asking?”

“Your lips are blue. Like, blue blue.”

Tam opened their mouth, about to ask why he was even looking at their lips, when Lucio slung his arm, the non-metallic one, over their shoulders. He moved their shawl up on their shoulders, and wrapped his own cape around both of them.

“Put your hands in your arms. It’ll keep your fingers warm.” He said, his voice softer than Tam had ever heard it. They did so, and realized just how numb their fingers had gotten in the cold.

“...Y-you’re still so w-w-warm.”

“I’m just better at handling the cold.”

He didn’t say it in the bragging way he usually did when talking about himself, just stated a fact. Tam was about to say there was something more going on, since this was magic snow that he was clearly summoning, but decided to leave it be. Lucio was rather obtuse about magic stuff, as much as Tam had been trying to explain.

“Okay, now walk fast with me. It’ll keep your legs and feet warm, Tammy.” He was using the same softer tone still, making Tam quicken their pace, but not leaving and walking ahead of them like he had been.

They were already starting to feel a little better, but they felt so… run down. Much less annoyed than they’d been a few seconds ago, though. Why couldn’t he always be like this, instead of such a braggart? He was being genuinely nice, too, not like when he showered Tam in false compliments.

After a bit, Tam had enough energy to say something. Lucio had started on a long-winded story about how he’d braved blizzards before, all the while saying Tammy this and Tammy that.

“...Alright, if you keep calling me Tammy, I’m going to call you some nickname.” Tam expected that to be the end of it, for Lucio’s pride to make him stop. Instead, he laughed.

“Oh? Whatcha gonna call me, then?” He asked, his tone oddly excited.

Tam stuttered. They hadn’t thought this far ahead. The plan had been to get him to stop calling them that, to stop teasing, not to egg them on. They tried to rack their brains for something embarrassing, trying to channel what Asra might call him.

“...I’d- uh… I’d call you Countie.”

Lucio stopped walking and burst into loud laughter. Tam flushed as he laughed quite a lot longer than necessary, practically slapping his knee with the arm that wasn’t still holding them close.

“Countie? Is that… you can do better than that, Tammy.” He said after finally being able to stop his laughter, wiping a tear from his eye.

“Wh-what’s wrong with Countie?”

Lucio stuck out his tongue, blowing a loud raspberry as he started back on their quick pace through the labyrinth.

“It’s terrible. Doesn’t suit me in the slightest. I know you can do better, you’re way smarter than that.”

Tam hesitated, not stepping with Lucio as he was pulling them forward. He noticed the sudden stop, and looked down, confusion on his face.

“What? You attached to Countie, of all things?” He asked, throwing another one of those too-charming-to-be-real smiles.

Tam shook their head. “Wh-why do you… say st-stuff like that.”

“Like what? You keep saying that, and I don’t know what you mean.” He sounded annoyed… no, frustrated? Whatever it was, Lucio was giving Tam an exasperated, angry glare.

“Y-You just k-keep…” Tam straightened their back. They needed to be firm, so he couldn’t blow this off as a joke either. “You keep trying to just… butter me up. I know you don’t mean any of it.”

Lucio’s mouth opened, the annoyed look was gone, replaced with a surprised one. Tam supposed he was keeping up the act, so they continued.

“Y-you’re a... I mean you’re…” They unfolded their arms and gestured at all of Lucio’s finery, his red sash and golden arm. “And-and I’m…” Tam made a shrugging motion, indicating just… themselves. Their frumpy, bookish self.

Lucio had let go now, and Tam was happy for it. They could walk off and not have to deal with him anymore. They started backing off a few steps away from him.

“D-d-d-” They took in a breath. Their stutter got worse when they got upset, let alone in such cold, too. “Don’t act like you’d be s-saying all this if w-we’d just met at the p-palace or something. Y-you wouldn’t want me if you d-didn’t need me.”

Tam felt like a weight had come off their chest, and yet there wasn’t really any relief there. It felt more… raw. Exposed. Like they’d picked off a scab. They’d laid their insecurities bare to Count Lucio, of all people.

Lucio didn’t have anything to say to Tam, just kept opening and closing his mouth, sounds of half-formed words coming and then stopping short. He still looked surprised, but Tam thought it must have been their own outburst. They’d been holding in their thoughts for… how long had they been out here, now? Months? It felt like months.

Tam stopped waiting for a response, and started trudging forward. Their pace was a lot slower on their own. They hadn’t realized how much Lucio’s body heat had been helping, and really didn’t want to admit that now. But every snowflake was hitting like needles on their face, now. By the time they’d gotten to the next branching path, they had to lean against the wall, shivering harder than they’d ever remembered.

“Tam! Tam!” He was saying their actual name now, catching up to them. Tam looked up at Lucio, whose face was oddly flushed. Maybe the cold was finally starting to get to him, too. It almost made them laugh. They felt their knees starting to give, and the ground seemed… inviting. They were so, so tired.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, don’t just go collapsing now.” Lucio had caught Tam’s arm before they realized they’d fallen. They tried to wave him off, but his grip was tighter now.

“I’m… tired.” They admitted, hoping he’d let them go. Instead, he kept his hold on their arm, slowly setting them down.

“Alright, but… it’s not good to just collapse. Here.”

By the time Tam realized what he was doing, it was too late. He was holding them now, having them lean on his chest instead of the wall, his legs cocooning around them and his cape covering their arms.

“We’ll stay like this, alright?” His voice had gone soft again. Tam didn’t like it - it felt too… real. And he was so fake, he had to be, there was no way he was secretly this… kind.

Tam felt dizzy, but not nearly as bad as they’d been while leaning against the wall. Now, the warmth felt inviting, like they could actually sleep instead of just pass out. They kept blinking, their head lolling until it was on Lucio’s shoulder.

“When… when we’re out of this.” Tam said quietly, eyes shutting. The words started tumbling out of them in their dizzy state. “And we’re back at the p-palace, and you can have anyone you-you want again… just… let me down easy, okay?”

“Tammy…” Lucio’s voice was still so weirdly gentle, it was off putting it was… nice. For now.

“...Just promise me that, please, please, Lu-Lu-” They interrupted themselves with a yawn, and found themselves too tired to finish the word they’d been stuttering out.

“...I like Lulu better.” He whispered. “Fits better with Tammy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

#count lucio #fan!apprentice #tam #the arcana #the arcana game #i havent posted my writing on tumblr ever #and havent posted any writing on any website in... years

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candle-light-writings · 6 years ago

Text

New Art Store

Colossus x Reader

Summary: You work at an art store that has opened recently, and you first meet Piotr there.

Word count: 1,600+

A/N: Ahhh my first post! I’m really nervous about posting this, but I hope you enjoy it. Feel free to leave some feedback.

——————————————————————————————————————————

It was another day of mindless, easy work. The art store you work at is quite small, as it’s a new business and opened a few months ago, but it’s welcoming. You just needed a job to pay off student loans, and earn extra money for future retail therapy, so you were able to land a job here. From there, you’ve have been working here since day one.

Other than that, you also have your freelance work. It can be tiring, but nonetheless, you enjoy it. Being surrounded by the large variety of art media, materials, and books keeps you motivated to make art, and most importantly, from hating your job.

You were the first and only employee in for the morning, and it could not have been any easier. All you had to do was pack a few orders that were made online and make sure everything was stocked on the shelves. Knowing it would be a quiet morning - as the regular customers come in around afternoon - you decided to get started with the first task of packing orders.

You were taking your time with the task, until you heard the door bell chime. Huh, it’s a bit too early for people coming in, but what the heck. You went to see the person who came in. For the first time in your life, you have never felt so intimidated and confused, until now. The man, who was standing at the front door, was looking around the store, and judging by his face, he already looked lost. Aside from that, his giant, muscular frame caught you off guard, causing you to become so shocked, and slightly scared. How could a guy like him be in a shop like this? Was he just getting into art? You’ve never seen him around before. You approached him and tried to greet him, but to no avail, words failed you - you couldn’t even say a simple hi, how are you? and you were left with your mouth slightly open. Mentally scolding yourself, you were to quick to regain your composure and asked, “Are you alright, sir?”

The man took notice of you, and you took the chance to just absorb his figure in more detail. From his square jaw, blue eyes, and black slick-back hair (and, wow, that thick neck) you had to admit, you thought he was handsome. He must be some wrestler or body-builder. While you were now admiring his build, he cleared his throat, smiled sheepishly then answered in a thick Russian accent, “I was wondering where you keep all the painting materials.” Once again, you had to take a few seconds to register how soothing his voice is. When you get home, you had to give yourself a pep talk on not being easily infatuated. Other than that, he was definitely new here.

You showed the man where the painting supplies are. “If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.” You said. In response he replied with, “Of course, thank you.”

You went back to packing the ordered items, finishing up the first one within a few minutes. Nobody came in throughout the morning, leaving you with that man. Speaking of him, while you were taking a look at the next order, you never heard any movement from him. Confused, and convinced that he never left(because you never heard the door bell), you went to see if he was still in the painting aisle. And there he was. Standing exactly where you last left him.

He was looking at the same paints, but he was frowning. Did he not like what the shop was offering? Sure it was small, and not that popular, you made sure that the best were in stock. Perhaps he’s a beginner, and maybe you should offer some advice. Maybe he just can’t decide which brand to choose from. Anyways, you were growing concerned at how indecisive he’s been for the last five minutes.

You didn’t even know whether to leave him be (believing he’ll pick whatever and go) or not. You decided to take the latter. “Uh...uh, sir?” You squeaked. God he looked so intimidating at this state. He blinked then turned his attention to you, then smiled sheepishly. You were able to relax as you thought he probably didn’t want to bother you. “Would you like some help?” You asked. He paused, then smiled and nodded, bashfully. “Yes, please. Uh, very much.”

You came to him and surveyed what paints he was looking at. Racks of oil paint tubes organised by brands from lightest to darkest from around the colour wheel. They were also organised by the amount of paint each had. “I don’t think you no longer have what I’m looking for.” He said, pointing at an empty rack where it was supposed to hold large titanium white paints. It’s a popular item.

Taking another look at him, he smiled nervously, scratching the back of his head. Poor guy, you thought, he should’ve asked you instead of standing there and wasting time. “I’ll go look if we have some more. Just wait a moment, if you don’t mind.” You said. He nodded and you left him to go to the storeroom to find if there was more in stock. Luckily, there was.

