#he does not sell all the properties even though he considers them settled | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sanktnikolais · 4 years ago

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Feed The Wolves

A/N: your local zoyalai stan neighbor is here yet again for another content but this time it’s for @wafflesandkruge‘s birthday!!! I went way overboard with this ig but the Vincenzo fever we’ve been on for the past two weeks was still strong and the ending still tugs at my heart. So pls have this mess, Tiff, I’m sorry HAHDKLHJAFDS Happy birthday, dearest! 🥺🥺

Word count: 13 874

CW: graphic depictions of violence and gore. Read at your own risk.

The Lantsovs have finally taken their move to overthrow the Brums’ tyranny to the extremities. They thought they already have the upper hand and that the odds are finally on their side. But in a game that two players have nothing and everything to lose, there is always a catch in every move they make, and with it also comes a price.

How far are they willing to take it?

If Nikolai could be proud of one moment, he knew it would be today. One couldn’t just make an easy audience with the head of the Brum Family; usually it would take nearly a week to set up an appointment. Jarl Brum was one of the first men to establish their own Families, along with the Tabans, Lantsovs, and the Morozovas, and he was the most powerful among them.

For now.

When one of the biggest Families was in a war and planning to attack another with the same reputation, it was only necessary to play carefully. Especially going against a cunning opponent like Jarl Brum. Today’s predicament was tricky; one wrong move could cost them the chance. Or worse—their lives. Either way, it was dangerous. But if they didn’t at least try to keep the Brums at bay, it would only be a matter of time before they take over all the cities, including Os Alta. And considering how they handled things, lots of lives could be lost.

There was still another way out of this, but it involved extreme measures and there would be no returning after that. He could only hope he wouldn’t have to settle for that last resort no matter how slim his chances were.

Nikolai snapped the lid of his lighter closed, his loud mind finding solace in the metallic clink it made. His eyes caught on the engraving on the side of the lighter. Consigliere Idiot. He fought a smile. The lighter had been a gift to him by Zoya on his birthday a few years back, and it somehow became his talisman ever since. It was a weird kind of gift at first, with Zoya knowing too well that he didn’t smoke that much. But he still got attached to it.

You never know, it might come in handy when you suddenly have an urge to set some place on fire, was what she had told him.

He scoffed at the memory, and then took a deep breath as he focused on his current situation. The risks of having this meeting turn to the bloodbath Nikolai was expecting were high, and if he were to be honest, winning a fight against the Brums was almost impossible.

But he was never the one to believe in impossible. Only improbable. The one thing he could do now was to put faith on the odds being at their side at the end of the day.

He flicked his lighter open and closed again before checking his watch. The bright numbers glared back at him like a countdown of a time bomb nearing its detonation. 17:48. Twelve minutes.

If his estimate was right, Zoya and her men would have arrived by now and started their raid. But knowing the Lantsov Underboss to be careful and precise, they would need a bit more time. It only meant Nikolai had to continue making small talks with the man to try and see if he could settle a score with the Don without the use of violence. Talking proved to be a bit difficult, though, as the head of the Family was being attentive to focusing on his paperworks rather than Nikolai’s presence.

"The numbers are really unstable in the past two weeks and it's mostly plummeting," said Jarl as his eyes scanned the paper he was holding for the last time. Then with a dramatic sigh, he opened the drawer to his right and put the file inside, plastering a rather fake smile on his lips afterwards. "There's been a lot of visitors."

Nikolai could see right through the man's displeasure. He almost laughed. At least the feeling is mutual. "Tell me about it," he said with a light laugh. "Having your business overrun without any reason sure does something to you."

A shadow crossed the Don's face, but Nikolai only smiled innocently and held his gloved hand out for a handshake, a sort of formal gesture between a Don and a Consigliere before and after every meeting. Anyone lower than the Underboss aren't allowed to touch the head of a Family, and they could only do as much as bow in respect for the Don.

Jarl accepted it reluctantly, his grip firm as if he were contemplating breaking Nikolai’s hand. Nikolai was grateful when the man didn't. Maybe because it wasn't a good sight to have and talk business to a Consigliere with a broken hand.

"A pleasant afternoon, isn't it?" mused Nikolai as he took a sip of the coffee. It tasted good, but not nearly as good as Genya's brew. No poison. Or maybe there was and the effects just weren't kicking in yet. He suddenly wished for the woman's knack on any poison. "The perfect chance to kill time.”

The Brum Don laughed lightly, the sound mildly threatening as if he had just thought of something vile. “Indeed, Consigliere,” he said, leaning back more comfortably in his chair. “Is the coffee good? I apologize if it isn’t, but I do hope the atmosphere is comfortable.”

Nikolai fought a wince. He had been here a few times before. Jarl’s office was ice white—ranging from the walls, floorings, and the ceiling. Even the chair he was sitting on had been white. The only thing that gave another color to the pasty room were the furniture and a few appliances. At least his couches were blood red, and the view of the huge window behind his desk was different in shade. Nikolai was thankful for the change of scenery.

“No, no. Everything is good.” It sounded fake, considering how he despised the man's office. But he shook it off. He tipped the mug up in a toast. “I appreciate it, and thank you for accepting my appointment.” He found it funny and silly, when Jarl’s caporegimes used the term “appointment”. It was as if Nikolai wanted to get his teeth checked by a dentist, and considering how the man’s office looked, maybe it really was one. “I thought it would take me another week to wait for the confirmation.”

“You’re a Lantsov, from the first pioneers of the Families.” Jarl paused, a hint of a sneer appearing on his face. “You needn’t to be delayed.”

There was something the way Jarl spoke that didn’t sit well with Nikolai, like the man knew something he didn’t. A thought crossed his mind, but he shook it off. There was no way Jarl knew about that. Or was it? It was not impossible—the Brum Don had a wide network of informants. Rumor had it that there were a few in Os Alta, the city that the Lantsovs had control over.

Him knowing about Nikolai’s real father would only give him power against them. But then Nikolai still decided to brush it off, though its dangerous possibility still lingered at the back of his mind. It wasn’t the time to think of it. They had to take back the territories that were once theirs, even if they had to do it by brute force. It’s what Zoya would have preferred, anyway.

“That’s good to hear,” said Nikolai with a tight smile.

The man crossed his hands over the table, a glint evident in his eyes. Nikolai didn’t know what to make out of it. “So let’s hear it, Consigliere,” said Jarl. “What brings the Lantsovs here?”

Straight to the point. Nikolai put his mug back to the desk and removed his gloves, exposing his scarred hands. Jarl’s eyes flitted to Nikolai's hands for a moment before looking away, an uncomfortable expression on his face. Nikolai felt a sneer twitch on his lips. Scars weren’t new to people like them—they had new ones very often, depending on the work they were doing that time. It was their brand, and they wear it with pride.

But if people knew the history of the scars you bore, especially when you had gotten it from being the vicious Enforcer who once intimidated the streets of Halmhend, you would have an ace against your enemies. And for Nikolai, he exactly just had that.

“We’re eyeing the areas in Halmhend and Ulensk for expansion,” he said, and he noticed the Brum Don perk up a little from his chair. Now Nikolai had his attention. “I heard that the two properties in those locations require some...changes. Big changes, if I may add. So I would like to propose an offer to buy the property for double its actual value.” He stopped to consider, putting a finger to his chin. "No, wait. Make it triple."

Jarl didn't answer for a while, and his expression was in between being offended and amused. Nikolai wondered if the man thought that his offer was a bluff.

"I think you're quite mistaken, Consigliere," he said mildly, his tone having an underlying disbelief. "We do not place our properties up for purchase or any sort of deal."

The properties you had taken from Families by force, Nikolai wanted to say, but he bit back his tongue. The feel of the lighter in his other hand was enough to ease the sudden flare of anger in his chest. He put on his signature grin to cover it up. "Ah, but I thought your numbers were plummeting for the past two weeks? I think my offer would help the numbers to be friendly and rise up nicely again."

"Is that what your father told you to do?" Jarl asked as he leaned back further into his chair. The look on his face had gone from slightly friendly to threatening. "To try and sway me with money?"

"Don't we all want to be swayed and pampered by money?" countered Nikolai, the grin never leaving his lips. Jarl’s expression only became darker, and it made Nikolai want to goad him more. "Think of the numbers finally rising, Jarl. I know you want that."

"It’s foolish to think that I’d willingly sell properties that we have the ability to look after just quite well, Consigliere.” The Brum Don shook his head with a disappointed expression. “I never thought you would be this desperate.”

This ticked something inside Nikolai, and he found himself suddenly saying, “Is that why you worked with the Radimovs to overthrow our territories?”

There was a tense silence, and the expression on Jarl’s face turned from angry to mildly surprised, like he hadn't expected Nikolai to know about the Brums involvement with the assault. They weren't the only Family with spies stationed in different cities; the Lantsovs had just as much informants as the Brums have, if not a bit less.

Nikolai took the silence as his chance to continue. "Ah, let me make that clear. The Radimovs doing the dirty work and the Brums happening to ‘buy’ the two properties the following day from them. That's pretty much all of it, right? And it's not different from what you did with the Tabans and the Demidovs. And somehow the Morozovas too." He chuckled darkly. "Though it's probably pretty much the Morozovas' payment to your Family for protecting their ass, so I wouldn't really take that into account. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out."

Jarl’s jaw was set, as if determined not to admit to the accusation. His eyes were hard, but Nikolai could notice the man's hand suddenly fiddling the pen within his reach in tense movements. He has such an obvious tell. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I'm merely joking, sir. I mean, I am indeed a genius in certain aspects, but I didn’t learn about that information by connecting the dots. I knew about your tactics from an informant," said Nikolai with a kind smile. "We may have been spiraling a bit out of control since the attempted murder of my father, but we're not as stupid as you think."

The Brums had used the Lantsovs’ distraction in prioritizing the Don’s security to their advantage, going as far as making frequent appearances in their properties, and even in Os Alta. One of the instances he couldn’t forget were the three Brum soldiers who had caused disturbance in their bar in Kribirsk, and it stirred up the brewing dispute between their Families.

Nikolai wouldn't even be surprised if the Brums had something to do with the assassination. And if he were to really think of it now, it was most likely possible. The Demidovs weren't that powerful enough to do something as bold as trying to take down one of the most powerful Dons in the country, unless there was a much bigger hand controlling them.

The only Family who had the ability to pull off a stunt like that was the Brums. But knowing them, they always used someone else to do their dirty work for them as they wanted to maintain the 'clean slate' of their name.

They could always put out the fire, but they can never cover up the smoke.

Jarl considered Nikolai for another moment, and then he let out a loud laugh. “I get why Alexander appointed you as Consigliere and not your older brother. A clever boy, you are,” he said. "Can't be fooled easily."

"I'd take that as a compliment, sir," said Nikolai.

He reached over to the mug of coffee again, but his hand suddenly felt stiff and rigid as if something was keeping it from being able to move. Then his vision blurred slightly for a moment before it sharpened again, making him blink.

It took him a second, and a quiet laugh bubbled from his chest. His suspicions were right, then. He gripped the lighter tightly in his hand like it was the only source of his strength. Coffee was the last thing he had expected to have poison in it, and disbelief muddled his mind.

Cheeky bastard, should have put it in brandy or whiskey instead of slandering coffee this way.

Nikolai held the mug with a bit of effort in his outstretched hand, trying not to let his strain show. But when he looked up back to the Don again, there was no denying that he had already noticed Nikolai’s difficulty in moving, and the beginning of a smirk was evident on Jarl’s expression. The knife hidden under the lapel of Nikolai’s coat suddenly felt heavy.

This was going to be a pain to get through again.

"How's your father, Nikolai?" the man asked. Even his voice sounded faraway now. "Is he recovering well?"

"He is. Quite well, I'll say. He might get discharged next week," Nikolai replied before raising the mug to his lips again. It was only when he took another sip of the coffee did he finally recognize the slightest difference in the taste of a purely black coffee. Genya would have scolded him for not recognizing it right away. Cyanide. Cheap. "He sends his regards, by the way."

Jarl smiled. "I appreciate it." He paused, his eyebrows furrowing in mock concern. Nikolai wanted to laugh. "Are you alright? You seem to be looking quite unwell."

Nikolai shrugged, the movement requiring much more effort as he was still adjusting to the toxins in his body. "I'm fine, just a bit stiff. The coffee had a bit of a kick in it."

"Ah, but you did like your coffee without sugar, right?"

"Yeah, makes it more bracing." He gestured to the mug with a nod before placing it back to the desk. A dull tremor shot through him, and he fiddled with the lighter in his hand to keep it from going completely numb. "So, is your answer really a no?"

"You make me laugh, Consigliere. Here you are, alone, wanting to have an appointment to meet with me just to offer some nonsense."

“I wouldn’t actually call it nonsense I would say ultimatum, but that sounds too threatening so I think I’d tone it down for a bit,” said Nikolai, his tone light. He checked his watch. 17:58. Almost there. But then another tremor shot through him, and this time, he wasn’t able to stop a pained groan from tearing in his throat. He raised a finger. “Wait, give me a second.”

Nikolai closed his eyes and breathed deeply, flexing his fingers open and close. This was becoming rather embarrassing for him, to give threats to someone of a much higher rank than him while looking he was about to throw up, but he took his time. After a few more moments, he finally regained his composure. When he looked back up to the Don, Jarl had an amused expression on his face as if he were thinking of Nikolai as a big joke.

"Consider it a friendly warning," Nikolai said with a grin. “I wouldn’t want to spew threats yet when I still haven’t tried to convince you to change your mind.”

Jarl’s expression darkened. "This is a three-hectare property. No one would notice the Lantsov Consigliere not coming out of here."

"Oh, dear me. Are we doing threats now?" Nikolai laughed, or more like wheezed, and shook his head. "Three hectares, you say? So if I burned down this side of the compound, firefighters won't arrive in time, no? Or even just shooting you, I'm pretty sure no one else would hear."

"You're in my compound, Nikolai. My territory."

Nikolai shrugged. "Hasn't stopped me before."

"There are guards patrolling around right outside the hall. They will immediately barge in the moment I hit the alarm."

"Ah, let them. I like that kind of attention. Boosts my ego exponentially." The watch around Nikolai’s wrist beeped softly, and he glanced down at it to confirm that the numbers had already turned to 18:00. "I also did like my coffee without poison, actually. But I appreciate the improvised addition. Cyanide as an alternative to sugar? Genius. Gave a rush of thrill in my blood."

If Nikolai could frame the look of the evident shock on Jarl’s face, he would have made a whole exhibit just for it. People needed to see such a rare sighting of the Brum Don getting caught off guard. The man blinked repeatedly, as if he didn't believe what he was seeing in front of him.

Trust me, this will get useful at some point, Genya's voice echoed in his head. Nikolai silently thanked their caporegime's insistence for him to develop poison immunity. All those days of handling mild paralysis and unconsciousness was worth it.

"Oh, pardon me. Was I being too straightforward with that?" He chuckled lightly. "I can repeat it though. You got me good there, I can already feel it kicking in. But if you wanted to kill me, I think I would prefer a bullet to the brain just to be sure. That's a hundred percent chance I wouldn't walk out of here alive, or just mix in as much cyanide as you have. A sprinkle won’t be enough."

Jarl let out a laugh of his own, but the sound came out nervous instead of threatening. The man was evidently pale and he was now holding the pen so tightly in his fist he could have snapped it in half. "But that would be messy now, wouldn't it?" he said with a grin. Even his smile looked forced. "As you've told me, we don't do the dirty work.

"Hmm, fair. But there would be no thrill at all, would it? Having to hide behind your coffers and let others do the labor? That's icky." Nikolai shook his head. There was another tremor that shot throughout his body, but it was much weaker than the ones before it, and he almost smiled. At least that was over. Bless you, Genya. He leaned forward for a bit, his eyes narrowing curiously. "Do tell me, Jarl. How would it feel when someone else takes over your business by force, and brutally kills your men and innocent workers in the process? They’re not a threat, Jarl. Much less an enemy. Why involve them in the mess? We don’t do that. That is against our principles. But I guess that's never in your book, was it? You just do things that would satisfy your greed and thirst for blood."

“Getting bolder now, aren't we, Consigliere? I would watch that mouth of yours if I were you. Do you think the Lantsovs could handle another loss, especially their Consigliere?” The Brum Don shook his head, a look of disappointment on his face. “Who would try to handle things diplomatically?”

It was threat after threat. “That is a good question, sir,” said Nikolai. He flexed his fingers on both hands and put them on his knees. “I know Nazyalensky can be diplomatic if need be. But I also know she prefers to use rather drastic measures than talking. ‘It’s the easier way’, she always says. I would have to agree with her at certain times.”

“Are you implying something?”

Nikolai plastered a grin on his face. “Only the fact that you’d be facing lesser diplomatic meetings with the Lantsovs if I ever not make it out of here alive,” he said. A soft ping resounded, and he took out his phone from his coat pocket. He checked the alert, his grin turning smug and menacing, the kind that people rarely see the Lantsov Consigliere ever did. “And that you’d probably be dealing with it sooner than you thought.”

A look of confusion bloomed on the Don’s face, and then, as if on cue, the telephone on the side of his desk blared, the sound startling Jarl and making him jump slightly on his seat. He looked at it with suspicion. Nikolai wanted to laugh, but he figured that it would be rude. Besides, the whole ordeal wasn’t done yet—a lot could still happen, and he was still reeling from the effects of the poison. But he could already see the odds on their side.

“I would answer that if I were you,” Nikolai said calmly, his fingers finding the lid of his lighter again. He flicked it open and back close. He could still feel the strain in his hand, but at least it he could move it properly again. “It’s probably important.”

Jarl narrowed his eyes at him. “What’s your deal, Consigliere? Why are you really here?”

“Just answer the telephone, sir. Maybe it will give you the answer.”

There was another tense silence. The Brum Don suddenly didn’t look like he was having fun trying to get him cornered. This was the best part for Nikolai, the thrill he always got whenever the upper hand his enemies had against him was suddenly taken away from them and he would watch them crumble slowly and back away until they were the ones cornered instead of him. It was such a satisfying view to watch.

And Nikolai were to look at it now, it was exactly how he wanted it. One didn’t just easily get Jarl Brum on the edge of his seat.

“Well?” Nikolai mused.

The frown on Brum Don’s face only deepened, and then reluctantly, he reached for the telephone and slowly raised the receiver near his ear. A few beats, and then, “Yes?”

Nikolai watched the man’s face pale, his eyes shifting everywhere with the look of evident panic in them. His hand tightened around the receiver until his knuckles were almost white from gripping it too much. There was just so much anger radiating off of him that Nikolai was surprised the Don hadn’t even pointed a gun at him yet.

Then Jarl’s attention snapped to him after a moment, his eyes murderous with every intent to kill. Nikolai returned his look with an innocent grin, and the Don’s jaw was set in complete rage. If were some other person, he knew he would have cowered back in fear. But years trying to prove himself he was worthy to be an official member of the Lantsov family despite his bloodline contributed a lot to the name he had built for himself.

The Demon Prince of Halmhend—the people had whispered his name in both awe and fear. And with each dark and nasty scar and blood he got on his hands, the stronger his reputation grew. He would get the job done, and he would use whatever method he had to, even if it meant having to have a staredown with death himself.

It would take much more than some Don’s murderous look to derail Nikolai from his goal.

He watched patiently as the Don put back the receiver to the cradle, his dark gaze turning from enraged to cold fury, like he had finally accepted whatever was said to him in the call. Jarl stared down at him for another long moment, and Nikolai could practically see the gears in the man’s head working.

“Alright, Consigliere. You made your point.” The Don kept his face expressionless, but his eyes told Nikolai otherwise. “What do you really want?”

Finally. “Stop the unnecessary attacks and killings,” Nikolai said. “You can’t keep that act up and expect the others not to turn against you.”

“No one would dare go against us. We both know that.”

“It’s because we’re still holding back.”

A shadow passed over Jarl’s face, and his expression darkened even more. “Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe,” replied Nikolai. He reached up to fix his tie. “If I were to be honest, the Tabans could take you any day. They just don’t choose to. Waste of resources, they say. But really, I understand. It would be too easy for them.”

“The Tabans don’t choose to fight because they’re cowards,” Jarl said with a huff. “Not because they don’t choose to do so.”

Nikolai wrinkled his nose. “Tell that to Madam Makhi’s face, and you’ll see your throat by the end of her sword,” he said. He leaned forward as if to tell a secret. “She keeps a very sharp sword in her office, by the way. And she knows how to use it, so I don’t really suggest going against her.”

Jarl shook his head, the smirk still evident on his lips. “And if I don’t agree to your motion? What can you possibly do with—”

“You would find my family retaliating,” Nikolai cut him off, and the Don reared back in mild surprise. “The attacks would continue, and I will let it go on. Don’t try fighting in a war where you’re going to lose.”

The Don didn’t say anything after that. Nikolai gave him a smile, feeling a bit more confident than before that maybe they had driven Jarl Brum into a corner. Then, to his astonishment, Jarl did something entirely beyond his expectation.

He laughed.

And it wasn’t the desperate type but rather a genuinely amused one, like he had just heard the funniest joke that Nikolai could have ever done. Instantly, his grin faded. Jarl Brum was actually laughing. Nikolai could only look back at the Brum Don with utter confusion as uneasiness settled in his gut. The man acted as if he was one step ahead of them, and whatever confidence Nikolai had in himself the moment he stepped inside the man’s office was gone.

“The White Island, huh?” Jarl said through his laughs. He shook his head, dramatically reaching up to wipe the nonexistent tears from his eyes. "That hotel is quite a sight, but its location in Ulensk is utter shit. You can burn it down all you want, I wouldn't mind. You didn't have to hide the fact you would raid it just to make a point."

Dread washed over Nikolai. It felt like this was the real poison taking effect in his system and halted his thoughts completely. How in the saints' name did Jarl know about the raid? Were Tolya and Tamar safe? Which part of the Don's terrified look had been real?

He watched the Brum Don stand from his seat and walked to the drawers behind his desk. He bent down to pull a bottle of wine out along with two glasses, humming happily as he went along. It was a baffling sight to see Jarl’s shift in his demeanor, especially from the perspective of a person who knew their way around manipulating their own emotions.

Was this how he looked like to other people? Awful and terrifying?

"You're a lot silent now, Consigliere," mused Jarl as he poured wine onto the two glasses. He didn't even need to turn around for Nikolai to know that the man was having fun having the upper hand once again. "Did I surprise you?"

Nikolai's hand clenched into a fist to keep it from trembling badly with suppressed fury. It wasn't the right time to act yet. He glared at the Brum Don's back, and with slow, silent movements, he carefully reached for the knife under his lapel and slipped it in the edge of his sleeve. The distress and fear clouding his mind may have been overwhelming enough to make him unable to answer, but he wasn't going to let any chances slide. The Brum Don took his silence as a cue to continue.

"Ah, don't worry. Your guys leading the raid in White Island Hotel is fine," said Jarl with a light laugh. "I didn't put extra security there tonight on purpose. So your guys are probably done turning the place upside down by now." Then he paused, lifting his head up to stare out the glass window in front of him. "It's actually your people who went to the arms factory I'm worried about."

Whatever composure Nikolai had in himself crumbled to nothing. No—

"You're probably wondering how I knew about it. Well, like you, I have my informants too. And that huge shipment of firepower last week? What other reasons did the Lantsovs have to have that kind of shipment aside from going to war? Doesn't need to take a genius to figure that out." Jarl walked back to his desk and placed the other glass of wine he was holding in front of Nikolai. "And what's the most convenient thing to hit during a war? The arms factory and its warehouse. It's only our luck that you sent Nazyalensky to her own demise. I did put more security in that place."

For once, Nikolai didn't have anything to say back. He usually prided himself of being able to make people bow down to his wishes, even if it meant threatening them to the extremes or just simply having a conversation with them.

And yet the mere thought of Zoya in danger was enough to spiral him out of his thoughts.

"I did surprise you now, didn't I?" Jarl chuckled, taking another sip from his glass. "You see, this is what I meant when I said no one dares to go against us. I'm always a step ahead."

Nikolai gritted his teeth, clenching his hands into fists to keep himself from lunging at the Don. "What did you do to her?"

"Do settle down, Consigliere. She's not in danger. Oh, at least not yet. I haven't given them any orders." He paused, frowning as if he had said something wrong. "But that may change in a moment. Unless you do something for me."

"What do you want?"

Jarl raised an eyebrow. "That was fast, I haven't even blinked," he said. "It's quite a sight to see the great Lantsov Consigliere quickly bow down just because his woman is in danger."

"Just say your conditions, Jarl."

"You will agree to sign a contract that would legally make the Lantsovs as the Brums' subsidiary."

Nikolai looked at the Don with utter disbelief like he had just grown another head on his shoulder. Jarl must have been joking. Maybe Zoya was alright and had already handled the situation at Halmhend. Nikolai's irritation suddenly flared. His thinking was becoming too unstable—which wasn't ideal for his current situation. And if he continued to let Jarl’s words get to him, he would certainly lose this fight.

"In fact, it's still quite a generous offer." Jarl tipped his head in respect. "It's for seeing through that coffee I gave you. And even surviving it."

"And what if I don't?" Nikolai asked, voice nearly a hiss.

Jarl smiled. “Then Nazyalensky dies. Very simple.”

“How do I know you’re not bluffing?”

Then as if on cue, Nikolai’s phone rang again, tearing his attention away from wanting to lunge at the Don. He looked at the screen, and it showed a restricted number was trying to make a call. And even though it didn't exactly show who was calling, Nikolai already knew who was on the other line.

"I would answer that if I were you," said Jarl, his tone smug as he repeated Nikolai’s line from earlier. With a confident smile that almost ticked off the last Nikolai’s patience, Jarl added, "It's probably important."

Nikolai looked down at his phone again, thinking that maybe if he stared hard enough at the bright numbers glaring back at him, the call would stop and prove that the Brum Don was just bluffing.

But when it continued to ring, it stabbed fear into his heart. Zoya never called him during an operation, only quick signals and messages.

"Well?" Jarl mused. He took a sip from his own glass and raised an eyebrow. "Nazyalensky won't wait all night."

The urge to act upon his anger was now stronger than his will to keep on a neutral face, and yet Nikolai still held back. He wouldn't do anything unless he was sure he had every reason to.

But the mention of Zoya's name from this despicable man's lips was making it hard to keep himself from killing the Don.