You came back carrying a whole box of titanium white, worth weighing more you can barely carry. He saw you trying to make it to the counter and rushed towards you to carry the package. “Bozhe moi, you’ll hurt yourself.” He murmured, placing the box on the counter. “Thanks,” You exhaled, regaining your breath. You began to feel sore in your arms, but that didn’t bother you. “Don’t worry about me.” You assured him, but he looked worried. It was thoughtful of him to care, but really, you were fine. So you changed the topic instead.

“We had more, except I haven’t shelved them yet. My bad.” You apologised and opened the box, revealing a fresh supply of clean, large white paint tubes.

“This what you wanted, right?” You asked, to which he nodded in response. “Just two, please.” He added. “Great,” You grabbed the amount he asked for then set the box on the floor, as a reminder to shelve them after you serve this man. “Is there anything else you need? Sometimes I get customers coming back in and it’s kinda embarrassing for them.” You laughed lightly, and he did too. You took note on how... lovely, his laugh was. For a big guy like him, he was so gentle and kind, and that made you want to know more about him. You found him so friendly and approachable.

“No, that is all I want.” He said, bringing you back to reality.

After he paid for the paints and thanked you, he took another view of the store. “This is a very nice shop. I wonder how I’ve never seen this before.” He said, almost to himself. You shrugged, but smiled a little. “It’s still new. We opened a few months ago, but honestly, I don’t think there’s anything special about this place. It’s just another art store.” You realised your mistake of being too honest and thinking that it’s bad for the business. You were just used to having open conversations with customers because you believed that having a mutual relationship with them will make them come back and build a positive reputation. Besides, he didn’t seem to care.

“It’s a good place to open here. I won’t have to travel far anymore.” He joked, and you laughed because it was true for you.

“Yeah, I see where you’re coming from. It can be annoying when you just wanted something small, like paint.” You pointed at the small bag containing the items he purchased.

The two of you spent some more time chatting about art related things from advice, how long you’ve been making art, and sharing favourite art forms. The more you talked to him about these things, you wanted to see his artworks. However, you realised how much time has passed and apologised.

“You must be in a rush, I’m so sorry!” You said as panic started to build up in you. You also realised how much you’ve opened up to this man. Both of you are total strangers, but it was so easy to form a friendship with just one thing in common. You also felt like you could trust him.

He remained calm and patted your shoulder gently. “Nyet, it’s alright. I’m in no hurry, but I should get going though.” He reached out his free hand to you, offering a quick handshake, which you happily take.

“Pardon my terrible manners, I should’ve introduced myself before. I’m Piotr, but Pete may be easier for you.” He grinned. Goodness, his manners were way too far from terrible. He was a true gentleman, and you were growing fond of him.

“Nice to meet you, Piotr,” Your attempt at pronouncing his name made him laugh light heartedly, in a not bad manner. “I’m ________, and it was nice meeting you. I hope you’ll come by again.” You grinned as you let go of his hand.

“I believe I will. I’m starting to think that this might be my new favourite shop. See you again.” He said, then left the store.

From that experience, both of you knew that your friendship will continue to grow from there. Maybe to something more. Thinking about this made you slap yourself. “Get it together, _______, you just met him.” You hissed at yourself. You sighed, because honestly, you couldn’t wait to see him again.

It’s funny how art can literally bring people together.

#colossus x reader #colossus imagine #piotr rasputin x reader #piotr x reader #colossus #piotr rasputin #when i found out that he was an artist i just...

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jpat82 · 6 years ago

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Bad Plan

CHAPTER 2

“So let me get this straight, you volunteered me to cook a bbq, two days from now. On my day off, and I should do this why?" She raised an eye brow.

“Because you like throwing bbq's and having people over." I replied recalling the many times we had had people over for dinner.

“Yes, but not people who are used to away higher cooking skill." She sounded annoyed.

“Look, they don't want fancy food. They want just an old fashion backyard bbq's. Where they sit down and just relax like everyone else. Plus I thought you'd be alittle excited getting to meet them all."

“Fine, but your buying everything and being my help. Which means.."

“I cater to you. Deal."

******

Friday I went and bought everything, while getting texts from excited people asking what they should bring. Saturday morning was helping prep the food. I was just excited to have everyone come over. Plus waiting to see the look on my twins face when she met Tom.

There was knock, I ran to go get it as my sister was outside grilling.

“Hey kid," ah, that amazing smile. "Brought some beer."

“Nice, and your like an hour early." I smiled, gesturing for him follow. Showed him the quick down stairs tour of the house.

“Utterly gorgeous. I love old houses, they just don't have the same character in homes today." We walked out back, our patio was huge. With a fire pit in the middle, benches built in to the side of the deck. White lights were strung up, to be honest the patio costed us a fortune but it was well worth every penny.

“Completely agree with you, we jumped when it went up for sale. Got it for a steal cause it had so many issues. But, we knew some people."

“Hey Karl. You found the place okay?" My sister asked. "Can be hard to find."

“Yep, can't see looming up from the street since its on the top of hill or anything." He joked back.

“Well, the drive way can be a pain sometimes. Somebody hasn't trimmed the hedges out front."

“Oh my gosh, they arnt that bad."

“Renee, you can't find the mail box." She pointed the flipper at me.

“Fine I'll go cut them back real quick." I hurried off, stopping by the shed to grab the cutters. I was just about done when two more cars pulled up.

“Hey, up that way?" Zoe asked pointing up the drive.

“Yeah, I'll be up in a minute. Karl's already here." She pulled in, Simon and Tom in her car, Chris waved as he followed her, Zach riding shot gun. I felt a wave of anxiety, and steeled myself before trekking up the drive.

I introduced my sister to our guests. Except one, Tom. You see my sister had been giving me grief about this cook out since I told her about it. I devised an evil plan to get back at her. I knew my wonderful dear twin needed more burgers. I was already carrying side dishes so I asked Tom to snag the burgers and take them to her.

I love her I really do, but I knew how much of crush she had on this man. I would never get to do something like this to her again. I watched as he walked out.

“Excuse me, miss, your sister asked me to bring you this." He said walking up beside the unsuspecting woman. I watched as her entire body went rigid, no doubt completely recognizing that British voice. She turned rather slowly, looking at him and blinked hard a couple of times. I watched as her face paled, then slowly turn pink.

“Uh, thank you." She stammered and turned back to the grill. I walked over to the table where all guests were and put the sides down.

“God, you two have a slice of heaven back here." Zoe exclaimed, taking everything in.

“In all seriousness, this is a pretty sweet patio." Chris stated, taking a swig of his beer. "I mean you got the recessed fire pit, some falls with a koi pond in the corner. Beautiful trees surrounding it. You can't even hear the street down there."

“Thanks, Ros and I spend a lot of time out here during the summer and fall." My phone vibrated, I pulled it out. All it said 'I'm killing you after they leave!'

Once the food was done we all sat and chatted, enjoying the evening. Rosalyn having an in depth conversation with Tom and Simon about England. Zach and Zoe were arguing about how certain words were properly pronounced, in Klingon.

“So Renee, you going to tell us about some of your writings?" Chris inquired, sitting on the back railing.

“It's not much." I replied, trying to dismiss it. I felt odd talking about my own work.

“Come on, just tell us about one of them. Karl said you auditioned to get to ready to send them publishers which means you have at least one ready. " this time I flushed up.

“Well, I have one that deals with a young woman who has the ability to do magic in present time and has manage to catch the attention of an angry psychotic Greek deity." I explained the best I could.

“Sounds interesting. What kind of format is written in? First person? Third person?" Chris looked excited.

“It's in first person."

“You said you also wrote some screen plays." Karl asked, a twinkle in his eye. Or maybe it was just the lighting.

“Yes. That ones a little bit harder to describe." To be honest that one made me uncomfortable talking about. I grabbed the dirty dishes and went into the kitchen to catch a break. My anxiety was raising talking about my work. They were my babies and wasn't sure if I was ready for the world to read them.

“Hey, you okay?" Chris had followed me this time. I was not expecting that.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Why?" I looked over my should at him.

“You just made a quick exit when we were asking about your writing, that's all." He walked up behind me, his finger tips just barely touched the back of my arms. I wasn't sure what was going on but it was making me feel very uncomfortable. Not in a bad way but it wasn't something I was used to.

“I'm just not used to talking about it that's all." I turned around, facing him. He gave me a lopsided smile. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back outside."

He stepped to the side and allowed me to pass him. I was shaking lightly, I was not used to being that close to someone. I took a deep breath once outside and rejoined the conversations taking place.

The evening winded down, and everyone was leaving. Zoe hijacked the rest of the potato and macaroni salad. She begged Rosalyn to text her the rescipe, my sister conceded.

“So, kid, I'll see you on set Monday?" Karl asked as I walked him to his rental.

“Of course. Where else would be at 5am?" I smiled back at him.

“Rosalyn, amazing dinner." He remarked climbing in his car. She gave him thumbs up, as i walked back to our front porch.

“He likes you." She stated through her smile as we watched him leave.

“Whatever." We walked back in.

“You just couldn't tell me about Tom?"

“Try working with him, and not being able to tell you because you said no spoilers. And he's a spoiler." I point at her snickering.

“Yeah, still going to kill you for that." She made herself some tea.

“How's next weekend sound? I'm booked full this week." I replied, grabbing some water.

“Busy next weekend. Have your people contact my people."

5am came early, I dragged myself into the make up trailer feeling more tired then normal. It was a cold morning, causing my ankles it hurt painfully. I had fractured them both when I was younger, I dreaded winter every year.

“Morning kid!" Karl sat in the chair next to mine. I glanced over, he held out a coffee.

“You are a life saver." I announced, taking it from him.

“Noticed your sister was shooting you daggers most the evening the other day. What was that about?" He questioned in between sips of his coffee. "Hopefully we weren't a burden to her."

“No, not at all." I chuckled. "She just has the biggest crush on Tom, hence why I had him take the burgers out. I knew I'd never get another opportunity to do that to her again." He laughed hard in reply.

“So you ran with it? Aren't you sneaky, kid?" He laughed again, I chuckled watching him.

“Trust me, she deserves it." I watched as he recomposed himself. "She is my sister and with the teasing she's been putting me through nightly."

“Well, I happen to know he's single." He mused as we walked over to wardrobe.

“Really?" I chuckled as he held the door open. "And what are you implying, kind sir?"