"If you lay even one finger on her," Nikolai said, voice low with threat, "I will burn every single place you have until the flames reach you and you will be burning down with them."

A shadow passed on Jarl’s face, but it was gone as soon as Nikolai could blink, and there was the sneer on his face again. "Just answer the call, Consigliere."

Nikolai did what he was told and he swiped the icon to the right. He slowly put the phone to his ear, his gaze never wavering from Jarl.

The other line was quiet, except for the occasional strained breathing in the background. He fought the urge to call out for her name—it wasn't the time to give the Brum Don more leverage against him. So he waited.

Zoya, he pleaded in his mind. Please be alright.

It was a desperate thought, one he hoped that would be true, because he would have to settle for the last resort and the Don wouldn't see another sunrise after tonight.

There was another silence, more ragged breathing. Nikolai's vision was starting to tunnel as he fought for composure, and Don's smirk was only adding fuel to the fire in him that was waiting to be ignited.

A beat, and there was a pained voice that said, "Nikolai—"

Something in Nikolai snapped, and he was suddenly flicking the knife out from his sleeve and then hauled it at Jarl Brum.

It hit the man on his shoulder hard enough for his chair to tip back, and he fell over with a shout. Nikolai shot up from his own chair and slid over the Don's desk, landing on the ground next to the man and kicking the man's arm even before he could reach for the alarm button under the edge of the table. He kept Jarl's arm pinned to the floor with his foot, and when the Don tried to reach for Nikolai's ankle with his other free arm, he pressed his foot harder against the man's arm he was sure he heard a soft crack.

Dizziness hit nim like a tidal wave that almost threw him off balance. His vision swayed. Waiting for his body to adapt to the toxins would still take a bit of time, but he was being driven by his rage that he almost forgot he wasn’t here to kill the Don.

"Did I catch you off guard?" Jarl asked with a strained laugh. "She really is your soft spot, eh? If I had known earlier I would have—"

Nikolai didn’t let him finish and brought his foot down with force, completely breaking the man's wrist. Jarl opened his mouth to let out a scream of pain, but Nikolai's other foot had already hit the Don across face before he could make a sound. Blood dripped from the side of the man's lips, and he spit it out to the side.

“I would watch that mouth of yours if I were you,” Nikolai said. With casual ease, he nudged the handle of the knife with his toe, and it earned another shout from the man. A smirk twitched on his lips at the sound of the Don's agony. There was always something satisfying in hearing your enemies scream in pain. "Not looking so tough now, aren't you, sir? But do scream all you want. Your office is soundproof, isn’t it?"

Despite himself, Jarl still hadn't cowered back in fear. If possible, he only became much angrier than when Nikolai was goading him before. "The Families would know about this assault," he said through gritted teeth. "You're making a big mistake by attacking the Brum Don."

"Am I now?" Nikolai leaned closer, resting his elbow on his bent knee. He reached out his other hand and patted Jarl on the cheek. The man flinched under his touch. "And 'Brum Don'? All I see is a dead man."

Jarl’s eyes widened in fear. "You won't kill me."

Nikolai huffed lightly. "That's what our enemies in Halmhend used to say." He shrugged, and then reached for the Don’s uninjured arm. "Look where it got them."

With a hard tug on the man’s wrist, Nikolai kicked the desk until it was farther away from Jarl’s reach. He wasn’t taking any chances of the Don trying to sneak and alarm his men to his office. At least not just yet. They had the time for games later. Nikolai dragged Jarl to the wine drawer, throwing him off to the small wooden doors with a resounding thump.

Jarl groaned in pain, and yet it still sounded restrained as if he were keeping himself from making another shout. He was cradling his broken wrist on his lap, shoulder hunched forward enough for him to not show his face.

Nikolai raised an eyebrow. "Don't be shy now, I know you want to shout," he said as he grabbed the Don's fallen chair, standing it upright again and pulling it in front of Jarl before sitting down. He pulled out the lighter from his pocket. "I don't like it when they don't scream in pain."

There was no answer for a long moment, with the Don still in his hunched position. Nikolai eyed him sideways. The man's shoulders were shaking with every breath he drew, and the spot where the knife was lodged continued to leak of blood.

It was new to him to see Jarl Brum in such a vulnerable state. But he was still trying to put up the tough persona a Don should have, and Nikolai was determined to break him slowly. Inflicting immense pain was one of the strengths Nikolai learned in the streets that gave birth to his name.

“Still good, sir?” he asked in mock wonder. “You’re not as strong as I thought.”

The man shot up from his place on the floor, his other arm stretched out as if to reach for Nikolai’s neck, but the Consigliere had already anticipated it. He simply leaned back and grabbed the man by both of his arms. His movements stopped.

Nikolai gave him a sneer. "Courageous," he said with genuine respect. "But still slow."

He kicked the man on the chest, sending him crashing back to the drawers in a heap. Then Nikolai brought his foot down to Jarl’s ankle this time. There was another resounding crack, followed by a howl of pain. He almost smiled.

"Now that's the shout," Nikolai said. He stared down at the Don with pity. Jarl looked incredibly smaller for the Brum Don that terrorized everyone else. It was amusing to see how pain made anyone kneel to its extremities. "I thought your pride would still forbid you to scream. Make it louder for me, yeah? It sounds better."

"What do you want, Lantsov?" Jarl spat as if the name were some poison that stung his mouth. “Or should I say Opjer?”

Nikolai’s jaw ticked in annoyance. He knows too much. "Not 'Consigliere' anymore? I feel sad about that, sir." He bent down and reached for the man's arm, bringing his hand close to him. He opened the lid of his lighter and put one of the Don's fingers in between the edge of the lid and the case. "I'll be brief, which I rarely do as I prefer talking more." He paused. "Call off your men."

Jarl let out a laugh. "Too late for that, Nikolai. But I can almost assume that they're already leaving now that the threat was handled in the—"

Nikolai forced the lid of his lighter close, and the Don screamed in pain. The tip of his finger was set in an odd angle, with blood leaking from the damaged nail. It dripped onto Nikolai’s hand and his wrist, and then to the cuff of his sleeve. He inwardly winced in displeasure. It could be taken care of later.

He kept his expression impassive and moved to another finger. "Call off your men," he repeated.

Jarl’s face was twisted in cold rage, but there was no denying the agony he was under that he was still trying to put up with. When he didn’t answer, Nikolai closed the lighter onto the man’s next finger. Another howl of agony. He moved to another finger.

“Eight remaining fingers, eight remaining chances,” he said. “I will say it again. Call off your men, Jarl. I’m still being generous with giving you chances.”

The man only smirked, and just as Nikolai was about to break off another finger, a loud thump resounded somewhere behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The doors to Jarl’s office were rattling, almost threatening to come off its hinges. The Don's men had a good way of knocking.

"As I've said," Jarl wheezed, making Nikolai turn back to him, "too late to do that."

Nikolai tsked. "Very well," he said, and then clamped the lid to the man's third finger. He let go of his arm, and Jarl crumpled down to the ground. "A reward for being able to sneak past me."

His men were still trying to barge the doors down, but they were almost succeeding in doing so when Nikolai caught a glimpse of the light outside the hall through the small space by the door that was beginning to grow wider. He turned back to the Don.

"Let's make you a bit more presentable, shall we?" said Nikolai.

He grabbed the man by the collar and forced him to stand before dragging him to the chair. Jarl wheezed in pain as he tried to fight back, but both of his hands were so badly damaged he couldn't make use of them. The Don could only give Nikolai as much as a glare.

He forced the man back down to the chair. "No need to look so angry, sir."

"You won't get out of here alive, Lantsov," growled Jarl. "You are totally outnumbered. My men would—"

"Ah" —Nikolai patted the man on the cheek— "let's not get ahead of our predictions. Let me borrow this for a second." He swiftly pulled out the knife from Jarl’s shoulder. "I'll be right back."

"You and Nazyalensky are goners, Consigliere. Both of you are not going to make it through the night."

"We'll see about that."

Nikolai eyed the still rattling doors, and glanced at the bloodied knife in his hand. He would be at a total disadvantage, he knew, but it was better than having nothing. Besides, he'd had far much worse situations that he got out of, some that involved using bare hands and teeth just to survive.

Tonight wasn't any different either.

He approached the doors just as there was finally the sound of a wood splintering, and he pressed himself against the wall beside the entryway. With a twist of his knife in his hand, he reached up to remove the tie around his neck with his other, letting the ends fall loose onto his shirt. It would only be a hindrance to his movements.

The doors barged open and men in gray overcoats came rushing in. Nikolai tightened his grip around the knife and counted heads. Seven. Jarl should have invited more.

The man nearest to him hadn't noticed him yet, and he took his chance.

Nikolai stepped forward and pushed his knife behind the man's throat.

One.

He immediately pulled the knife out, letting it fly towards the other Soldier to his right. Blood spurted from the man's neck. He crumpled to the ground with a gurgling sound.

A sneer twitched on his lips.

Two.

He started humming. The remaining men finally turned to him with their guns raised, but Nikolai was already on the move. He collided with the third one. His hand closed around the gun barrel and the other to the man's hand, pointing the gun to the other Soldiers.

Nikolai pulled the trigger. It hit the other Soldier on the head.

Three.

He turned a bit to the left and fired twice on the fourth Soldier's chest.

Four.

Nikolai twisted, using the third Soldier as a shield just as the shots erupted. The body convulsed as it took the barrage of bullets. Then the shots stopped, and he pressed the barrel under the man's chin before pulling the trigger.

Five.

He grabbed the gun, aimed over the dead man's shoulder, and fired at the other Soldier. He immediately crumpled on the ground after the bullet went straight through his skull.

Six.

With a push, Nikolai finally let the body fall to the ground. He turned to find the last Soldier, but he wasn't fast enough.

A shot rang out, and pain burst on his ear. He stopped humming and blinked. The remaining Soldier looked at him with a terrified expression, his hand trembling so badly as if he was out enduring the cold winter night. Then he dropped the gun completely and he fell to the ground.

Nikolai approached him slowly, like a predator cornering his prey. The Soldier started to back away. But the tremors quaking his body were too much that he couldn't even move fast enough.

A moment later, Nikolai was hovering above him, with the barrel of the gun pointed at his face, and he immediately raised a hand to protect himself.

"No—"

But Nikolai already pulled the trigger before the Soldier could even plead, and he crumpled to the ground on the pool of blood from the hole in his head.

Seven.

The room went silent again. Nikolai reached a hand up to his ear, feeling the sticky wetness around it along with the sting of pain. When he looked at his hand, his fingers were drenched in blood. He huffed. At least they were able to nick him.

He turned back to Jarl, who was still sitting idly on his office chair, the expression on his face was a mix of horror and bewilderment.

"There'd be more of them in a few moments, right?" Nikolai asked mildly as he went and got his knife from the Soldier's neck. He wiped it at the edge of the Soldier's gray coat, staining it red. Then he put it back behind the lapel of his coat. “How many are there left?”

At the Don’s silence, he scoffed. He walked back to Jarl by the desk, grabbing the man by his collar and forcing him up to his remaining good foot. It’d have to do. An audience was still an audience no matter how few they were, and he wanted Jarl to see every drop of blood shed by his men for everything they had done, and for every life they had ruined.

For hurting Zoya.

Because in the end, he would rather let himself be the one to end all this rather than branding himself as a traitor for selling his own Family out and risking any chances of putting Zoya's life on the line even more. He could only hope Tamar would be able to reach her on time.

There was no turning back from this.

This tyranny had to end tonight, as it would only continue until the point of time where no one could stop them.

It was time to be the monster that he had been once more.

Nikolai dragged Jarl outside the doors of the office. “Let the hunting party start, then.”

---

Zoya struggled against the restraints bounding her hands behind her. But then pain shot up to her side from where a bullet had grazed her during the shootout earlier. She grit her teeth, glaring at the man in front of her. She would definitely break his neck the moment she got free.

The storage room where they had been holding her was guarded with three other men in gray overcoats. They looked stiff and alert, their guns poised readily to aim at her the moment she tried to do something funny. Zoya wanted to laugh. She understood the hostility around her, especially when there's only several of them left in the warehouse.

It was supposed to be much lesser than Zoya had expected—the arms warehouse should have been empty except for a few guards on patrol and a Brum Soldier staying in the upstairs office.

But instead of that, Zoya had walked straight up into a trap instead, with the number of Jarl’s men tripling and they were being led by Ivor Kravchenko, the notorious Brum caporegime known for his brutal tendencies when it came to taking down his enemies.

She had come to think that there might have been a leak of their own plans to orchestrate the simultaneous attacks against the Brums. They had been able to reduce a great number from Jarl’s men, but it cost all the lives of Zoya's men that were with her during the attack. Their blood would forever be on her hands.

The other thing she could hope for now was that Nikolai and the twins were alright on their sides of this predicament.

“You shouldn’t have left your Don’s compound,” she said. It was taking a lot of her remaining strength to speak. "You all left your boss' to the wolf's mercy."

The man, whom Zoya remembered as Ivor and Jarl's notorious caporegime, gave a dark laugh. "A wolf, you say? It doesn't matter, a lone wolf is no match for a whole pack," said the caporegime. "Your Consigliere might even be dead by now. Just like the rest of your men here. Don't get too cheeky now."

Zoya's rage flared, the urge to make the man suffer stronger than before. "You seem to be forgetting that I killed half of your men alone," she said. "You better make sure I don't get out of these bounds because it will be your blood spilled on the ground next."

This seemed to annoy Ivor, making him step forward in haste with a murderous expression on his face. But then he stopped abruptly as if he had just remembered something, and he straightened back up. "I could kill you right now and be done with it, Nazyalensky," he said in a low voice. "But I still just choose not to. It's fun to see the great Lantsov Underboss tied down at the Brums mercy."

"Chose not to, or you're still waiting for your Don to give the order like a good puppy you are?" Zoya said back, savoring the look of new rage on the caporegime's face. She gave him a sharp smile. "It's been an hour since you called my Consigliere and tried to rattle him down. You haven't even heard from Jarl ever since then."

Ivor snarled, and then he was grabbing at Zoya's hair and pulling her head back, his knife suddenly pressed to her cheek. Zoya smirked triumphantly. It was so easy to derail him—the whole Brum Family if possible. They were all bombs that were ready to detonate at any time.

This would be fun when she finally had him under her mercy later. But having to reach that point seemed very difficult and almost next to impossible, especially when there were ropes bounding her hands.

An realization dawned in her head when her eyes trailed down the knife near her face. She just had to make the man drop it somehow.

"Do not test me, Nazyalensky," Ivor growled as he pressed the knife harder to her skin. Zoya felt a trickle of blood run down her face. He traced the blood with the knife point lightly before hovering it to her skin again. "I can be merciless at certain times."

As can I, Ivor. "Suits you, then," said Zoya simply. "I have the freedom to choose when to be merciless. Unlike you, who still has to wait for a go signal from his person before he can bite."

With a growl, Ivor tugged at her hair harder. "Did you know what Jarl told me before I left to go handle the mess you will try to stage here?" he hissed. "He said that the Lantsov Consigliere and Underboss are the ones keeping their Family upright. If they were the ones to go first, they would all crumble, and he planned to do just that." Ivor smiled wickedly, the kind that spoke of a triumph gotten from a dirty play. "Starting with your Consigliere. I wonder how things would be if the Don suddenly decides to get rid of him."

She clenched her fists behind her, her fury burning cold in her blood. Nikolai was a lot smarter than the others give him credit for. There was never a dire situation that he hadn't gone through before—he could always find a way out of anything.

But their current standpoint only struck fear and doubt to Zoya. He was in their enemy's nest, the place where they had the absolute authority on everything. She had been reluctant for him to go alone, and yet he had insisted, saying that he had a plan just in case something went wrong.

And now that there had been a hole in their planned attack, Zoya could only hope that his plan didn't involve him risking his life more than he already did.

She would come and drag him out of hell if needed to.

"I'm pretty sure your Consigliere would run out of ideas at some point," added Ivor thoughtfully. "Tonight might be the time."

You can all dream.

Zoya gave a short laugh, and then she tipped her head back and struck Ivor's nose with her forehead.

The man shouted as he pushed back from her, dropping his knife and putting a hand up to his face. She quickly took the advantage and tipped the chair down sideways. Pain shot up to her side when she hit the floor, and her vision blacked out for a few moments. The blow to her head earlier only added to the dizziness that made her vision spin. But she shook the ache away and her hands felt around for the knife from the floor as the three men were still occupied with coddling their boss.

When she finally grasped the knife handle, she immediately tucked it to the insides of her sleeve before looking back up to Ivor.

Blood seeped through his fingers that were tightly holding his now broken nose, and his face was scrunched up in pain. Zoya felt a laugh bubble from her chest.

"Can't even take a hit, eh?" she called to Ivor, who only glared at her with a murderous glint in his eyes. "Come and train with our men, you'll learn how to brush off a punch to your jaw like it's merely dust."

Ivor let out an angry growl and started to walk his way to her again, but one of his Soldiers stopped him.

"There aren't any orders for us to kill her yet, sir," the Soldier said with finality. He looked a bit younger than the other men, but he had a sway on them that even Ivor stopped to consider his actions. "We should be patient."

Zoya huffed silently. Another well-trained pup, then.

The door to the room suddenly opened, and another one of Jarl’s men appeared by the threshold. "Sir," he said, gesturing outside, "it's urgent."

Ivor sighed in frustration. He gave Zoya another pointed look before turning to one of his men again. "Get her up and keep a close eye on her," he said stiffly, still holding a hand to his nose. "I might finally be allowed to kill her after."

With one last low gaze to Zoya, he stomped off the storage room. She huffed in amusement as she watched the Caporegime's retreating form disappear by the doorway.

"Petty ass," she muttered. But when Ivor's footsteps finally receded, she slid out the knife from her sleeve and started to cut through the ropes.

It was the younger Soldier that moved to lift her chair upright, his movements brusque and rough it made the pain on Zoya's side shoot up again.

"Easy with the moving, will you?" she hissed at the Soldier.

He sneered at her, pushing the chair roughly back down to its feet instead. "Witch," he hissed back, and Zoya had to laugh. The Soldier pointed the gun under her chin. "The only thing keeping me from firing is that the Don didn't want you dead just yet, and we're just waiting for the go signal." He pressed the barrel to her chin harder for emphasis. "Don't get too smug."

Men and their egos. "Sure thing, hon," said Zoya mildly with a shrug.

It seemed to be enough for the Soldier as he put down the gun and started to back off. But then ropes finally cut loose, and a smirk twitched at her lips. She kept her arms behind her and flipped the knife in her hand so that it pointed forward.

"Lapdog," she muttered, making sure the Soldier heard her.

And he did, because he suddenly stopped walking and turned to her again, a look of rage evident on his face. His jaw was set when he reached her again in a few quick strides.

He bent down and grabbed at her face. "What did you say, you—"

His next words came out in a gurgling mess when Zoya's hand shot up and pushed the knife into the man's throat.

She reached for the man's gun with her other hand just as the two other men noticed what was happening. She aimed and fired at the two of them before they could even raise their guns to shoot, and they crumpled to the ground with a thud.

The Soldier clawed at his neck desperately, his movements panicked. Zoya looked at him pitifully before yanking the knife out. The man fell to the ground.

She wiped her bloodied hand and knife to the squirming man's coat for a moment, staining the fabric blood red. His other hand still tried to reach for her ankle, but Zoya merely stepped away.

Then she pointed the gun to the Soldier's face. "For gunning down my men," she said before shooting him in the head.

He slumped to the ground, lifeless. Zoya winced at the sudden sting that pierced her side, and she almost doubled over. She checked her wound. The long line of the bullet graze was still oozing with blood, but much lesser than before. She would have to put up with it for now; she needed to have a talk with Ivor first.

Rushed footsteps echoed outside just as she neared the door. She immediately pressed herself against the wall beside the doorway and waited. A few moments later, the door barged open, and Ivor and another man came rushing in.

They hadn't noticed her yet, and Zoya sprang.

She raised her gun and shot the Soldier in the head. Ivor turned just as she aimed the gun to his thigh and pulled the trigger. He reared back with a shout, and Zoya swiped the gun up and whacked him across the face with the stock. Ivor crashed to the floor.

But when she finally got a closer look at the man's face, she realized it wasn't Ivor at all. The Soldier was only wearing the Caporegime's coat.

Zoya gritted her teeth as she pointed her gun to the man. "Where's Ivor?" she hissed.

He didn’t answer, and it made her anger flare even more. She put her finger closer to the trigger.

"Where—"

A crack of gunshot, and then a flash of excruciating pain on her other side just below her ribs. Zoya backed a few steps, dropping her gun and putting a hand to her side. When she checked on it after a moment, her palm was already covered in red.

"Miss me?" Ivor called out from the door.

Zoya didn’t have the strength to turn completely, and she crashed to the floor. The surroundings blurred into a mess of colors, the sudden flash of lights adding to the swaying of her vision. She put a hand to her wound, and she stifled a groan when another wave pain shot up to her body.

Ivor's figure appeared in her line of vision, his steps slow and deliberate as if he had all the time in the world. Zoya could only do as much as glare at the Caporegime, at the broken nose that had the faint traces of dried blood around it, and hoped for the Saints to give her enough strength to kill the guy right then. But her wishes were ignored and the pain only became worse.

"You think you could get out of my watch that easily?" He shook his head in disappointment. "I thought you were better than this."

"Come closer and I'll show you," Zoya snarled.

"A real tough one, aren't you? Even as you lay dying, you can still make someone cower in fear." Ivor laughed loudly, and it was like the sound of a chair being scraped off a tiled floor. "I had to admit I was impressed on how you got that knife. That was neat."

Zoya blinked. He had known?

As if he had heard her thoughts, Ivor chuckled darkly. "Oh, I did notice. That's why I staged a little dress up with one of my Soldiers here after the phone call. Always did the trick."

"Staged?" Zoya laughed, but it came out as a wheeze instead. "Did you really just use your men as bait just to kill me dramatically?"

"Ten points for Nazyalensky!" Ivor announced before raising his gun and pointing it at the Soldier he had made to wear his coat. "We're busted, unfortunately. Thank you for your service." Then he pulled the trigger.

Zoya winced at the sound of the dead body falling to the ground. She shook her head. "You're mad, Kravchenko."

"That, I am. But you know who's worse?" He bent down a little as if to tell some secret. Then he pointed two fingers at her. "You two." He paused to laugh again, and then he started pacing back and forth.

She took the small distraction to pull the handgun closer to her and hide it under her back. And when he stopped and stared back down at her, she noticed something strange. There was a wild look in his eyes, the deranged kind of glint of a paranoid man.

Ivor waved his gun carelessly in the air. "Oh, don't worry I finally have the order to kill you."

Zoya turned to her bad side slightly, bearing the pain that washed over her again and reaching for the gun she had hidden behind her.

"Worry not, Nazyalensky. You're going to meet your Consigliere soon," said Ivor. "The Don never planned to let your Consigliere get out of there alive, you know. The chance was too good to let it pass. He was a dead man the moment the Don accepted the meeting."

She knew Ivor was trying to get to her head, and she knew better that she shouldn't let it, but it was proving to be difficult when it was Nikolai’s safety being used against her. It was then she remembered this was what Ivor was known for—tormenting his enemies rights before he killed them. But Zoya knew to herself that she would have preferred physical torment than this. She wouldn't even have the chance to know if Nikolai was safe from any danger.

A bittersweet laugh bubbled from her chest. Even in near death circumstances, Nikolai was still her headache. She could only hope he would be able to get through tonight.

Zoya gripped the gun tightly. She wouldn't this man torment her until her last breath. Not without bringing him down with me.

Ivor was seething when he was checking his gun chamber. Something was definitely wrong with him. Had something come up after that phone call?

"This is a payback to your Consigliere for acting stupidly. And for what he's done," he said and he shook his head, fury and annoyance evident on his face. "He's so going to pay for that. I can't wait to kill him myself—" He stopped abruptly and turned back to Zoya. "You'll meet him soon, Nazyalensky. Don't worry, I'll make it—"

With what's left of her strength, Zoya lifted her arm and fired at the Caporegime, emptying the whole gun's whole clip at him. Ivor convulsed with every bullet he took, his eyes wide in shock as if he couldn't believe what had just happened.

When the gun only gave a click, Zoya let her arm fall. A triumphant smirk twitched at her lips as she watched Ivor's bewildered expression. His hand fell limp at his side, and he looked down at the holes on his chest.

A scoff tore from his throat, and along with it came blood that leaked from his lips. His expression turned from shocked to angry in a blink. With a shaking hand, he pointed his gun back at her. "You witch—"

There was a crack of gunshot. Zoya closed her eyes and waited for the momentary pain before the end.

But it didn't come.

There was a loud thud, like the sound of a body falling to the floor, and she opened her eyes again.

Ivor lay on the floor, lifeless, his wide, empty eyes still open. Blood started to pool around his body all too quickly.

"Zoya," a familiar voice said.

Through her blurry vision, Zoya could make out a figure of a woman approaching her in rush. Tamar.

She immediately held out her hand, and felt Tamar take it right away. The woman's other hand came to put pressure on her wound. "You're okay," Zoya said. Her breaths were starting to come out in short bursts. "Is Tolya—"

"He's fine, General, you should think of yourself first. Save your breath. You'll be fine." Tamar let go of her hand to pull out her phone. She dialled a number and started speaking to someone, but the words faded into echoes of distorted sounds.

A moment later Zoya heard Tamar's voice again. "Stay with me, Nazyalensky." She clasped at her hand, gripping it tightly as if it would give Zoya enough life again if she held on tighter.

Nikolai, Zoya wanted to ask her. Is he safe?

But the pain and exhaustion were too overwhelming for her to stay awake, and she found her grip on Tamar's hand loosening with every ragged breath she drew.

Have I done enough?

She didn't know.

Be safe, idiot.

She took another breath.

Then everything went dark.

***

Zoya opened her eyes.

Immediately, a dull throb washed over her body that almost made her pass out again, but the gentle touches she felt on her hand kept her anchored down to consciousness. She drew in a shaky breath.

She was still alive. She has survived the ordeal. Tamar and Tolya were safe too and—

Nikolai.

Where was he? Was he alive?

Zoya turned to her right in haste, but she stopped when she spotted a mess of blond hair on her bedside. The grip on her hand tightened, and she felt her eyes sting.

He's okay.

"Hey," she said, voice still rough from sleep.