“What I'm implying is we set them up. Cause I heard a little a birdy ranting and raving about your twin."

“Ooo, you have me intrigued." I giggled.

“What am I missing?" Chris popped out from one of the booths in wardrobe. A broad smile shot out when his eyes landed on me. "Morning Renee."

“How we are setting up Rosalyn and Tom." Karl replied getting into the booth.

“Count me in. Sounds like fun." Chris replied crossing his arms over his captains uniform.

“You two are worse then teenage girls." I jested. Going into the other booth.

The day ended with me in the gym, going through yet another fighting scene. Mike wasn't there, his wife had finally had her baby. So I was just going through the moves. Throwing kicks and dodging the invisible air persons punch. I had no idea how long Karl stood leaning up against the wall watching me. His arms crossed, a small smile across his face.

I caught him out of the corner of my eye. I kept going, feeling awkward. I had thrown some other moves that I thought worked and was running it out smoothly to show Mike in hopes of changing the Choreography. It looked cooler then the original choreography. I finally got done running that set and walked back to my starting point to run it again.

“You changed it kid." He pushed himself off the wall.

“Yeah, I thought it'd look better and it runs smoother. Not that I'm a choreographer." I stated as I started throwing punches. He took his shirt off and jogged over to me. He ducked my kick and relieved the invisible mans place.

“I would have to agree it looks better." He said racking my legs out from under me. I fell back and rolled out as he stomped down. It was odd dance, but none the less we moved like dancers. We hit the spot I had changed and I started calling out shots as we sparred.

It ended with him holding me down. Both of us breathing heavy drenched in sweat. I must admit there wasn't any where I'd rather be. Our eyes were locked, and for a breif moment there was complete silence. My heart pounded in my chest. A slow clap startled both of us.

“That was badass you guys." Pine's voice echoed in the room. Karl smiled, he stood puling me up off the ground. "I don't remember that fight scene though."

“Well that's cause she redid it and you should of recognized the first half of it. It's your fight."

“It is?"

“Yeah." I breathed hard trying to regain my breath. "I was working on it. The second half of it felt chunky, like it just didn't flow."

“Actually Chris, you should take a run with her on it." My head snapped over to

Karl. Sure I knew I was going to eventually have to work with Pine but I wasn't ready.

“You're right." He smirked taking slow confident steps to me. "Ready?"

Can I please say no? I thought to myself as I walked back to other end of the mat. Chris walking close behind me. I took a deep breath before I turned around to face him.

I threw the first punch full force, he ducked. And so began this awkward dance. I may have landed a punch or a kick but he didn't let on. When it came to the changed part I started calling out the shots like I had with Karl. It ended just like Karl and I had, me being pinned to the floor by Pine.

He stood quickly and walked back to the starting place.

@kitkatkl @octobermermaid @ajosieface

#karl ubran x ofc #karl urban #karl urban fanfic #badplan

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alishbakhanus · 4 years ago

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Wedding Décor: 7 fundamental mistakes brides make

Décor – how much in this word! A lot of beauty, inspiration and … mistakes. On the one hand, the Internet is full of angry reviews from brides like “Decorators ruined my wedding!” On the other hand, with a huge number of examples of banal, tasteless design that looks cheap and inappropriate. The brides step on the same rake over and over again, walk in the same circle, which they so want to break! This article contains intimate knowledge that will help you really DECORATE your wedding, make the decoration stylish, without spending huge money. You just have to read – and act!

Mistake # 1:

Paying too much attention to decor

In the last couple of years, weddings have become more and more beautiful, and there is a fashion for stylish celebration. Moreover, the style of the wedding is associated primarily with the decor: an unusual arch for registration, designer printing, cute little things, a sweet table … For many brides, an excellent wedding = original, beautiful decor. Therefore, the girls immediately begin to dream of some non-standard palette for the celebration, rack their brains in search of a theme, rummage through tons of pictures on the Internet, and then find fault with every detail, every flower and are VERY very upset when it is not possible to realize something of the decorating ideas … In general, design is given almost the first place in preparing for the wedding.

Dear daughters-in-law, for a holiday to be excellent, it must, first of all, be perfectly organized… And only then – perfectly decorated. First of all, make sure that you and your guests at the wedding feel comfortable, fun, so that everyone feels “at ease” – then the celebration will go off with a bang and without any special originality in the decor. But if there is constant turmoil and confusion at the wedding, the decor, alas, will not smooth it out.

Mistake # 2:

Thinking that decor doesn’t matter at all

So far, it is much more common than the previous extreme. And extremes, as you know, do not lead to good. Of course, if you don’t care what your wedding will be (and there are, unfortunately, enough brides like this), it doesn’t matter what the decor or anything else matters. But if you still strive to make your celebration stylish and unusual, you cannot do without a thoughtful design. And we are talking not only about accessories like a bridal bouquet and pillows for rings. It is very important how the banquet hall will be decorated: whether it will create the right mood, whether it will give the impression of a truly solemn atmosphere. After all, a wedding is a big celebration, and not just another feast.

Mistake # 3:

Trying to fit the wedding style / palette into the wrong interior

A very common problem for brides is to fall in love with a certain palette or style of a wedding, and then find out that there are no suitable halls in the city, or they are too expensive, or not suitable for the number of guests, or are already occupied. At the same time, the brides do not intend to give up: they select a site that suits their capabilities, and then go to the forums with the question “what-to-do-help-how-to-decorate-an inappropriate-hall?’ Naturally, there are immediately comforters and well-wishers who declare that a rustic wedding will very much fit into a baroque interior with columns, you just need to add more canvas.

As for the hall in unsuitable tones, the issue is solved even easier: they “forget” about it. The decoration is done in the colors that the bride needs, and the walls / floor / curtains of a radically different shade are nothing more than an annoying trifle.

So, dear daughters-in-law – THIS DOESN’T WORK. You may adore Rustic, but if your banquet floor is a sample of pure classicism, no Rustic will work there. Or you have to completely re-equip the room – imagine how much it will cost. The same applies to the desire to arrange a wedding in soft lilac colors, having a burgundy hall. Do not waste time and energy fighting with an unsuitable interior – rather, spend it looking for an establishment that will be decorated in the style and / or colors you need. This will save you unnecessary headaches, and most importantly, save a lot of money on decor. Summer brides always have an option to transfer the celebration to nature: in a tent, on an open veranda. These venues tend to be lacking in pronounced décor and are suitable for most wedding styles. Is there no suitable hall? Love whatwhat is: find the pros in the existing interior, discuss with an experienced decorator what you can do here. Surely there is a compromise solution that suits you and at the same time does not disfigure the hall.

Mistake # 4:

Get inspired by luxury examples without having enough funds

Don’t think that I am expressing disdain for brides on a budget. It’s about something else. It just so happens that the most outstanding examples of decor are also the most expensive. That is why such designs “catch” – they are created by super professionals, using very expensive materials in large quantities.

And so the bride, having typed a bunch of such pictures on the Internet, goes with them to a decorator / florist. And he honestly gives her an estimate of how much IT will cost. Naturally, the bride’s eyes fall on her forehead, and she runs away in horror … in search of a specialist who will promise her to do what is in the pictures – but several times cheaper. The problem is that “the same thing” can NOT be done cheaply. And the brides end up with scammers or novice specialists who are ready to do anything to get a client. The result is the extreme disappointment of the bride: she was promised a luxurious decor, but it turned out to be squalor. And all that remains for the poor bride is to write bad reviews.

Dear bridesmaids, so that this does not happen to you, take off your rose-colored glasses and understand that what is expensive cannot be done cheaply. You can dodge and do something similar at an average price. But never cheap! A good specialist will definitely explain this to you, and suggest acceptable options for your budget. So, if 2-3 reliable companies told you about the same prices for your beautiful pictures, and these prices do not suit you, it is better to discuss with experts what you can really afford, and do not hope to find a “genius for a penny”. Perhaps you should abandon some of the details from the pictures, and replace some with more affordable ones – and you will get a very beautiful decor for a reasonable price for you. So pictures are pictures, but the most important thing is to find a really good professional who can make your dreams come true.

Mistake # 5:

Hope for cheap materials

A huge number of brides are still convinced that the best materials for decorating a wedding are balls and fabric. After all, they can decorate the hall literally “for ten”! In the last couple of years, paper has also joined here: a new trend taken from foreign weddings.

I do not argue: balls, fabric, and paper in wedding decor have a place to be. BUT only in a modern reading and as part of the decor, and not the main component! Good examples:

Pay attention to the differences between this decors:

– The design creates a lot (there are a LOT of balls and paper flowers, they are striking);

– Balls and paper are only one of the components of the decor, which does not exclude the presence of flowers and other details;

– Balls and paper are used with imagination, they are bright, colorful and look cheerful, giving the decor a zest.

All this means that the design was done by a very competent specialist, and it is not at all cheap – i.e. you cannot get the savings you want on such a decor.

Those who save money will get this paper and balloon decoration:

I think the difference is obvious.

Mistake # 6:

Give up floristry

Yes, fabric and balls are cheap, but fresh flowers are expensive. But in terms of beauty, quality and style, floral decor has no equal! The presence of fresh flowers, even in small quantities, will decorate your holiday at times with a ray than tons of balls and kilometers of fabric! And, by the way, about the cost: modest compositions for guests ‘tables cost from 1200 Rupees, good high ones – about 2500-3000, decorating the newlyweds’ table with flowers – about 5000-6000 Rupees. Even if your decor budget is only 10,000 Rupees, you can afford flowers! How? Just don’t make the next mistake.

Mistake # 7:

“Smear” the decor into several zones with a modest budget

So, we have 25,000 Rupees for the decor of the hall for 50 people. The amount is more than modest, but the bride needs everything at once: to decorate the newlyweds’ area, guest tables, chairs, plus a sweet table for complete happiness. What kind of decoration can you count on with such appetites? Naturally, again on fabric, balls, paper. At best – a modest floral arrangement for the newlyweds’ table.

The estimate will look something like this:

• Table decor for newlyweds (fabric drapery) – 1500 Rupees.

• Backdrop at the newlyweds’ table – 5,000 Rupees.

• Flower arrangement for the newlyweds’ table – 3,000 Rupees.

• Decoration of chairs (covers with bows) 50 pcs. – 5,000 Rupees.

• Runners for guest tables – 1,000 Rupees.

• Decoration of the sweet table (cloth, paper) – 1,500 Rupees.

• Decorators’ work – 10,000 Rupees.

The total budget of the decoration is 27,000 Rupees, and the decor we get is the most ordinary and simple.

Lovely brides! If you are the owner of a modest budget for decor, moderate your appetites and do not try to decorate everything at once! Understand that your money is simply not enough for this, and it does not matter who will do the decor – the question is in the cost of consumables. Go to the nearest flower stall, haberdashery store, see how much flowers and one meter of fabric cost. So – your designers buy materials for their work not much cheaper! And the only way to cut costs is to understate the price of decorators’ work, which is only done by beginners or outright bunglers who will ruin your wedding. If you want decent, truly beautiful decor for little money, just focus on one or two decorating zones without trying to decorate EVERYTHING. First of all, take care of decorating the newlyweds’ table, since it is to him that all eyes will be riveted during the evening. A decent decor for this zone (floristry plus details – candles, figurines) will cost you about 10,000 Rupees.

Zone for decoration number two – guests’ tables, and the best decor option is tall floristic compositions. When seated at two long tables, 4 such compositions will be enough for you – 2 for each table. If seating is planned at separate round tables, you will need 5 compositions. Consult with a florist which flowers will cost you less – and keep within 10-12,000 Rupees. Total – you spent only 20-22,000 Rupees on the decor, and you even have money left! And the decoration with flowers looks expensive and stylish. Figurines) will cost you about 10,000 Rupees. Zone for decoration number two – guests’ tables, and the best decor option is tall floristic compositions. When seated at two long tables, 4 such compositions will be enough for you – 2 for each table. If seating is planned at separate round tables, you will need 5 compositions. Consult with a florist which flowers will cost you less – and keep within 10-12,000 Rupees. Total – you spent only 20-22,000 Rupees on the decor, and you even have money left! And the decoration with flowers looks expensive and stylish. If seating is planned at separate round tables, you will need 5 compositions. Consult with a florist which flowers will cost you less – and keep within 10-12,000 Rupees. Total – you spent only 20-22,000 Rupees on the decor, and you even have money left! And the decoration with flowers looks expensive and stylish. If seating is planned at separate round tables, you will need 5 compositions. Consult with a florist which flowers will cost you less – and keep within 10-12,000 Rupees. Total – you spent only 20-22,000 Rupees on the decor, and you even have money left! And the decoration with flowers looks expensive and stylish.

I sincerely wish you, dear bridesmaids, good decorators and florists, good inspiration, and most importantly, the desire to make your wedding special. And, of course, a reasonable approach to decor – and not only.

Courtesy: best marriage halls in Lahore

#event wedding weddingplanning weddingdress complex SEO WednesdayWisdom weddingvibes eventtroop CoronaVirusUpdates

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beautifulramblingbrains · 7 years ago

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Crush - Chapter 20. It’s all about the girl...

Pairing: Eric/OC *Abbey* Fandom: Divergent Rating: M - slight trigger warning.

A memory from Eric’s past plays tricks on him. And it’s all about the girl, Abbey Ainsworth.

A/N: It’s taken me over a year but I have finally got to the end of this story. Thank you all for reading. :) It’s very short, but I feel it’s effective all on it’s own.

@iammarylastar @badassbaker@pathybo@mimigemrose@frecklefaceb @beltz2016 @ariwolff14@lauraaan182 @kenzieam@tigpooh67@elaacreditava@equalstrashflavoredtrash@murmelinchen @feminamortem

The one thing that bothered him the most was the pathetic use of his legs. They were aged and slow, a shuffle more than a walk and his back had hurt constantly for at least the last ten years. His body was still broad for a man of his age and that seemed to be his downfall, his legs being unable to keep up with the demand.

As he shuffles through the house, from the kitchen into the long hall that lead to the front door and outside, pictures ran across the surface of the cabinets. For some reason, today, of all days, he stops to admire them. They ranged from young to the old bats they were now.

Eric takes a minute to appreciate how truly beautiful Abbey was – still is – but on a different level than before. The first starts as a small one in a frame, the same one Abbey had in her bedroom of them as kids during a competition they came second in. The next, him and Abbey on their wedding day, smiling towards the camera with bright eyes. Between them was the plaque Eric had made, back against the wall and propped up on display, looking as if Abbey had recently dusted it on one of her good days.

The pictures were uncontrollable after and he only had Abbey to blame, but she loved them, the memories she grasped so tightly to.

There is one with Summer as a child, along with a bunch of children smiling with Abbey in the middle with their hands up in their air, shouting God knows what to the camera. The next picture across from it, Summer suddenly forms into a teenager holding the reigns of a horse with Abbey by her side in riding gear.

The one Eric liked the most, and he couldn't particularly remember who had taken it, was Abbey on his back as they laughed, the whole positioning and the brightness of it, a point they had peaked to in their thirties.

But there were also painful photos to look at; one's of Abbey's parents, one's of their friends. Not all of them had passed on, but most. And this is what scared Eric the most. Time was not on their side anymore.

Finally, Eric makes it to the decking outside their house, the sun still warm on his face as he tilts his head into the rays. Abbey sits out here on a bench, the same one they perched in most days when the weather was good enough, and she turns her head slowly, her grayed hair straight and still relatively long. Even through the fine lines on her face, he could still see her.

Eric had lost most of his hair years ago and that was a painfully hard thing to accept. The teasing was almost unbearable until he told her she had a saggy ass and that shut her up.

The corner of his mouth lifts on the thought.

"What were you doing in there?" she breathes tiredly. That's how she was these days, always tired. He still had the up and go, albeit a few aches and pains, but Abbey was plagued by exhaustion lately, having to be helped from bed to chair, wherever she was. There was no specific illness she had, the doctor gave her the all clear that she was healthy enough. It was just age.

"Taking a shit," he breathes in the evening air, turning to give her a crooked smirk. "You need anything, Ab's?"

"No, no. I'm good here." She always sounded distant too, much slower to respond than the quick mind he remembers.

"That's what you always say, woman." He groans as he makes his way towards the bench and she lifts the blanket covering her legs, jolting his mind again.

Cold. She was always cold. And today was stifling and she still sat wrapped in blankets.

Eric's almost made it down into the seat when he sees weeds growing up against the steps - again. "God damn it." He inches slowly to stand, getting to the steps without any particular grace and helps himself down the wooden set of three.

"Told you you'd like Amity," she softly chuckles to herself, sounding like a small child, pronouncing the 'H' more specifically in her giggle.

"Yeah, just perfect. Bugs, flies and weird shit ruining…" Eric grumbles on. He had been keeping on top of the garden, not allowing the little twerps from Amity who'd stop by and offer to help. But Abbey was right. He did like his retirement in Amity. For the most part, they got left alone. He would be lying however, to say that it didn't take him a while to adjust. "It took me four hours to do the entire patch of the front yesterday."

"I know. I watched you."

"Ugly looking things," he mumbles to himself, ripping the weeds out with wrinkled hands covered in sun marks and thick veins.

"She's not coming, Eric."

Eric hesitates only for a second and then continues plucking pieces of weed away from the decking.

"She hasn't been in weeks." He looks up after she spoke, her eyes squinted into the sun. She was referring to Summer, who had had her own children and they were also grown now. She lived the other side of Amity, busy with her life and running things in the stables along with part-time work on the Ainsworth project. When Eric would catch her out and about after one of his many strolls, she promised constantly to stop by in the evenings, which she did do for years. He couldn't be angry with her living her life, the visits becoming irregular and much further between. It's what he and Abbey always wanted – for her to live. But it made Abbey sad and… okay, he, kind of missed her, too.

But she still hadn't been in a while, not even her kids who were adults themselves.

"That's life," Eric mainly says to himself about his thoughts and as a reply to Abbey. She hated it when he didn't reply.

"Forget the weeds and come sit with me. The sun is going down, you're going to miss it." To Eric, it didn't appear any darker than it was five minutes ago. He grumbles getting his back straight, clomping back up the steps to be with her.

He sits down on the bench next to her, the blanket covering both their legs and she puts her hand in his. "That's better," she whispers.

For a while, they sit in silence until Abbey draws a long content breath into her lungs. "What a beautiful life we've had, Eric." She reminds him for the hundredth time. "Let's just live in this moment. And we have to admit to ourselves, that people just don't need us anymore."

Eric keeps his eyes locked on the sun setting in front of them, over the rolling field he requested their retirement home to be overlooking, along with a sapling of an oak tree planted by Abbey herself; still in the early stages of growth.

"I love you, you know that?" she murmurs.

"You better."

When she doesn't say anything for a while he looks over to see her eyes closed, a smile gracing her face as the sun slowly disappears and washing her in an orange glow. He gives her another five minutes then shakes her hand. "Ab's, you're going to miss the sunset." She annoys him, probably dozing again like she always did. And she had the liberty of telling him he was going to miss it.

"Ab's?" He shakes her again, this time her hand becoming relaxed in his. He sits up as straight as he can, turning completely towards her and grips her shoulders. "Ab's?" He touches her face, then hovers a hand in front of her mouth, not feeling any breath. He checks her pulse quickly.

It's like a stab in the chest, a flush of cold white despair gripping his whole body, so much so that it's crippling and makes him loll back against the bench, his head floppy, his own breathing becoming rapid and painful – perhaps he fainted, or is fainting, he doesn't know. "Ab's?" His voice breaks, tears that hadn't fallen for years threatening the corners of his eyes while regripping her hand but tighter this time.

Eric is an old man, his own limited time dangling in front of his eyes, and now is the time she decides to leave him.

He peers up at the sky, his chest racking but not a sound left him. He drifts between the ache in his chest and the pain in his head, a serenity, a surreal cottoned mind. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't go and get help, he didn't think he'd make it ten feet off from the porch in his current blurring state.

But at least now she could dance again. She could run across the fields of Amity, not trapped in an incapable body. He could almost remember the sweet smell of her hair, flashes of her smile, her hands…

"Eric, you're not daydreaming again, are you?"

Through the haze, a voice echoes to him. Slowly lifting his dizzy head, out in the field he could see Abbey. He rubs his eyes, peering to his left to the old shell of his wife, but further into the field still stood the twenty-one-year-old Abbey he tracked down and married over fifty years ago. "Eric, c'mon!" Her laugh is breezy, light, and sounds like pure heaven. She moves almost in slow motion, twirls in a circle in a strappy dress he hasn't seen her wear in years.