Nikolai instantly bolted upright. He looked like a mess, with his hair ruffled and the bruises and cuts on his face. There were traces of dried blood on the side of face down to his collar, his coat, and even on the edge of his sleeves. His hands were no different; the skin around his knuckles were torn open and red. But the worse one he got was his left ear—or what was left of it. He was tired and in pain, and yet he only had the look of utter relief and warmth in his eyes when he looked at her and smiled.

There was an unexpected prick in her heart. Zoya wanted to reach out and hold him to her, to tell him that she was glad he was alive, but she couldn’t do anything of those as her body still felt heavy like lead due to the exhaustion and medication.

A tear fell down from his eye, and Nikolai quickly wiped it away with a tired laugh. Then he shifted closer, his hand reaching out to smooth the hair away from her forehead. She closed her eyes and leaned against his touch almost immediately.

“You’re a mess, dear,” he said, his tone light with amusement.

Zoya huffed weakly. “You should see yourself.” She nodded at his state of dress. "It's not you to have your suit ruined like that."

“There’s always a first one, you know.” Nikolai gave her a wink. “Just not the thing I prefered. I can always throw it in the laundry, though.”

“You, doing the laundry? I know you’ll break the washing machine first before you can get anything done,” she said, and Nikolai laughed lightly. A small smile appeared on her lips, and she laced their fingers together. What she expected to be a gentle touch was a trembling grip instead. His hand was badly shaking. Concern washed over her as she looked at him in worry. “Nikolai?”

“I’m fine. I just—” Nikolai stopped. He laughed again, but it sounded more like a sob of relief instead. He shook his head. “You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered. He still looked like he was about to break any moment, but it was gone in a blink and he put on his signature grin that brightened up his features. “But I guess I didn’t have to worry that much now, yeah?”

Tears stung Zoya’s eyes again, and she smiled ruefully. I almost lost you too. But she covered it up with a smirk. “They can’t get rid of me that easily.”

"I know."

Silence fell around them. It was unusual for her to have a quiet as she was used to hearing all types of noises, whether it be the angry and rising tones during meetings or the gunfire that followed after when the negotiations went wrong. Even at nights, which was supposed to be when everything was in peace, were still haunted by the voices of the people who had died under her jurisdiction, and their blood was on her hands.

Having this moment struck dread to her, because good things, even the smallest ones, always came with a price. And she wasn't entirely sure if she was willing to give up anything.

"Do tell me your thoughts, dearest Zoya," Nikolai said, breaking the silence. He smiled as he continued his ministrations on her hair. "When you're quiet like that, I'm worried that you might be planning someone's death."

Zoya huffed. "How can you be sure that it wasn't your death I was planning?"

Nikolai chuckled. "Please, you can't plan something that's already done," he said in amusement, and then his face fell after a second as if he realized what he just said. He smiled but it was half-hearted than his usual ones. "I like being one step ahead, you know."

"What happened, Nikolai?" she asked softly, not wanting to risk him shying away. Her hand tightened its hold on his. "What did you do?"

"I did what I had to do," he said simply. There was a faraway look in his eyes as he stared down at their joined hands. He rubbed circles around her skin, his touch feather light. "There was no other way."

"Did you—" Zoya stopped. She didn't want to say it. She wanted to believe that if she didn't, it could change the truth. But the defeated look in his eyes only solidified the truth.

“Jarl Brum is dead," Nikolai said. A sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he looked back up at her. “He died when his compound had caught on fire due to faulty gas pipes. And the Lantsov Consigliere died with him in the fire. It’s what the people would hear by morning.” He paused, and breathed in deep. Then he smiled his usual grin again. “He put up quite a fight, though. It ruined my suit doing it. What a sad mess.”

Zoya could only stare at him in melancholy. She didn’t even have the heart to answer his joke back. That was their last resort. They both agreed that if things had turned out the worst, he would have to settle with killing the Don. But that was before, when they thought that their plans were foolproof.

I should have known and done better.

Nikolai must have seen the look on her face, because he shook his head gently and his grin turned into a rueful one. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t do that to yourself. I don't regret doing anything,” he said. He took her hand in both of his. “He was going to force me to hand over the Lantsovs to them, saying he’ll have you killed if I don’t. It was a deadend. There was no guarantee they won’t hurt you even if I agree. And I was never going to sell us over, anyway.” He paused, drawing in a shaky breath. "I'd rather get hurt a thousand times more than lose you."

A tear finally fell from the side of her eye. If this was the price she had to pay for having this moment with him, she did not want it. She would give up anything else to pay the price. Just not this. Not him.

“So, I guess this is our last night together,” Zoya said, her voice breaking slightly.

His hand reached up to her face and wiped the tear with his thumb. There were also tears clouding his eyes. He nodded gently, the sad smile still on his lips. Zoya leaned in his hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I promise to annoy you to death so you would have enough spite for me to last in a long while.”

Zoya huffed in amusement. She had never hated him so much than she did now. How could he make it sound so easy when he was going to leave? “I already have enough spite to last for the rest of my life.”

Nikolai laughed back. “That’s good to hear.”

Another short silence filled the air, and Zoya looked him over. If it was the last time she would see him, she wanted to bask in the warmth radiating in his eyes and remember all the quirks he had, as if she hadn’t memorized everything about him before.

She lifted her hand slightly, and Nikolai went to hold it back in his. He turned his attention to her forearm, tracing the dark lines of the tattooed dragon on her skin. It felt like he was doing the same, memorizing a distinct feature of her that he would carry with him.

“I’ve always thought this one’s cooler than my wolf one,” he said softly, running his fingers on her skin. “You always get cooler ones than me.”

“Where would you go?” Zoya asked instead.

Nikolai stopped his ministrations, his fingers coming back to lace with hers. “It would be better if no one knew,” he replied solemnly. “Besides, I wouldn’t stay in one place for long.”

Zoya took a deep breath. This was their reality, and she should know better than lament over it. She wasn’t the type to let emotions take over her. But for Nikolai Lantsov, she would always be willing to make an exception.

“Maybe I can mail something from time to time,” he said. “Postcards and pictures, how do you feel about that?”

“Are you trying to make me feel better?”

Her Consigliere chuckled lightly. “No, I am entirely serious.” He shrugged. “Mail is the safest thing to get something across without the risk of being traced.”

Zoya shook her head with a light laugh. I’d take anything. “Whatever you say, corn salad,” she said, and Nikolai laughed. A wave of dizziness suddenly washed over through her. The medicine must be taking its effects now. No, not yet. A few more minutes. “When do you leave?”

A beat, and then Nikolai said, “Soon.” An amused smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You don’t have to be so excited.”

“Idiot,” she mumbled. There was a twinge in her chest with the nickname she had of him, knowing that it would be the last time she could tell it to him in person.

Nikolai tightened his hold on her hand, and she felt it trembling again. His eyes were bright with tears when he said, “I’ll miss that nickname.” I’ll miss you, was what never said aloud, but Zoya heard it all the same.

I’ll miss you too. Zoya gave him a small smile. “Just look at the engraving in your lighter, it will remind you.” Another wave of dizziness hit her, and she found her eyes drooping slightly.

Zoya heard him laugh softly, making her blink to shake the drowsiness away. Nikolai reached up to brush at the hair on her forehead again.

“Go get some more rest,” he said. His hand came down to her cheek, and he gently caressed her skin with his thumb. “Don’t fight it, I know you’re still tired.”

"I'm not tired," she grumbled back.

"Whatever you say, dear."

Her eyes were starting to feel too heavy for her to stay awake, but she still fought the drowsiness from taking over so she could still see him for a little more time.

"Go rest," he said again.

Zoya squeezed his hand. She was never the first one to ask. To their world, everything was a trade—you give and take. A request meant a desperate wish, and you should always be willing to pay the price.

But she had already paid for it, and it was only fair if she wished for one final request. Be it a selfish, impossible kind.

"Stay?" she asked. Even just for a moment longer. "You've always made a good bodyguard."

Nikolai smiled softly. I can't, was what his eyes said, and yet, aloud, he still said, "Of course." He tucked the blankets higher to her shoulders, his movements gentle and careful. "Now go back to sleep. I'll be here."

They both knew it was a lie.

Zoya closed her eyes, knowing she couldn't bear seeing him leave, and she'd rather have him do it while she was asleep.

Then he started humming. His shitty, off-tune humming. Her shoulders shook as her body racked with silent sobs, her eyebrows drawn tight together to keep her tears from falling. But they still did, anyway.

She felt him press his lips to her knuckles, and small droplets fall against her skin. She didn't even have to open her eyes to know that it was his tears.

"Good night, Nikolai," Zoya whispered in a shaky tone. Farewell. Be safe.

A short, heavy silence, and she heard him draw a ragged breath. "Good night, Zoya." Goodbye, Zoya.

His voice and the feel of his hand tight in hers were the last things she knew before sleep took over her.

And when Zoya finally slept, she dreamed that she would never have to let him go.

***

News about the death of the Brum Don because of the fire that caught his compound was heard early on the next morning. Television news, radio, newspapers, and even the social media boomed with the word, and it spread like wildfire.

It went even bigger when the Lantsov Consigliere was also reported to have died along the fire, with all the current evidence proving that the fire had been intentional. But none of them pointed to Nikolai. The investigation was still open, and it will probably go on for quite a while. The only thing that lightened the burden on Zoya’s chest was knowing that he was alive. He had known how things would go beforehand, and made sure that none of them ended up implicating the Lantsovs.

Always the well-prepared one.

The chair where Nikolai had sat last night was empty, as if he wasn’t there at all. The only traces left of him was the lingering scent of his perfume and the dip on her bedside where he had laid his arms on as he watched her with all the warmth in his eyes, the same warmth he took with him when he left.

Zoya felt her eyes sting with unwanted tears again as she looked out the window, but this time she didn’t try to keep them from falling. She smiled ruefully, a bittersweet feeling left in her heart. It was probably bad fate that had them cross paths, and it was also what separated them. But either way, it was still what had brought them together. She was thankful for that somehow, even if they only had limited time.

But then it struck her, that it didn’t always have to be fate that should handle things. She was the Lantsov Underboss, the one who drove the saintsforsaken Family out of the mud with the Consigliere. If there was something they were good at, it was handling things their own way and bending the odds to their will.

A near death experience had her questioning herself if she had done enough. She didn’t know the answer by then, but she did now.

I am not done yet.

She wouldn’t give up on Nikolai that easily. Even if it took her years to do it. She would bring him back.

Because she knew he would do the same for her.

I’ll see you again, Nikolai, she vowed. And it wouldn’t be the last.

Zoya would make sure of it.

***

A/N: if you’ve reached this far, please know i appreciate you ;-;

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irishmacguirefucker · 4 years ago

Note

Are there any hobbies some of the gang members take up now that they're in a set spot?

Ill start with just a few people (Dutch/Hosea/Arthur/Abigail/Kieran/Molly) and you can all suggest more if you would like. Or you can suggest other stuff for the AU of course

- AU MASTERLIST -

Hobbies at the Ranch

Dutch: Let's be honest, I sincerely doubt Dutch took up anything more than he already does. He may enjoy decadence but I can't imagine him as the type to blow money on a hobby that relates to it. Probably considers sitting in his office pouting over petty arguments a hobby. He collects more books, but that pales in comparison to that of Mary Beth or Hosea. He collects more records than he does books. They're so fragile that he didn't pick up many when they were still travelling, but now that he can store them safely he has started collecting more and more. Slowly he has been branching out into other genres and artists, but mainly stays within the classical region. After a few years, he probably has upwards of a hundred in his collection. Some of them he only likes a song or two on but he would never throw them away. Some of them are favourites of Mollys that he keeps for her to play when she’s in the mood. The record player in their room regularly accompanies slow dancing in their shared bedroom when he’s feeling romantic.

Hosea: When the gang moved into Bessie's old home, there were hundreds of books there already, and Hosea has been working through the ones he thought were interesting. He regularly commandeers Dutch’s office since the man doesn't actually use it for any work that would require an office, and does actual work there. For a long while after they move to the ranch, he doesn't spend much time inside the actual house. It's so full of things that remind him of Bessie and it made it hard to stay inside too long, it was just too fast. Luckily there’s plenty of work to do outside and Hosea refuses to sit around doing nothing like some people want to do. Many of the books inside related to the different things needed to run a ranch, and he read those first so they would know what to do and how to do it. None of these are really hobbies per say, but I don't see Hosea as the hobby type. One of the few he engages in now are fishing at the pond on the property, or going on the odd hunting trip when they can. The actual hunting is a much more enjoyable activity when you're not doing it to feed 20 hungry people, when it's just an activity to enjoy with your son.

Arthur: His journals are filling up faster than ever, despite the fact that there's less adventure to be had. Running a ranch with a group of former outlaws is an adventure of its own as far as that goes, and the act of journaling is still the way he gets out his thoughts and emotions in a healthy way. Now however he finds himself with more time to spend drawing. Now if he finds that he wants to sit and draw the horizon exactly as he sees it, then he has the time to do so. However, he does spend a good chunk of his time when he isn't working, just walking around and seeing if anyone else needs anything. Old habits are hard to break.