Eric stands on frail legs, gripping the twisting pain in his heart as he stumbled to the steps and down, almost collapsing at the bottom of them. "Abbey, wait!" She leads him out into the field, close enough he still had hope to catch her, far enough that she had now reached the small oak tree. "Abbey!" he calls breathlessly.

Summer smells the flowers in her hand knowing Abbey would love them. She takes the old familiar dirt track, retracing the walk she has done plenty of times in her life. She smiles to herself as the buildings around her begin to disperse, showing the small house in the distance glowing in an orange fading light.

A frown begins forming on her face, her smile disappearing when she sees Eric out in the field, a hand gripping the front of his shirt, the other reaching out in front of him as he takes a few steps. She wonders what he's doing, where he's going; there is nothing beyond the field of their house.

Suddenly Eric drops to his knees.

Summer sprints across the track as fast as she could, throwing the flowers to one side as she ran to him. "Eric!" she screams frantically, grabbing the attention of some neighbors. Finally getting to his side, she rolls him over, taking in his blanched face, the tears surrounding his eyes. His breathing is faint. "Dad?" she whimpers at the sight of him. "Dad, please. Please, stay with me." She turns back to the people in the distance. "Help! Somebody, send help!"

She strokes back the limp pieces of hair on the side of his head. "You're okay. Help is coming." But his eyes are glazed over. "Where's – where's Mom?" But he doesn't reply.

Slowly his hand reaches up to her face. "Abbey?" he questions and she shakes her head, biting her lip to try and stop her own tears…

Eric is taken back by the youthful look on his hand and the sudden flashing images between Summer, who he thinks is in front of him, and Abbey peering just over her shoulder.

"Tell her we're fine," Abbey asks of him in that floating voice he never wanted to hear the end of. "Tell her she's beautiful."

"You're so beautiful," he manages to stutter to Summer, and she nods her head, wiping back her tears.

"Tell her to keep the project running. We'll watch over her. We love her."

"Summer…" he gasps from the pain in his heart. "The project… keep it… We'll… watching. We - we love you."

"Don't speak. You're okay. Hold my hand, Daddy, please," Summer begs. As he reaches out, he grasps the hand in front of him, but it's not Summer's. He's pulled up, the pain and hurt left behind in an instant.

His last coherent words to Summer are spoken in a state of euphoria, a strange long and breathless whisper he watches leaving the old, crippled man's mouth on the floor as if it was his last literal thought. "It's all about her. It's all about the girl, Abbey... Abbey Coulter."

They really did have eternity together. And he had no plans on wasting a single second of it regardless of whatever the hell this was happening to him in this moment.

Eric inspects his body, that familiar strength back into his limbs, smiling down at himself and the Dauntless gear he was wearing that felt like home. He glances at Abbey stood in the unearthly bright light in the field so angelically.

"What took you so long?"

youtube

#crush #chapter 20 #its all about the girl #eric and abbey #final chapter #eric coulter #jai courtney #eric divergent fanfiction #fanfiction #divergent #insurgent #beautifulramblingbrains

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strangelymagic · 7 years ago

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Give Me Wings Ch 1: Another One Bites the Dust

His alarm went off when the sun was already high in the sky and the street was bustling with activity, but the bedroom was still bathed in silence and complete darkness. Boggard "Bog" Kingsley groaned mournfully as the insistent blare relentlessly pulled him from the bliss of sleep. One long, lanky arm emerged from under a bundle of covers and slammed around on the night stand until he finally managed to silence the annoying device. Like a vampire rising from the dead he sat up and sleepily watched as the covers fell back onto the bed, hopelessly tangled in his fitful sleep. With another groan he pushed himself to his full height, suddenly towering over everything in the room. Bog stumbled sleepily to the bathroom and proceeded to take a shower that consisted mostly of him staring blankly at the off-white tiles of the small cubicle and bending down slightly to rinse of the soap that he had half-heartedly rubbed into his hair. When he stepped out of his tiny shower the bathroom was filled with steam and one glance at the fogged up mirror was excuse enough not to shave. The stubble on his pointed chin would live to see another day. Bog's face was all hard angles and sharp features that he had inherited from his father. His cheekbones were high and very pronounced on his thing face and his pointed nose rested crookedly on his face, the result of one too many bar fights. He pushed his unruly black hair back so that it was out of his eyes and slicked back on his head. The stubborn locks refused to stay slicked down and instead one wayward hair draped down onto his forehead. Bog rolled his eyes at his hair's antics but decided to ignore it in favor of wrestling with his clothes. A few minute later he shuffled into his small kitchen wearing ripped jeans and an old band t shirt. His gaze was locked on the antique coffee maker that was sitting innocently on the counter. He rifled around in the cupboards as the old machine started up and eventually he emerged victorious with a bag of coffee. As Bog waited for his coffee to magically fill his cup he slid on his warn black combat boots. They were about the only shoe that he could find that fit his huge feet. It seemed like for most of his life being his height and being skinny was more of a burden than a blessing. Especially with a mug like his. Absentmindedly he rubbed at the prickly stubble that had taken up residence on his chin and desperately tried to push those poisonous thoughts out of his head for just one more minute. It had been nice waking up from a dreamless sleep for once and his head had been blessedly empty up until that moment. It was too late. Those poisonous little thoughts that whispered about how ugly and unworthy of love he was were erasing his good mood. With a growl he forced himself to his feet. He snatched the familiar chipped mug off of its perch on the drying rack and angrily poured scalding coffee into his mug. He then slipped on his favorite leather jacket and left his apartment. Behind him the door slammed indignantly and the stairs echoed with the force of his steps. As he neared the bottom of the stairs the sound of people talking and music became louder until the walls were practically pulsing with the noise. Bog yanked open the door at the bottom of the stairs and walked into a pub in the middle of lunch rush. He sipped his coffee as he gracefully made his way between tables towards the front door. He nodded to Stephanie, the bouncer and a childhood friend of his. The thick, muscular woman gave him a half smile but her steely eyes never left the interior of the bar. He dirty blonde hair was cropped short to her head and she was wearing a t-shirt with the name of the bar printed across it in big white lettering. The Dark Forest had been his father's bar and when his father had passed away Bog had inherited it. While he loved running the old place he divided his time between here and his Aunt's shop. He had almost made it outside when suddenly a shrill voice echoed throughout the bar and stopped him in his tracks, "Bog!!!" An older woman with frizzy reddish brown hair hobbled up out of nowhere, dragging a stumbling young woman behind her. "Look who I found just waiting around." Griselda Kingsley smirked and shoved the poor girl forward. She was obviously drunk already and had no idea what she was getting herself into. Bog took a deep calming breath and turned around to reluctantly address his mother and the latest 'wife material'. "Guid mornin' mum." His deep voice rumbled with a thick Scottish accent and he warily watched as the girl in front of him swayed dangerously. Suddenly she stumbled over nothing and sent her fruity drink splashing onto the ground. The majority of it managed to soak the bottom of Bog's jeans and his boots. He snarled in disgust and he short temper flared up like a firework. His electric blue eyes practically sizzled with anger as he glared at his mother and the girl she had dragged along with her. Griselda just ignored his furious look and quickly ushered the sloshed girl away from the mess. She waved her hands dismissively and the crooked grin on her face remained in place. "Oh don't worry about her dear. There are plenty of lovely young women in the bar today. Care to take a crack at a few?" She winked and elbowed his side hard enough that he flinched and looked down at her in a glorious mix of fury and embarrassment. "Mum. I dorn't-" he tried to protest but Griselda cut him off with another screech. "THEO! COME CLEAN UP THIS MESS!" Almost immediately a short skinny guy rushed out from the kitchen with a mop and a bucket. He had an eager smile on his face and when he realized where the mess was it grew even larger. He hurriedly began mopping but all of his attention was focused on Stephanie. "H-hi Steph." H greeted her tentatively and she spared him a slight smile and a head nod before going back to watching the lunch crowd. Theo immediately turned bright red and his grin became impossibly bigger as he happily mopped up the mess of drink. "Now no more excuses Bog. I want you to go find a lady and charm the pants off of her." Griselda scolded her son who slumped slightly and rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Mum ah dorn't hae time. Ah gotta get tae work." He growled out and like a flash of lightning Griselda's smile transformed to a disapproving frown and she crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't like that you are still working for that...that harpy!" She spat out the word like it had burned her and narrowed her eyes at her son. Dreading the idea of having this argument again, Bog slowly inched back towards the door. Before he could think of an answer there was a crash as the girl that Griselda had been pushing on Bog knocked over a stool and her own glass. In that moment of distraction Bog darted out of the bar and onto the street. The sunlight hit him like a searchlight and he was momentarily blinded as his eyes tried to adjust to the onslaught of bright light. The bar had been dimly lit and his apartment was barely lit so the sudden intrusion of sunlight affected him more than usual. Cursing under his breath, Bog trudged down the street, his hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes burning slightly. He only had to walk a few blocks before he reached his destination, a small tattoo shop called 'Strange Magic' sat nestled between a restaurant and Bog's favorite bookstore. His Aunt Aura Plum ran the tattoo shop and happily employed her favorite, and only, nephew on the weekdays during the afternoons. he specialized mostly in cover ups but occasionally he took a client that wanted something dark or too complex for Plum. Bog braced himself, his grip tightening on his coffee cup, and then pushed open the door. He was immediately assaulted by the sights and sounds that were unique to Plum. The short curvy woman was clad in a skin tight sparkly blue dress and her cotton candy pink hair was piled on top of her head in a messy style that looked vaguely like a beehive had been perched on top of her head. Her face was caked with colorful makeup and her body was covered in jewelry. She was pierced from head to toe, and sported an impressive tattoo collection, half of which she did herself. Plum's work was impressive to say the least and she was the only person that Bog trusted with his own tattoos. As it stood both of his arms were covered in angry, dark vines, only broken up by leaves and the occasional pink primrose. The tattoos connected on his shoulders and became a set of dragonfly wings that had yet to be finished. When Plum caught sight of Bog she put her hands on her hips and smirked teasingly at her nephew. "Well well well. Look who showed up." Bog just walked past her towards the secluded room that housed his station. The decor of the little shop was a mix between whimsical and just plain random but Bog's space was dark and comfortable and completely devoid of sparkles. As he walked past plum he was hit with a wall of her perfume and he had to cough slightly to dispel enough of it for him to breathe. "Fuck Plum, ye wearin' enough perfume today?" He groused grumpily and Plum frowned for a moment before the mischievous glint returned to her eye. She followed Bog back to his station much to his chagrin and lingered in the doorway as he began to set up his equipment. "You're just grumpy because today is he last day of the best." She grinned and Bog looked up at her in confusion for a moment before it hit him. Plum had a proclivity for tattooing matching tattoos for couples that came in. Didn't matter how cheesy or how bad, Plum would gladly tattoo just about any matching tattoo for half price. Unfortunately that gave the shop a reputation and most of their clientele consisted of lovesick fools looking to get matching ink. It made Bog sick. Not long after he became proficient in cover-ups, Bog made a bet with his Aunt that every tattoo that she did would end in a cover-up done by him. He was the only cover-up artist in town and made sure that the shop also had a reputation for sick cover-ups. Only about a month ago Plum had tattooed two teenagers that had just graduated from high school with matching infinity signs that contained each other's names. Almost as soon as the customers left Bog had blurted: "Ah give it a month." Plum had immediately accepted the bet and thus began their little competition. Bog always won. They'll shaw up. Ah know it. Now lae me aloyn woman. Ah got stuff tae do." He smirked and relaxed in his chair, sipping his coffee like it was the only thing helping him keep his sanity. In a place like 'Strange Magic' it probably was. He had about an hour of alone time before the door jingled to signal that a customer had walked into the shop. After a minute, Plum's tense voice echoed back to his station. "Bog.... you have a customer." It sounded like someone was pulling her teeth the way she said it and a victorious smirk spread across Bog's face as he got up and strutted out to the lobby. Standing at the counter and refusing to look at Plum was the young girl that she had tattooed a month ago. When the girl saw Bog she hurried over to him and away from Plum who managed to simultaneously look hurt and angry. Bog just grinned at his aunt and ushered the girl back to his private work place. She requested that the tattoo be covered up by her favorite flower, a rose. Bog had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He could do roses in his sleep he did so many of them. Instead he prepped his ink and silently got to work, blazing through the intricate and delicate flower like it was nothing. A couple hours later the piece was done and he was checking the girl out at the front. As if on cue the boy with the matching tattoo shuffled into the shop. He froze when he caught sight of his ex and Bog had to stop himself from turning around and sticking his tongue out at Plum. The girl shoved her money at him and then bolted from the store, steadfastly not looking at the boy. "Lemme guess. Ye wanna cowre up th' tattoo ye got lest month?" He leaned on the counter and spun the pen he was holding in between his fingers. The awkward look on the boy's face only got worse as he wordlessly nodded yes and a smile spread across Bog's face. "Excellent." He murmured and then led the way back to his station. He cleaned everything down and then got to work on the Godzilla ripping out of the boy's arm. As he worked the boy chattered on endlessly about the movie, its history, the remakes, his favorite scenes. Just about anything he could think of about Godzilla. By the end of the session Bog was starting to understand why the girl had broken up with this kid. Once the piece was done and he had been paid he turned around and smirked at Plum who was angrily flipping through a magazine at her station. "Pay up love guru." He said sarcastically and Plum reluctantly fished fifty bucks out of her wallet before throwing the cash at a still smirking Bog. She pouted as she walked over to the front counter and fixed her nephew with a determined glare. "You're like the grinch of love." She said petulantly Bog just chuckled and bowed in acceptance of his new title. "Yer a fool if ye think tattoos are gonna make people faa in love." He snarked as he swallowed the last of his now cold coffee. He put the mug aside mournfully and looked out at the darkening streets. It was still during business hours but a storm was rolling in that was darkening the sky and making the wind groan as it raced past their shop. "Someday my little love recipe is going to work and then you'll be the one owing me money!" Plum huffed and Bog rolled his eyes, deciding that it would be best to ignore her, at least it was until she made one more spiteful comment. "And I hope that it's you that falls victim to it." She smirked when Bog stiffened and turned to face her, his face as dark as thunder and his blue eyes blazing with fury. "Ye keep yer meddlin' hans it ay mah life! Ah dornt wanna hae tae deal wi' ye an' mum. Yer almost worse than 'er!" He roared indignantly but Plum just rolled her eyes like he was a child throwing a tantrum. An observation that wasn't too far off. Neither of them noticed the roaring of a powerful engine growing closer to their shop. They also didn't notice when a deep purple motorcycle came to a stop in front of their shop. "I'm sick of you glooming up my shop with your ban on lovey dovey tattoos you big GRINCH!" Plum screeched as the rider got off of the bike and started walking towards the door. "Because love is dangerous. It weakens ... It rots. It destroys order. And without order, what is left? CHAOS!" Plum rolled her eyes at the familiar rant but in response Bog only raised his voice, his face turning red with the force of his anger. Plum opened her mouth to retort but someone cleared their throat pointedly. Plum's face immediately transformed into a friendly smile and they both turned to look at the woman that had waltzed into the shop like she owned the place. "How can I help you dear?" Plum asked in a sickly sweet tone and Bog just huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn't evn paying attention to the customer as he stewed in his own ire. The woman spared him a glance that went unnoticed before turning her brown eyes to Plum. "I'm here for him." She nodded to Bog who suddenly looked at her in surprise and confusion. Plum wilted a little when she realized that wasn't going to get her ink on the woman's dainty little form. "I need a cover up. Now." Bog just nodded in shock and gestured towards his room. The woman nodded to him and led the way. Bog spared a confused glance at Plum who just shrugged and went about her business. "You coming bean pole?" Her voice called from the back and Bog hurried after her, slightly impressed by her no nonsense tone. "So whit can Ah dae fur ye?" He asked gruffly as he sat down in his chair. To his utter shock the woman ripped off her shirt to reveal tanned, smooth skin. She turned around and still managed to pin his startled eyes with a serious look. "I want you to give me wings."