Abigail: After they got settled into the ranch, Abigail bashfully asked Hosea if he would teach her how to read as well, so she could keep up with her son as he began to learn. She took to it like a fish to water, catching on quickly. When she learned, she found that she greatly enjoyed reading. More specifically she liked learning in general. Learning new skills and information in such a non-survival situation was a luxury she hardly had in her life. But now that Jack had many many babysitters and a safe home, and she had more free time than ever, she found herself wanting to learn. Once she knew how to read, she picked up so many different books but found her favorites were educational type books. She read sewing catalogues, ranching magazines, cooking books, anything that would teach her new skills and techniques. And though she still can't cook, and some of those sewing techniques were a little too fancy for her mending, she enjoyed learning all the same.

Kieran: Surprisingly, Kieran picked up leatherwork. There was a leatherworking kit in the barn when they arrived and he found it, and figured out what it was for. Then there was a book on leatherworking in the study that Hosea found and gave to him, and he took to the work. It took a while, but over time he got very skilled. Having a relaxing hobby was a bit of a foreign concept to many of the gang members and Kieran is no stranger to that. Of course, he enjoyed fishing as did many others at the ranch, but leatherwork was different. It was hard work that he didn't do out of fear of becoming obsolete, and when his hands hurt he felt satisfied with the pain. Knowing it came from good work that he enjoyed doing made the slight twinge in his fingers a blessing. Eventually, he learned to make his own tack, and the first saddle he ever made was his pride and joy.

Molly: She has a fantastic eye for decorating. She’s amazing at working with what they had and what they could afford, making the Ranch house look established and beautiful early on. She tries to keep wildflowers in most of the rooms, even if she has to go pick them herself. She found these beautiful little jewelry boxes in storage and with Hosea's permission eagerly shared them with the other girls, so now each of them has a nice place for their sparse amounts of jewelry. She’s also quite the haggler. She has a talent for getting storekeepers to sell her tons of stuff for cheap just because they're kinda scared of the woman yelling at them in an accent they can hardly understand while 3 very large men stand behind her. Because of this skill, she got brand new kitchenware to replace the broken ones in the kitchen, and the guy threw in a hand-painted china teapot for practically free, and they didn't even need a new one. She found out about this skill by accident, Dutch had taken her into town to buy a new mirror to replace the one that broke and she hadn't liked the way the man running the store tried to speak to her. It was clear he thought she was stupid, and willing to fall for anything he might claim is a “deal”. Dutch was MIA over at a display of pocket watches, so she handled it herself, and the man practically handed over the mirror for nothing. At some point, every gang member gets the pleasure of witnessing her skill and is each in awe.

#RDR2 #Anonymous #Dutch Van Der Linde #arthur morgan #molly o'shea #abigail marston #hosea matthews #kieran duffy #rdr2 ranch au #hobbies #ranch au #au #my au #fix it au

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percywinchester27 · 4 years ago

Text

A lot like ‘Us’ (Part-10)

Word count: 5.2K

Pairing: Sam X Reader AU

Warnings: Implied smut, fluff :)

Series Summary: Y/N Y/L/N is eager and honestly, still in awe that she managed to get herself an acceptance from Stanford Law School. On the face of it, her life seems as put together, mysterious and independent as one might hope for. On the insides, she carries the burden of past that haunts her till date. Seemingly, she’d left it all behind; that is until she sets foot in the class of the Law School’s youngest, most promising professor.

A/N: No angst again! And good stuff. I am being very nice these days ;)

The story employs two different timelines. The present timeline for the story takes place in 2014. Please let me know what you guys think :)

Beta: @deanssweetheart23. Athina, you’re a goddess <3

A lot like ‘Us’ masterlist

10th September 2008

You woke up to something soft tickling your face, almost feather light and pleasant. Opening your eyes, you found Sam’s arms wrapped around you, nestling you in them. A glowing warmth spread through your body as you remembered last night, his lips on your skin, and the feel of his hot breath on your face. The way he had called out for you was enough to raise goosebumps on your skin now. And he’d said he loved you. Your heart thrummed in your chest at the memory.

Slowly, you removed his arm from over your body and slipped out of bed. You wanted to kiss him on his forehead or the point of his nose but Sam looked so peaceful you didn’t have the heart to wake him up.

You pulled over the T-shirt and the boxers Sam had lent you last night and headed down to the kitchen. Maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to skip dinner after a morning of hangover because your stomach was churning weirdly.

Would everything be different now? After last night. You felt like your heart would burst from all the love you were feeling. Without giving the task at hand much thought, you fried some eggs, toasted the bread and put the coffee pot on a boil, wondering what Sam had for breakfast.

With an excitement that you had never felt before, you carried the tray laden with food upstairs, wondering how to wake Sam up. As it turned out, Sam was already sitting up, a confused expression on his face. The sheets were bunched around his waist and the sight of his naked torso made your face feel hot. When he saw you, his eyes lit up, a smile replacing the frown.

“Here you go,” you said, placing the tray before him and then joining him on the bed.

His eyes softened. “You didn’t need to,” he said, gesturing towards the food. “Not seeing you here, I was starting to worry that last night had been a dream.”

“Only the best dream of my life,” you muttered, pouring his coffee. “Black with half spoon sugar. Just like you have it.”

Sam was still stuck on your words. He took the cup from your hands and placed it back on the tray, then pulled you to him. “That’s just it. I didn’t want it to be a dream. Even if it was the best dream ever. All dreams, even the best ones end when you wake up. But with you… I don’t ever want this to end.”

You reached out and kissed him. At first he was surprised, then he leaned into it. Kissing Sam was like a breath of fresh air for your soul. If it was left to you, you would spend an obscene amount of time kissing him.

“This is one way to start the day,” he chuckled.

“Mhmmm…” you sighed, handing him the coffee and starting on the eggs.

“Funny that Jo didn’t turn the place upside down looking for me,” you wondered idly. You should have told her where you were last night.

“I called her when you got here,” Sam said. “When er… when you were having a bath.”

Sam was always so thoughtful. Last night it hadn’t even occurred to you to let Jo know, about the acceptance or the fact that you were here, and you weren’t particularly proud of it. Absentmindedly, you scooted closer to Sam and like it was the most natural thing to do, he put his arm around you. The heat coming of his skin and his scent was so comforting, you all but melted against his side. A girl could get used to this.

“Hey,” Sam nudged you with his lips pressed in your hair. “You know that NC Central is only a seven hour drive from New York, right?”

Of course you knew that. It was a great school, but it was also on the East coast, where Sam would be. You nodded against his neck, lightly tracing the hard lines of his stomach.

“I could drive over the weekends to see you.” There was hope in his voice.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” you smiled at the thought of it all. A new school, a new life with Sam in it. You thought of happy weekends and flinging yourself into his arms whenever you saw him. You pictured his wide smiles, and the joy in his eyes when he saw you. “I could hop on a bus on Friday night and be there in New York in the morning. You’d show me around, wouldn’t you? I’ve never been to such a big city.”

“You have no idea,” he said. “I’ve never wanted that job more than now. Hell, I’d throw myself into preparing for the bar, if it keeps us that close now.”

“Mhmm.” You huddled closer to him.

“What’re you thinking?”

“About how I’m going to afford this,” you said. “NC central isn’t that expensive, but it’s still a lot considering I have almost nothing to my name. I don’t want to sell off Gran’s house.”

“You want to make it into a bakery, I remember,” he said, gently, then added hesitantly. “Maybe I could-”

“No!” You sat up straight. “Absolutely not. I can’t ask this from you.” You hurried to explain, seeing the slightly hurt expression on his face. “This isn’t about you in any way. It’s very kind of you to offer, it really is. But I want to do this by myself. I’ll apply for a student’s loan. Like I said, the money isn’t an impossible sum. I just need a guarantor to vouch for me at the bank. I don’t want to ask aunt El cause I know she had some bank problems with the diner. She doesn’t trust them very much.”

Sam looked thoughtful.

“What’re you thinking?” You asked suspiciously. “Don’t think about volunteering.”

His finger was drawing a pattern on your shoulder as he licked his lips. “You know I can’t. I don’t own any property myself. You should ask Dean, though.”

“Dean?” You looked up at him surprised. “Why would he?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Sam countered. “He might not show it, but he does like you. You’re not asking him to pay for your college, you’re just asking him to be a guarantor. He has great credit, the bank won’t refuse that. It’s not like you’re going to dupe him. I know my brother. Trust me, he’ll be happy to help you.”

When you still looked surprised, Sam took hold of your hand and pressed it to his lips. “Don’t overthink this. You said you wanted to do this by yourself, so you bring it up with him. I promise I won’t say a word.”

“You’re awesome. You know that, right?”

He winked. “I don’t know about that. But I’m sure happy you think that!”

You removed the tray from the bed and placed it on the side table, then moved over to straddle Sam, hands placed on either side of his face. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

In a quick moment, Sam flipped you, so that you were lying on the bed with him hovering over you. He dipped down to kiss the hollow of your neck, then whisper against your skin. “The pleasure is all mine.”

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

“You know, if you keep bouncing on the balls of your feet like that,” Meg said drowsily from the table, where she sat flipping through a magazine, “I’m going to side with Kevin on this. You’re hiding something.”

You put your lunch in the bag, wondering just how to tell her. It wasn’t that you wanted to hide your history from your roommate. There was just so much of it, you had no idea where to start. For now, you just settled for, “There’s this professor. I thought he was mad at me. Turns out he isn’t.”

“Wow. It doesn’t take much to get you all chirpy.”

Just the feeling of six years worth of hell coming to an end.

“Ready to go?” You asked and Meg jumped down from the high stool.

“Yep.”

“Is this the same good looking professor?” She asked out the blue as you reached the campus gates.

“How do you know about the good looking professor?” You narrowed your eyes. You had mentioned Sam only to one person in the apartment.

Meg looked taken aback for a second, then said nonchalantly. “Cas told me.”

“You two are really close, aren’t you?” Try as you may, you couldn’t keep the sly tone out of your voice completely.

Meg changed the topic smoothly, but not before you saw the faint blush on her cheeks.

Meg blushing? Speak of novelty.

She waved you a goodbye at the entrance of the law building, heading north to the Physics department. Wondering if anyone else in the apartment had noticed, you entered the class for your first lecture.

Professor Mills was in a great mood today, and she encouraged a debate on whether Legal writing and its syntax should affect how seriously the core content of any litigation is treated. You firmly believed that poor syntax should in no way undermine the severity of any litigation, and made your points with citation. The opposite team consisting of Brad and everyone in Madison’s group tried to put up a strong fight, but you knew you had the moral high ground on that one. Maddy was smiling by the end of it, but the expression on the other’s faces ranged from disappointment to disgust.

Professor Mills mentioned you by your name at the end of the class, lauding you for your points. It was enough to give you the high of the day. You simply loved her.

As the college day neared its end, you were excited for Civil Procedures, excited to see Sam again. Maybe he wouldn’t ignore you now. Maybe he’d actually look at you and smile. Your eyes were eagerly glued to the door, waiting for him while everyone chattered in the background.

It wasn’t Sam who came in. Instead, the TA Paul announced that the lecture has been cancelled for today and tomorrow. Professor Winchester would take double lectures in the following week to cover it up.

“Well, dang it!” Meredith cursed. “After that horrible debate, I was looking forward to seeing that chiseled face.”

“You aren’t the only one who’s disappointed,” Lacey said slyly. “Y/N looks like someone kicked her puppy.”

You schooled your expressions immediately.

Madison rolled her eyes. “Everyone was looking forward to it. Maybe he has something important. Remember he ditched Thursday, Friday on our first week, too.”

“Maybe he’s just playing hooky with his girlfriend,” Rebecca shrugged. You had a maddening urge to slap her. It wasn’t fair to direct all your anger at her; you knew that. However, listening to her words, evaporated the high you had been feeling completely.

How naive of you to think that one small conversation could make everything okay. Maybe he went back home and changed his mind, had seen that the exchange was a lapse in his judgement. Your stomach dropped at that thought. Why did he have to show you a moment of softness, if he was just going to take it all away? It would have been better then, had he continued to ignore your existence. You had been making your peace with it. You didn’t think you had it in you to take one more hit after feeling hope, at last.

Morosely, you started picking up your things.

“Y/N. Don’t forget about the party, tomorrow.”

Madison was looking at you with wide eyes.

You opened your mouth to make up a reason. She cut you off-

“Look, I checked your schedule. You’re not working this weekend. This is your last working day for the week. I’ve made all the reservations and counted you in.”

“Maddie-”

Her brow furrowed. “You’re not going to stand me up, are you? The drinks are on me.”

Looking at her, you just couldn't say no.

“I was gonna say that I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“Yay!” She shot out of her chair and flung her arms around you. Surprised, you put your hand against her back.

“Told you she’d come,” Madison told her friends. Lacey gave you a smile, Meredith looked disinterested and Rebecca had her back turned to you completely. That summed it up accurately. For the umpteeth time you wondered how their group functioned at all.

Brad, who had been lingering at the table with his guy friends, gave you a smirk.

“Miss Y/L/N finally gracing us with her presence?”

“Oh, butt out, Brad,” Madison shoved him. “If you keep acting like a dick, she might change her mind.”

“Now we wouldn’t want that, would we,” he said under his breath.

You didn’t want any more of their company than what was absolutely required, so you said your goodbye to Madison and left the lecture hall for the day. With your sulky attitude, returning to the apartment wasn’t an option in case you ran into someone. Those guys were very perceptive and you didn’t want to lie to them anymore.

After wandering aimlessly underneath the pergolas of the Quadrangle, you headed to the library. It was about two in the afternoon; four more hours and it would be your shift anyway.

You decided to have your lunch in the closed quarters of the librarian’s room. There wasn’t much to the room except a makeshift bed, a table, chair and a coffee machine. You could sit there and catch up with the essays after lunch.

The on shift librarian wasn’t Molly today, but this other odd hours guy. She was hovering over him, giving instructions. When she saw you, she ushered you to the side. “It’s his first time. I’m training him for the weekend.”

“Oh.” You looked over at the guy. He was clearly an anxious wreck. You felt bad for him.

“Hey listen,” you said, “Is it okay if I use the librarian’s room? I haven’t had lunch and I don’t want to go to the eateries or the mess.”

She gave you a guilty look. “The room is kinda sorta… ocupado.”

“What?”

“See for yourself.” She took hold of your hand and pulled you towards the room in question.

The door was almost closed, save for a small slit. Through it, you could see Sam sitting on the table, multiple books and files scattered around him. He was absolutely absorbed in whatever he was doing, forehead lined in concentration.

“What the-”

Molly shushed you. “Look, I know this looks weird, but he’s in the middle of something. They convicted one of his key clients, and he said he needed some place quiet to figure this out.”

“What about his firm?” You asked the obvious question.

“Client’s not from SF. He’s from LA. Heading to Acton Gris would be going in the opposite direction.”

“Then what about his office here?” You were so surprised that the questions just flowed out of your mouth.

Molly gave an exasperated sigh. “Students. They keep knocking on the door.” She gave you a desperate look. “Please Y/N, let him be. He’s really worked up about it.”

“Yeah, of course,” you assured her.

She looked grateful. “This isn’t conventional, but he’s one of the good folks around here. I knew him from the alumni fraternity before he started teaching here. In fact, he recommended me for my internship at the LA firm he was working in then.”

That explained why she called him by his first name. She was preaching to the choir about how good Sam was though.

“That’s all fine,” you said. “Just let me know if there’s any way I can help.”

“Molly?”

Both of you jumped at the sound of his voice.

“Molly?” He asked again. “Is that you?”

She pushed the door open.

“Yeah it’s me.” She looked at you. “And this is Y/N. You remember her from the other day, don’t you?”

He smiled at you. It was a tired smile, but it held the mischief of a secret only the two of you knew.

“I remember her,” he said dryly.

All the distress and world ending angst you had been feeling since the class vanished into thin air.

“I-I didn’t mean to disturb you,” you said quickly. “I just came in to check if I could have lunch here. Clearly you are busy working, so I’m just going to go now.”

“You’re not disturbing,” he said firmly. “I’ll clear the table. You can have lunch here.”

“No- no,” you backed off. “Seriously. I can go to the mess.”

“Y/N.” He looked beyond exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept in a while. Even his words were heavy. “C’mon, in. At least sit on the bed.”

Molly poked you in the back from behind and you stumbled inside.

The room was a mess. There were papers everywhere. Sam was one of the most organised people you knew. If there was that much mess around him, either he had changed drastically in the years or this was really a disaster situation.

“Tell me if I can help you with anything.” The words were out before you could even think them through.

He rubbed his hand across his face. “I can’t possibly ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking me. I’m offering.”

You didn’t know if this fell in line with proper etiquette of how one should converse with a professor, but this was Sam, and he looked ready to drop. To hell with etiquette. You were going to do whatever you could to help.

Behind you, Molly had disappeared back into the library.

He paused, considering your words, then sighed. “Even if you wanted to, this is too much to explain.”

You flung your bag on the bed and rolled up the sleeves of your sweater. “I’ve worked as a paralegal for an asshole boss. I think I can keep up.”

Sam gave you a look that was halfway between impressed and surprised.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath, so softly that you almost missed it. “Alright, here’s the details of the case-”

You listened attentively as he quickly briefed you about this teenage boy, James Feller, who had been arrested for grand auto theft about four years back. The boy testified against the gang, cut a deal with the DA and walked. Now he had been arrested again, and after being let out, jumped the bail. Sam had until tomorrow to fix it or this kid was spending a long, long time in jail. Sam was sure that James hadn’t done it. He had some grabs from CCTV footage to prove his alibi. It only needed to be put together. He might be completely innocent when it came to the theft, but there was still the bail issue to take care of.

“Right, I’ll go through the log to see if there’s anything similar where an underage defendant jumped bail and got out of prison under the jurisdiction of LA,” you said.

“That’s exactly what I was going to suggest,” he said, astonished again.

You shrugged and pulled out your laptop, signing into the library’s archival server with your password. There were a couple of cases that could be cited in context to Sam’s case. You pulled out the soft copies of the litigations and highlighted the relevant extracts.

“You guys need anything?” Molly was standing at the door. She had her bag on her shoulder. You looked at the clock. It was already six, time for your shift to begin. Where had the time gone?

“We’re good,” Sam said.

“Seriously? You guys don’t need anything? Not even coffee?” She came to stand by the coffee machine. “I’m making a cup for myself anyway.”

You gave in. “I’d like a cup. Thanks, Molly.”

“One for me, too,” Sam caved, too.

“You guys look intense working like that,” she said, filling the pot with water. “Are you making any headway?”

“Y/N found some useful citations.” Sam closed the heavy book before him and leaned back in his chair, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt. The coat had been hung over the back of his chair since long before. You tried not to look at him too much.

“Good on you, Y/N!” Molly said, pulling on three mugs. “How do you have your coffee?”

“Little milk and one spoon sugar,” you said politely.

“Sam?”

There was no response. You looked to see that he was busy with his phone, having not heard a single word of it.

“Let it be,” you suggested, seeing as Molly was shuffling the strap of her bag. “You go on. I’ll manage the coffee.”

“You’re a lovely person!” She noted with just a hint of surprise, then blew you a kiss. “See you later, Chica bonita.”

You poured coffee for him, black with half spoon of sugar, stirred it and carefully handed it to him. He took it gratefully, holding out two fingers as he talked over the phone.

You grabbed your mug and went back to your laptop. It appeared that Sam was talking to a colleague explaining the things he needed to get ready. He took a sip of the coffee and stopped mid sentence, looking at you over his screen in wonderment.

“Chase, I’ll call you back in a minute.”

You had gathered your stuff in one hand.

“Y/N?” Sam interrupted you, voice oddly tender. “You remembered.”

He was holding his mug out. The warm vapours were slightly fogging his glasses.

“Of course I remember.”

There was no way you would forget.

He saw your things wrapped in your hand and the bag slung over your shoulder.

“You’re leaving?” Disappointment clear in his tone.

You shook your head. “I’m just going outside at the desk. It’s my shift now. I’ll continue tagging relevant extracts and have three sets of printouts ready for you. You’ll let me know if you need more time? I can keep the library running all night.”

“You’re the power wielding person here, aren’t you?”

“Sure am,” you grinned. “I’ll leave you it.”

Once outside, you took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Being around Sam made you conscious of every little thing… enough to drive you crazy. Maybe it was a good thing that you were going to the party tomorrow. You needed a drink. That thought inadvertently reminded you of Jo- the only sister you’d ever had. If she were here, she would have told you to go for it despite knowing how insane drunk Y/N was and wreck you would be the next day. The memory of her also made you sad, the missing was gut wrenching sometimes. You almost turned on your heel and headed by inside to ask Sam about Jo and about Dean. Were they still together? Did the diner ever get out of the bumpy patch? How was aunt El doing?

Did they hate you for leaving like that?

That thought brought you up short. You didn’t want to know the answer to that question. There was a small hope within you. If Sam of all people could find it in himself to be civil with you, maybe they would, too. Broaching the topic now would be disastrous. It wouldn’t help Sam right now to lose concentration. Hell, he might do a 180 and suddenly remember that he didn’t like you.

You got back to your desk, filing the cards out for the day before getting to Sam’s paperwork. Though it was a manual job, you did it with utmost concentration, knowing how chaotic courtrooms got and how crucial it was to find the right evidence at the right time. Alongside, you carefully read the suit and arranged the stacks according to the order in which they were needed.

“You know, if you kept going at it like that, you’ll have to represent the boy tomorrow.”

You looked up and your breath hitched. Sam stood before you, his shirt partially untucked and sleeves rolled all the way up till his elbows. The tie was gone and the top button of his shirt was undone. There was a glint of silver against his neck, a thin chain. You wondered where it had come from absently. Without the glasses, and his hair slightly dishevelled, you could see some of the guy you had first fallen in love with.

You looked away quickly, blinking several times, then pushed the stack of printouts towards him. All three copies, arranged as per the appearances of the evidence in the suit papers. The affidavits are all the bottom, along with the supplementary copies.

“You should come down to the office and train my assistant,” he said, leaning over the table so that his elbow rested on top. “He can’t find one paper on time.”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh.

“Aren’t you having dinner?” He asked, tucking his hair behind his ear. He was nervous.

“I’m not hungry.” Your stomach was already so full of butterflies, you didn’t think any food could go in.

“I’m already feeling terrible that you’re helping me with this… please don’t skip dinner for it.” There was something about his voice that affected your soul. The sound of his words were different from everyone elses. All words felt kinder, lovelier when he said them.

“Why are you fighting for this kid?” The words slipped past you before you could stop them. You had been wondering this all evening. “I saw the papers. You’re doing this pro bono and not for Acton Gris. This is your own case.”

He didn’t reply immediately and his face had a far away look. When he finally spoke, it was in a reminiscing tone. “I met James when he was a foster kid a few years ago. He got pushed into the racket because of bad influence. When I saw him at the retention centre, he broke down completely. They were blackmailing him by threatening to hurt his little sister. When he first got off, he looked at me like I was some kind of miracle.” Sam’s face had an awed look, as if he couldn’t comprehend how anyone could think that of him.

“I knew he wouldn’t get into this again. He’s in college now and has basically turned his life around. We have enough evidence to pin a gang member down for framing him. I don’t want anyone at Acton Gris to help me on this because this is my own case. Putting some poor junior on it is just abusing my power.”

He was a good man. That in itself didn’t surprise you because you had always known it. What surprised you was that he had remained one. Sam used to be starry eyed with ambitions and full of a thirst to do the right thing. He had been so idealistic. It worried you that one day he would wake up and see that the world was an even worse place than what he thought it to be. You worried that the ruthless profession might kill some of the inherent goodness in him. After having lost just as much as you, he hadn’t lost faith in the world. He had remained good.

“What?” He questioned and you realised you were staring.

“There you are!”

Jody Mills stood behind Sam, a harried expression on her face. He straightened up immediately and it occurred to you how close your faces had been.

“I went to your house, called up your PA, and here you are.”

“Jody?” He clearly hadn’t expected her.

She handed him the bag she was carrying. “I have dinner for you. I knew you would bury yourself in the case and wouldn’t cook since you’re by yourself now.”

Now. What did that mean? Lacey’s remark about Sam living in family quarters and having a girlfriend came to your mind. You dismissed it quickly.

“Didn’t see you there, Y/N,” Professor Mills came around. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Actually I just started a week ago.”

Her eyes flitted to the stack in front of you. “And what’s this?”

“Y/N’s been helping me with some printing,” Sam said.

Professor Mills gave him a once over. “Sam Winchester making students work?”

“It’s not like that,” you defended quickly. “I offered to help S- Mr. Winchester. I have some experience as a paralegal and this was only a matter of making copies.”

“You did a lot more than that,” Sam corrected smoothly.

“I was only joking.” she placed a hand on Sam’s arm and you noted that they were probably closer than just colleagues. Friends even. “You, on the other hand, keep surprising me, Y/N. This looks like solid work.”

You blushed at the compliment, mumbling a small ‘thank you.’ Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Sam gazed down at you oddly. If you didn’t know any better, you might have misinterpreted it as a hint of pride.

“You have your food!” Jody ordered him and waved at you. “See you in class tomorrow, Y/N.”

“Good night,” you wished her.

Before leaving, she glanced from you to Sam and back again, a peculiar look in her eyes, shook her head and left.

She had packed a burger and pack of oily fries for Sam. You saw his brow furrow at the sight of it and smiled to yourself. Some things never changed.

Sam insisted that you have your dinner, too. However, you made sure that while he sat inside, you had your dinner at your desk. There was only so much of his nearness you could take without having your feelings run wild. Sam needed to go through the case files in peace for the court tomorrow. You let him be, only visiting the librarian’s room once to let him know that you wouldn’t shut the library at all. He was grateful for it. After everyone else had left, you wrapped the shawl around your shoulders and put your head down against the wooden desk. Closing your tired eyes just for a second, you let yourself reflect on everything that had happened today and how one day could be more impactful than a month of one's life sometimes.

You woke up several hours later. Grey light was starting to filter from the high windows. It was early dawn.

Hurriedly you got up to check on Sam, but the librarian’s room was closed from the outside, you checked in the seating area, too. There was no one there; you were by yourself in the room.

Back to your desk, you noticed a folded piece of paper placed under your paperweight.

It said-

Y/N,

I have to start from here now to make it to LA in time for the hearing. Didn’t have the heart to wake you up. I can’t thank you enough for your invaluable help.

Regards,

Sam.

You clutched the paper tightly in your fingers, crumpling it in the process. Sometimes a few words were louder than a speech. Sometimes the gesture was even louder.

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

A/N 2: You guys! THEY TALKED! I know a lot of you have been like ‘They just need to talk’ and well, it happened. So what do you think? Uphill?