#butterfly bog #strange magic #tattoo AU #marianne #bog king

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reaping-cain · 8 years ago

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Single Fereldan Man Seeks Female Companion: Chapter 8

Kaeran gets distracted by many things, Cullen flusters over his cup of coffee, and Rhona suddenly and unexpectedly gets her hands full.

ao3 link here and the story so far can be found here.

The mugs and dishes used from Rosalie and Mia’s visit are in the sink. The design of the dishware is simple with its two earthy tones of burnish brown and taupe and sandwiched between them, a thin ribbon of red. Very Ferelden, Kaeran notes as she inspects one of the mugs including the simple handle. Whatever ornamentation there might have been was worn away with love and attention from being carefully washed and stored away through the years. She had to commend how the ceramic pieces were sturdy and seemingly ageless for their classic aesthetic.

Following the departure of Cullen’s sisters, niece and nephews, they lunched on the sushi Kaeran had bought earlier. Both were famished and said little while enjoying the rolls of rice and fish. Kaeran was surprised to see how much of the spicy green paste Cullen had put into his soya sauce. She feared that he had underestimated the potency of it but he gave no hint that he went overzealous with the paste. She remembered Dorian once lamenting over how Cullen had no taste for spices and always ordered bland dishes when they went out. Kaeran wasn’t so sure if Cullen had his moments or he was just trying to impress her. Still, he didn’t choke over his spiced sushi, so perhaps this was a special treat that he didn’t have the chance to indulge in so often.

She made a mental note to ask Dorian about that later. There were quite a few things she didn’t know about Cullen but realized that he was at a greater disadvantage…unless he knew more than he let on? Had Dorian told him anything?

Cullen had taken care of the Styrofoam containers and cleared the table while Kaeran hand washed the mugs and dishes in the sink. Leaning his hip against the counter next to her, he grabbed a dishcloth and began to dry what was on the rack.

She must’ve been going too slowly with washing the ceramics since Cullen opened his mouth with a saucy comment.

“You done admiring my dinnerware?”

Kaeran paused in thought before sparing him a quick glance before picking up the pace.

“Should I be admiring something else?”

Her view was suddenly obscured by a pattern that looked familiar. She grumbled while pulling off the dishcloth, annoyed that the offending cloth had mussed her hair. When she finally managed to tame it, she turned to glare at Cullen who resisted breaking his smirk into a guffaw. She must not have been completely successful in fixing her hair since Cullen reached for a thick strand that was caught on the shaved side. How embarrassing. Still, he gives her an apologetic smile before clearing his throat.

“So,” she begins, when he doesn’t. She notices that he’s fidgeting with his hands. They’re beautiful to behold and she resists snorting because since when does she fixate on some guy’s dinnerware and hands? She blames the new environment and how it remains strange for her like new skin growing over wounds: rough, itchy, not quite right and easy to pick off and start again. She tries not to prod too much.

“So,” he replies softly, deciding that the best way to deal with his hands is to firmly tuck them in the pockets of his jeans. If Cullen noticed the small hiss that briefly escapes her lips, he doesn’t give a sign of it. Although he is entranced by the way she is now biting her bottom lip. She’s thinking of how to follow up this lax progression of conversation.

Kaeran decides to go with facts. They’re free of emotions that reveal too much.

“You met my mother.”

Cullen hums, one of his hands escapes and he’s rubbing the side of his neck, trying not to go for the back, a habit he tends to do and cannot keep in check. Kaeran opts to focus on the dishcloth in her hand, folding it neatly and lining up the corners.

“And you met my insufferable sisters,” he says. “And your niece and nephews,” she adds.

The reality snaps Cullen out of the haze and his face blushes from a light pink to bright red. He winces, “Yes…I hope they weren’t too much.” He even looks apologetic and Mythal bless him, how could she hold it against him? Even if his niece and nephews were absolute monsters she would absolve him.

“Not at all, I thought they were sweet. I mean, did it get awkward? A bit but as far as first meetings go, I think it went well.”

“I’m glad,” he says slightly breathless. Kaeran hated how handsome he looked despite the flush and evident nervousness.

“Your sisters are not that bad.” He snorts at that. “Try growing up with them.” “Isn’t that how it always is with siblings?”

Cullen furrows his brow, “You don’t have any?” She shakes her head. “I suppose the closest thing I have to a sibling is my cousin, Rhona. Lots of growing up together…” “Making stupid mistakes?” He jokes.

She smirks, her lips stretching thin, as though worried any secrets my slip between them. He doesn’t miss the mischievous twinkle in her eyes that say “wouldn’t you want to know” and yet, he also notes a bit on sadness in them.

“As long as there are more good memories than bad ones.”

Wanting to change subject, Kaeran sets the dishcloth aside, “So when do I meet your parents? I’m more nervous about that.”

When she doesn’t hear his response, she turns to look back at him and instantly regrets her question. Shit.

“I said something wrong.” She really, really needed that chat with Dorian.

Cullen’s frown is gone and though he’s mostly composed, there’s still tightness around his eyes and she senses that some of it must’ve come from that private conversation he had with his sister, Mia.

“You didn’t know.” “How,” she begins, unsure how best to continue the thread of conversation, debating even, if it wasn’t best to steer it elsewhere. She wants to hug him but also give him some space. Kaeran’s unsure which action to take, what was appropriate. They’re both strangers in uncharted waters and whatever good footing they had earlier seemed to transform into a minefield of personal baggage.

“I was fourteen when they died. Mia was fifteen. It’ll be twenty years next spring.”

She can’t imagine losing her parents all at once, but at such a young age? Her heart lurched, unable to imagine Cullen so young and losing them; having to grow up without them, learning so much on their own, growing up faster than expected and coping without parents.

“You’re thirty-three?” It feels like she’s grasping at straws but what else is she supposed to ask? Asking how it happened felt cold, and though a normal follow up question, Kaeran didn’t want to pry. Not unless he was willing to tell her and the fact that he hadn’t brought up his parents sooner meant otherwise. She assumed that the relationship was strained, not prematurely severed and buried six feet under.

Some tension must’ve bled out since Cullen is eyeing her oddly, actually looking at her from head to toe as though he is only seeing her for the first time and now she’s the one that is fidgeting under his scrutiny. Catching himself, he looks to her left while rubbing the back of his neck. “Y-yes…is that a problem?”

She hadn’t considered how old he was until just now. She assumed that he was slightly older than her but she can’t help but be impressed that he looks good for someone his age. She suspects that the tight lines in his face and slightly pronounced cheekbones were from stress and working long hours.

When she stares back at him, his brows are raised, eyes rounded. Cullen looks younger in that moment, a contradiction to his thirty-three years in this world. Hands on her hips, she tilts her head to the side, assessing quietly. She can tell that he’s holding his breath in anticipation.

Finally.

“No, not a problem,” she says, “just a bit put out, really. I thought we were closer in age and I’m honestly offended that you don’t look your age.”

“Looks are deceiving,” he joked.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” she quipped back.

“Would you mind me asking how old you are?”

“Not at all, I’m twenty-eight,” she stated.

Cullen visibly deflated, “Thank the Maker,” he breathed. Kaeran had quirked her eyebrow in response to his reaction.

“Sorry, for a moment I was worried that you were…”

“Younger.”

“Yes, much younger.”

“Admit you were worried that people would start teasing you about being a cradle robber.”

“Can’t have that.”

“No, that won’t do,” she said, a hint of a smile curling the corners of her mouth. “Now that we’ve established that, I’m not entirely sure that we convinced your sisters that we’re a couple.”

“We’re bad at this,” he groans, one hand covering his face. “We didn’t establish a story of how we met and we’re only figuring out each other’s age. What a mess.”

“Hey, hey,” she walks up to him, resting her hand lightly on his arm, “don’t worry, we’ve got time to make it work.”

He peeks through the cracks between his fingers, muffling out, “In time before the housewarming you suddenly sprung up?”

Kaeran’s face is an open book, he realizes, flitting from concern to schooling into something between impassive and cool.

She smacks his arm, again, lightly. “I’ll pretend I heard a ‘thank you’ somewhere in there. So,” she rubs her hands together, glad to change the subject. “Ready to make good on that promise of yours?”

Cullen is very much thankful that Kaeran doesn’t hesitate to pick up the lead.

-//-

It’s a slow day at The Dales Bakehouse and Rhona is wondering for the twentieth time this hour why they bother being opened for Mondays. Having recently acquired the rights of the bakehouse, she is still new to many aspects of being a business owner but relishes the challenge; it’s why the previous owners were happy to give her the keys, they knew that the bakehouse was in good hands.

The Dales was a second home to Rhona who moved out of the ‘burbs in her late teens and lived by couch surfing for a while before saving enough money to afford rent for a bedroom. Despite working long hours for various jobs, she stayed in touch with family. They always encouraged her to return home and to her studies but Rhona found that as much as she loved her family she couldn’t bear to be a burden to them. She couldn’t go back to school, didn’t have the discipline for it, and decided to go on her own and figure things out along the way. Within the last eight years she had learned a lot from her various jobs, what worked, what didn’t and especially, who to avoid.

Considering the series of miscalculations and gem opportunities that shaped her, she wasn’t faring too badly if she was the owner of a thriving bakehouse that garnered an interesting mix of clientele. Rhona loved what she did; the everyday challenges and decisions to keep The Dales a welcoming place for customers, young and old, and a shining beacon in a sea of café franchises.

She was just about to go check on the new pastry chef downstairs when the bell above the entranceway dinged, signaling a newcomer. Rhona pulled her long copper braid to drape down her back.

“Afternoon,” the man approached.

Rhona grinned at him, recognizing the man, “Well if it isn’t the handsome Ansom. How are ya doing today?”

Ansom let out a loud scream sneeze and was able to successfully cover it in the crook of his elbow. Rhona winced, the sound incredibly loud to her sensitive ears and at the fact that Ansom was clearly under the weather.

“Still got that cold?”

“Yeh,” he replied, grabbing a napkin from the counter and blowing his nose. He neatly folded the napkin and tucked it in the pocket of his coat.

“You sure you’re getting better? You look feverish.” The guy did look quite flushed and his eyes were watery and unfocused.

“’m fine,” he waved her off.

Ansom began visiting The Dales shortly after Rhona had discovered the place. Frequent sightings and friendly demeanor meant that they inevitably began to greet each other and slowly got to know more of the other. Ansom was, well, handsome, but held fast to his boyish charms and he never hesitated to flirt unless it wasn’t welcome. He was a nice guy, a carpenter by trade and had good taste in music, something which he and Rhona discussed with great length.

He tried to give Rhona his heartthrob smile but it warbled and the last straw was how suddenly white his face turned.

“Ansom, I swear to Mythal if you—”

She didn’t have the chance to finish her sentence; the guy nearly crumpled to the floor and struggled to stay on his feet, muttering to himself.

“Damn you,” she scowled, rounding the corner to come to his aid.

Once she grabbed him firmly under his arms and hauled him up, she called out for the chef.

“I’m fine,” Ansom repeated. Rhona tsked at him. If he weren’t so pale she would’ve smacked some sense into him.

“Thea!” she called again, hoping that the only other employee in the bakehouse wasn’t out of reach. Footsteps replied to her call as the qunari emerged from the staircase, apron wrapped across her waist (the widest she could find) and a cloth in her hands to wash off most of the flour from her large hands.

“What’s up?” she asked before her calm manner shifted to one of concern as soon as she saw the man slouching against the chair. “I’ll get some cold compress, want me to call an ambulance?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ansom replied.

Rhona snapped her head to glare at him. “So help me, Ansom, I’ll make it much worse for you if you keep insisting that you’re fine.” She turned to Thea then, “hold off on the ambulance, I’m taking him with me. What’s the situation downstairs?”

Thea wiped her hands against the apron, mentally assessing the state of the kitchen in the basement. “Got a couple of things in the oven, some pastries that can be stored in the refrigerator for now, nothing urgent. Why?”

“How do you feel about leaving early today? I promise you’ll be compensated for the full shift, no questions asked.”

“You sure, boss?” Any other time she would have insisted on not being called ‘boss’ but this was different and Rhona relished the fact that she could make such a call with no one to answer to. She was the boss, after all.

“Yeah, pretty sure.”

-//-

She can’t believe that he’s doing this. Of all nights, this had to happen tonight. Tonight was important, she’d told him about the engagement party months ago. She had been optimistic that he would make the effort.

“You don’t care about my friends.”

“What does it matter when I care for you?” She shakes her head.

“You don’t want me to go, by refusing you think I’ll cancel my plans and stay in with you.”

He doesn’t look up from his notes, always engrossed in work even when he was pulled away from the archives. “If you want to go then go, but there’s no point in me going, besides, I found something interesting in my research, I can’t give it up now.”

She fumed. Why was she so stupid to think that he would change his habits and make an exception for once? He drove her crazier than usual. It didn’t take much nowadays.

“You always do this, what’s the point? You don’t want to know anything about my friends, you don’t put the effort.”

He shrugs, a small innocent smile, “Vhenan, I don’t know them and I know they don’t think much of me. What’s the point in going if I’ll be sitting at a table surrounded by strangers.”

“You’d be with me!” she snapped, “Spend time with me other than just seeing me at work or living under this roof with you! A change of scenery…and they wouldn’t be strangers if you made an effort in getting to know them. These kinds of parties are a good way to mingle.”

He sighed, finally looking at her and sounding annoyed, “sounds like work.”

“Friendship is work, very much like a relationship.”

“I disagree. You either like someone or you don’t. It’s up to you to decide to pursue a meaningful relationship.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “This is the problem, you’re not even willing to try, not even for my sake.” Pause. “Fine, I’m going. I’ll be damned if I stay cooped up in here a moment longer, especially when there’s no point in reasoning with you.”

“If that is your wish, very well. Have a good time, my love.”

As she exited their loft, she wrestled with her emotions, wishing the conversation went better. After fights like this one she always wondered if there was another way she could have talked it through, if she said things differently, if she had put more time and patience. Time, she huffed; she gave plenty of that along with patience as well as her sanity.

What infuriates her is that despite all this, she still wishes that he conceded and joined her. She resolves to not let his absence affect her night; tonight is a celebration after all. She will take this opportunity to see her friends again, catch up and enjoy the festivity.

Her plan is only mildly successful as she bumps into friends, quite a few of them surprised to see her there while others have turned cold towards her attempts in making amends and catching up. She refuses to think that Solas was right and that she should have stayed in for the night. She also promised herself that she wouldn’t drink too much.

If she was honest with herself, she had a lot on her mind and barely minded the number of drinks she consumed through the night.

“Everything alright?”

“Hm..? Oh, sorry.”

“I lost you for a bit. Thought maybe you were having second thoughts about this bed.”

“What?” she says, not really up to speed with what’s going on or her surroundings. She could have sworn that she was elsewhere, that it wasn’t just a trick from her brain simply fucking with her.

“I know you picked it but if you’re having second thoughts, maybe tell me? As much as it is a pain to assemble Samna furniture, you don’t want to try pulling it apart.”

Oh, right. The Samna furniture…her bedframe that Cullen offered to help build. She’s lucky that he was kind enough to volunteer since she hadn’t even thought about the grueling task of putting together her own bed. Rhona probably would’ve laughed at her and hung up (still laughing) if she called to ask.

“Oh! No. The bed is fine, sorry, just a bit spacey. Kind of a big deal moving in with my short-term fake boyfriend.”

“Ouch. I know it hasn’t been conventionally long but short term?”

“How long has it been then?” She meant it as a joke but apparently Cullen doesn’t get nuances. In any other circumstance she would’ve found it annoying but right now? Cullen was being insufferably endearing. He’s so sweet that Kaeran practically feels cavities filming her teeth. She momentarily panics over whether she packed her toothbrush only to remember a few seconds later that it was in her bag.

He’s cupping his mug of coffee and scrunches his face, actually calculating. Creators, even when he makes a stupid face she has the urge to do something stupid. What in the Void is wrong with her?

Once he takes a sip—aside from learning more about his family, his age, Kaeran also catalogues how he’s a total caffeine fiend—he’s satisfied with his estimation. “I’d say…almost two months,” he says finally.

She has to whistle at that estimation. “Really?”

“Hm-mhm. We didn’t even do anything special for our first month.”

She scoffs at that. “Are you one of those types?”

Cullen shrugs, slightly on the defensive. “For the right girl, I might be inclined for sappy and seemingly absurd milestones.”

Kaeran hides her nervous smile with her hand. Unbelievable. Her fake boyfriend is a total sap. “You must think you’re so smooth.”

“Quite the opposite but I’m glad to hear that my nervousness isn’t so obvious.”

“You? Nervous?”

He snorts before taking another sip. “Are you kidding? I have the calm collectiveness of a fennec fox.”

“Well, it’s reassuring, but you need to give yourself more credit than that.”

“You’re too kind,” he says drily. A total sap and a snark, she can’t believe it. Where was Dorian hiding this guy?

“You’re not far off…”

“Pardon?”

“Fennec fox? They’re fidgety but also really cute.”

He doesn’t know how to respond, his mind blanking and words refusing to come out, his throat tightening suddenly. He clears it and fusses with the pages of instructions, engrossed in the simple illustrations than the beauty sitting across from him.

“Um…shall we move on to the next step?” He chances a brief glance her way before shuffling through the instructions, trying to find the step they’re stuck on.

Kaeran indulges him by following his lead and shifting her focus to assembling the furniture. She crawls on all fours, scrutinizing the collection of nails, bolts and tiny wooden dowels and giving Cullen a break by not further flustering the poor man.

He flips through the pages, seemingly lost. As though they were codex pages written in a language long forgotten. Or distracted, she thinks. Why is it so easy to tease him? She hasn’t had this much fun in ages. She chides herself for her own distraction and as entertaining as it is to flirt and torture Cullen with suggestive looks, she really didn’t want to drag the task of assembling her bedframe longer than necessary.

He misreads her silence and continues, “It’s alright, everyone has a couple of sore spots.”

“Normal people?” she asks quizzically.

“Are you implying that we’re not normal?” Oh dear, was he being sarcastic?

Where to begin? Both of them were ridiculously guilty of abnormal behaviour. Her own issues, his closeted past, the fact that their relationship is a complete sham just to score an apartment, their lie growing ever larger as they fabricated more falsehoods for Cullen’s family (which they ate up).

And now they’re throwing a house warming party…as a couple. Kaeran could go on, instead, she replied, “Well, I’m not normal.”

“Something that I need to worry about?” he joked.

“At ease, Rutherford, I don’t have any tricks up my sleeves, just a bad breakup and wounded pride. I’ll heal…in time.”

“If I may ask, why not move back with the parents? Your mother seems nice. Unless…”

She sighs at that, a long, labored exhale before slowly breathing in again.

“The parents aren’t the issue. I—” her voice cracks infinitesimally, he almost doesn’t notice. He gives her time by preoccupying himself and examining one of the bags full of screws and wooden dowels.

Kaeran appreciates the gesture, resuming, “I’m the issue. They say they’ve forgiven me but you know how it is, you can’t help but carry that guilt with you. Try and make it up to them. It’s going to be a long while before I feel like I’ve done enough to wipe that slate clean. If at all.”

Cullen’s features soften from confusion to understanding. “I know the feeling, I’m like that too. It doesn’t matter how many times others forgive you, you have to learn to accept it eventually in your own terms.”

She hums and Cullen takes a sip of his coffee, letting her mull over his words. Despite the topic of conversation, he finds it easy to talk to her; if there’s a lull in the conversation with Kaeran neither of them is pressed to fill the silence for the sake of it.

The fact that he offered to help was a nice surprise and meanwhile she repays him by acting coy one moment and moody the next. She better stop before she ends up riling herself up too much. Maybe Rhona was right to say that her previous relationship dragged on for too long. Although her cousin meant well when she mentioned her hooking up with people, Kaeran knew that she needed the release but the thought of sleeping with a stranger was unappealing. Not to mention how she’d feel afterwards. It didn’t help either that she was self-conscious of her body and of the lingering vallaslin she insisted on covering.

She tried to not think about the cream that was nestled in the bottom of her duffle bag. Her skin flushed, itching, almost craving for the damn thing. She resisted the impulse to rub and scratch at her face.

“Kaeran?”

“Hmm?” Oh shit. How long was she stuck in her own spiraling thoughts? How embarrassing.

If she was wrapped in her own thoughts for long, he didn’t mention it. Instead he gave her a warm smile that tingled her from her roots to her toes. “You must’ve been quite the daydreamer when you were young.”

Quick as a whip, “Are you inferring that I’m old, Cullen?”

“Never. You can be twice your age and I bet you still wouldn’t look a day over thirty.”

She has a strong urge to throw a handful of dowels his way but then they wouldn’t be able to progress much and Mythal knew where those blighted wooden pegs needed to go.

Instead she toys with them, sticking them between her fingers like crude claws, incredibly crude, blunt and stunted claws.

“So…” she trails off. “So…” “How about that next step?” she asks.

His eyes twinkled with mirth and a bit of mischief. There was also a promise hidden in those alluring ochre toned eyes.

Oh, be steady her beating heart. He is going to absolutely ruin her.

Let him, she thought.

Likes and reblogs make this batty bat happy *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

#fic: Single Fereldan Man Seeks Female Companion #fic: sfmsfc #Batty writes #Kaeran Lavellan #Cullen Rutherford #cullen x kaeran #cullavellan #cullen x lavellan #dragon age #da:i #fake/pretend relationship #dragon age modern au #much rewrite very copy-paste such detail wow #this is over 4k so i'm stupid happy

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decouvrir-le-monde · 7 years ago

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I guess I’ll admit, I had my concerns about Japan. It being the first non-Western country I’ve really ever visited, I balked at the language barrier, worried about inadvertently committing some unforgivable faux pas, or not being able to order food. Despite my anxieties, or perhaps because of them, Tokyo was the destination I was most excited about. A goal for this trip was to experience the world outside of my comfort zone, and Tokyo has been where I’ve felt that the most vividly, and it’s also been the most rewarding.

But of these existential cultural fears, my most immediate concern on arrival was figuring out the dizzying labyrinth of colors and lines and numbers and characters that is the Tokyo subway system. At midnight, when we arrived, we were afraid that some lines would be closed. Luckily for us, the staff at the airport information desk was extremely helpful and nice, and they had a helper stationed by the subway ticket machines (the kind of ticket machine that has online tutorials for foreigners) to help confused souls like us. We were taken care of.

I suppose I only realized that taking care of others here extends beyond airport officials just trying to make everything go smoothly when we were transferring trains, and a man who had ridden the same subway car from the airport saw me looking at a map, and went out of his way to ask where we were going in order to help us find the right platform.

Following this, acts of common graciousness towards us foreigners have not stopped; a cashier helped me count out exact change when I was struggling with their currency, a restaurant owner offered to give us an umbrella when it started raining outside, and another woman held the door open for the elevator for the subway and when I proceeded to face front, she kindly let me know that the doors would be opening behind us. And these are all accompanying smaller things.

It is still intimidating to enter a restaurant, being unable to effectively communicate (I only know about a dozen words and phrases), but those few who don’t speak English are still very committed to trying to figure out what they can help you with, without getting annoyed. I never want to be presumptuous about what others are willing to help me with because I came to their country without being able to speak the language, but my concerns have not come to fruition, and at this point I don’t expect them to in the slightest.

This common courtesy extends beyond foreigners; I have yet to see one person litter, jostle the person next to them, or be a public nuisance in any way. The streets and subway are impeccably clean, and the people are considerate and keep to themselves. It’s also—incredibly, considering the population—one of the safest cities in the world; the crime rate is one of the lowest. Tokyo prioritizes safety, and it seems to me, especially for young women. There are entire subway lines for only women (certain ones allow men if they are accompanying women), there are female-only bars, and lone men are prohibited from entering purikura (cutesy, editing photo booths aimed at teenage girls) as a way to protect the intended clientele. All of these precautions seem to have had an actual real effect on the way women are treated outside of these safe spaces, and I see young women walking casually by themselves very late at night, with earbuds in and unconcerned about those around them. This all feels somewhat liberating, especially compared with Rome (as well as Paris to some degree, not to mention the US) where it’s hard to go anywhere alone without having to deal with unwanted attention. Here, I can go out alone without it being a big deal, and that truly is enfranchising.

Tokyo itself is like New York but much cleaner, more polite, and with more bright lights and video advertisements. There are jingles and advertisement screens on the subways and there are parts of the city where no square footage goes to waste where advertisers are concerned; every building is covered in flashing lights and billboards. Central Shinjuku—about a 15 minute walk from our apartment—is one certain hub. Walking among the large screens flashing advertisements about one thing or another, navigating between arcades leaking smoke, bright, colored lights, and aggressively happy music, and negotiating the crowds of a big city is a sensory experience in itself. Even after having visited NYC, I can honestly say I’ve never experienced anything like it.

a typical street in Shinjuku

golden gai