ALL MY LOVE to everyone who commented and reblogged. You guys keep me posting! <3

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houchlife · 4 years ago

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Top 7 Law Of Attraction Tips To Manifest More Of What You Want!

By Heather Mathews Author of Manifestation Miracle “Everything is within your power, and your power is within you.” ― Janice Trachtman Charlie, a stay at home dad, works out of his living room while looking after his three-year-old toddler. As a social media consultant, he depends on his laptop to make a living. The problem is that his beat up computer was as old as his kid, and it was always glitching on him. So Charlie kept focusing on getting a new computer – a 13-inch Macbook Pro in particular. Eventually, his old laptop gave out, which made him panic a bit. So Charlie went online to look for another one while having the shiny new Macbook in the back of his mind. After hours of searching, he couldn’t find a reasonably priced model. So he was about to settle on another type of laptop and was close to closing the sale. But at the last minute, Charlie decided to check the price listings for a used version of the computer that he REALLY wanted. And just like that, someone was selling a six-month old Macbook Pro for a price significantly cheaper than a store-bought one. So Charlie got what he wanted, and at a better deal than he had hoped for! Now, Charlie’s incredible stroke of luck seemed like a fluke to him at first, but then another awesome thing happened shortly after. You see, Charlie was also looking for a new job because he felt stuck in his current one. So he had his sights set on another company with a position in mind. The truth was that he wasn’t all that confident he was even qualified for the position, but he went over the job description again and again. Charlie even printed the job ad and put it on his refrigerator door so he could see it every day. A couple of weeks after his interview, he got a call from the company and said he got the job. On Charlie’s first day, his new boss told him, “Honestly, your skillset isn’t an exact match for what we were looking for. But I really liked how you did at the interview…and besides, we can train you for the other things you need to learn, anyway. You have a great attitude and that’s more important than being 100% qualified for the job.” Click Here To Discover the Lazy Person’s Secret To Get Everything You’ve Ever Wished For Is It Coincidence - Or Something Else at Work? It’s easy to brush off Charlie’s streak as plain dumb luck, but could he have WILLED his good fortune to happen? After all, the common element between getting his new laptop and the new job was that he focused on both things intensely. Charlie kept it in his thoughts all the time. More than that, he created a detailed picture of his desired state in his mind. He imagined what it would be like to hold his new laptop and how he’d feel working in the new job he was aiming for. Charlie visualized both scenarios so vividly that he could almost taste it. Whether he knew it or not, he was putting the basic principle of The Law of Attraction to work - and it served him well. As the name implies, this law decrees that “like attracts like.” There’s a global movement behind this belief, and it says that the kind of thoughts you send out to the Universe emit a certain frequency – be it helpful or harmful. And you have the power to control the wavelength you operate on, which in turn attracts circumstances that match your energy. So by focusing on positive outcomes and giving out positive vibrations, you can turn your thoughts into a tangible force of good in your life! On the other side of the coin, dwelling on the negative aspects of life and focusing your attention on the things you resent attracts even MORE negativity into your world. Like Charlie, you can think of something specific you want, and hold that image in your mind. Create all the details that bring the picture to life, then believe that you already have it. When you go about your day thinking that the object of your desire is already a matter of fact… …this sends out a clear, strong message to the Universe that you truly WANT and BELIEVE it. But this is just the tip of the iceberg; there are other ways to raise your frequency even higher. By following these 7 Tips to Create the Life You’ve Always Dreamed Of, you’ll naturally attract everything you’ve ever wanted – and MORE:

#1: Set aside time to focus on what you desire

The first habit is simple enough: give yourself at least 5-7 minutes daily to visualize the things you want to turn into reality.

You can do this by finding a quiet place to contemplate, then sit upright with your eyes closed. While keeping your desires front and center in your thoughts, breathe deeply in and out.

Focus on your breath and the sensations your body is feeling, and use that as anchor to keep your thoughts from straying.

If your mind does go on a tangent, gently bring yourself back to your breathing AND your desired future state.

You’ll get a lot of benefits from doing this for just a few minutes every day. For instance, many studies have proven the stress-reducing properties of meditation.

A study at the Massachusetts General Hospital showed that people who tried their meditation program experienced significantly less health problems than before.

They ended up not having to see a doctor or go to the emergency room, saving them about $2,300 in medical costs for EACH person!

On top of that of course, meditation also helps you keep your eye on the prize and give you the determination to make it happen.

Some people however, have trouble meditating and get easily distracted.

If you need a little guidance with this habit, I’ve got a special gift for you – but more on that later…

MORE ABOUT Motivational / Transformational

#2: Be grateful and practice gratitude

Ever hear the expression “Thank your lucky stars”?

Back in ancient times, people believed that celestial bodies played a huge role in someone’s destiny.

Today, many still believe that these same external forces affect our lives.

The Law of Attraction draws from this belief, and it states that we should be gratefull whenever the Universe sends something good our way.

This is another way of fine tuning your frequency. When you actively pay attention to the positive things that happen around you, it acts like a magnet that attracts similar things.

And by being thankful for your blessings, you’re sending a powerful message to the Universe that essentially translates to:

“Thank you, that was awesome! More please!”

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#3: Take a leap of faith

The main challenge that people have with manifesting their desires is dealing with the world of the intangible.

It can be daunting (and even discouraging) to imagine a future outcome that hasn’t happened yet.

It takes some faith to push past that hazy uncertainty, and not everyone has it in them to do so.

So you need to check your inner Doubting Thomas at the door for a moment and appreciate how other people have used the Law of Attraction to succeed.

Consider the great figures from the past: Albert Einstein, Nelson Mandela, Marie Curie, Vincent Van Gogh and Nikola Tesla.

All of them were shining examples of how they used their mind and willpower to create something valuable in this world.

They raised their own frequency and as result, had a different energy from the rest of humanity.

Even though they’re gone, their legacy lives on, and we can still feel its impact today.

It’s all because they took a brave step into the unknown.

Even though they couldn’t see how their work would ripple through the next several decades, they still powered through.

The skepticism that people have is the result of growing up.

As you get older and have more experiences, a certain amount of jadedness sets in.

That’s why you won’t find any of that in kids. Just think about how children play make-believe.

When they yell, “The floor is lava!” you can bet they’ll be scrambling for the nearest couch or chair to avoid getting “burned.”

On a certain level, they TRULY believe that the floor is literally molten rock.

They can see the hot, glowing lava, burning everything its path…

…and they do everything to stay out of its way.

That’s the power the mind and imagination in action.

Learn how to see the world on this level again. That way, you can see a bright future before it happens – then go on to make it a reality.

Click Here To Learn How to Force the Universe to Manifest Your Dream Life

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#4: Keep on keepin’ on

One of the realities of this world is that you can’t eliminate adversity.

It’s always going to be an uphill climb at some point, especially when you’ve just taken on a new challenge.

You’ve been eating right and working out, but the pounds aren’t quite flying off as you’d hoped.

You started a side income project, but your cash flow hasn’t been anything more than a trickle.

You’ve tried beating your depression with exercise, therapy and medication, but the dark thoughts still charge at you like a freight train.

That’s called RESISTANCE.

It will always be there, even as you dig deep and do everything in your power to manifest the reality you want.

Being a grown-up means expecting those external circumstances to work against you.

Your best response? PUSH BACK.

Keep your inner world together, and the outside world will follow suit.

Dumbledore once told Harry Potter, “Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”

Remember: the hero of the story is never a one-person army.

Harry had Hermione and Ron.

Luke had Obi-Wan and Yoda.

And you don’t have to fly solo in YOUR journey.

Think about the people in your inner circle – are they giving you the energy, motivation and inspiration to succeed?

If the company you keep sneers at growth and being better, maybe it’s time to look for other friends to round out your squad.

Seek people who lead by example and can show you how to overcome that resistance in your life.

Learn from them and let their enthusiasm rub off you.

While you’re at it, use technology to connect to like-minded folks who can help you in your quest. Open your phone or laptop and fire up YouTube, Vimeo or any other video streaming site.

TED talks, self-help lectures and tons of other empowering content are literally at your fingertips.

The Universe has too much abundance for you to ignore.

We’re part of a vast human network, and our collective energy affects everyone else in ways we can’t yet fully comprehend.

This network has always been around; the Internet merely accelerated it. Tap into it and unleash its power.

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#5: Tune out your Negative Ned (or Nancy)

There’s always that voice in the back of your head that kicks in when life gets tough.

It loves whispering things in your ear, usually at the height of your frustration and despair:

- “You totally blew that one, why do you even bother trying?”

- “You had one job and you screwed it up like always…I’m not even surprised.”

- “Getting back on the horse, are we? I give it a week before you go back to your old ways. Better to quit while you’re ahead!”

- “You actually thought he was complimenting you? Oh, bless your heart…it’s called ‘small talk’ and ‘being nice’.”

If you’re like the rest of the human species, you’re going to run into those nasty folks called insecurity, self-doubt and fear.

They’re going to take up space in your head and try to drown you out with their noise.

Rumi, a 13th-century Persian poet and scholar, knew this well. It his poem “The Guest House”, he spoke an ancient truth about the human condition.

He likened all our thoughts and feelings – both good and bad – as visitors who stopped by the guest house of the soul.

And this line struck me the most:

“The dark thought, the shame, the malice. Meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.”

Once I understood what it meant, I realized that I didn’t have to resist it. I could simply let my obnoxious guests do their thing, and see them out.

It’s not about covering your ears and going, “La la la la! I can’t hear you!”

Acknowledging their existence in your head is NOT the same as letting them win.

The world’s greatest achievers go through bouts of darkness and anger like everyone else.

The main difference is that they use their failures as material for an instruction manual called “What NOT to Do and How to Do It Better The Next Time Around”.

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#6: Ditch your story

You shouldn’t stop at managing your negative thoughts, however. You need to peel back another layer and go deeper.

Here’s the thing: you grew up on a set of beliefs, whether you’re aware of it or not.

Your parents, teachers, friends and pretty much everyone you knew growing up contributed to your programming.

You don’t know it, but you operate on this programming on a daily basis.

And it influences every decision you make – and how you choose to see the world.

Now this can be a good thing if you grew up around people who were positive, motivated and had a good outlook on life…

…but this is the real world we’re talking about, so NOT everyone had that kind of effect on you.

Somewhere along your journey, someone discouraged you in a subtle way, or put some sort of label that you can’t shake off.

Words like “Underachiever”, “Oddball”, “Loser”, “Nerd”, “Small Fry”, “Ugly Duckling” and “Black Sheep” come to mind…

…and each one is damaging in its own toxic way.

Sadly, most people carry this invisible weight their whole life.

But starting today, you can lay those bricks on the ground and walk away for good. You don’t have to carry that weight for anyone, especially not for THEM.

Stop living your story based on the false narrative that your negative programming created.

All those preconceived beliefs need to go if you want to attract happiness and prosperity in your life.

I’ve seen people achieve INCREDIBLE things – even the impossible – just by doing this one thing.

Lionel, a heroin addict from Michigan, was in and out of jail for the longest time.

But after overdosing within an inch of his life, he decided to ditch his old story.

Even after everyone gave up on Lionel and called him a “screw-up”, he turned it all around.

He let go of the labels that people had been putting on him for YEARS…

…and Lionel decided he didn’t have to be any of those things anymore.

Lionel created a NEW story for himself – one where he was finally free of his crippling addiction and lived a clean, sober life.

What kind of story do YOU want to live out?

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#7: Make your affirmations “pop”

You might have heard of people making declarations about themselves to manifest them as truth, and not just as an opinion.

When you affirm some truth about yourself, it validates the awesomeness within you.

Words of kindness heal the soul and help forgive past failures.

In short, it’s about LOVING yourself.

After all, you can’t give what you don’t have.

However, saying “Boy I sure love myself!” doesn’t quite do the trick.

To make your affirmations stick in your subconscious, it needs to have a little something extra.

Don’t stop at “I love me!”- take it up another notch to really drive the point home.

Try these on for size:

- “I love myself so much that I want to use my gifts and share them with the world. I want to take this love inside me and use it to lift other people up.”

- “By sharing the love I have, I possess the power to change myself for the better, and the world around me.”

- “I am love, light, peace and prosperity. Anger, hate and scarcity have no power over me.”

- Aside from loving yourself, you can also infuse a dash of humor in your affirmations. Who says you have to be so grim with his Law of Attraction stuff, anyway?

When you add a bit of levity while you affirm yourself, it shushes your Negative Ned (or Nancy) into silence.

Try coming up with statements like these:

- “I’m so awesome that I kick mediocrity in its big fat butt!”

- “I’ve come here to be awesome at everything I do and kick major butt. And I’m all out of butts to kick.”

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2manyfandoms2count · 4 years ago

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Friends who cook together...

I saw today's prompt for @auyeahaugust (College AU) and thought it would be the perfect opportunity to share the beginning of this fic I've been working on!

It's actually based on @e-milieeee's post, I couldn't resist the cooking trope 😬

Hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3 (gasp)

---

Lesson 1: Ratatouille

Adrien Agreste was the perfect man. Good-looking, hard-working, charming, he was the prime example of the son-in-law every parent wanted, and the people his age who didn't want to be him wanted to date him.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng wouldn't deny she might be classified in the latter category, although less so than when she was younger. She was good friends with the model now. Voluntarily so. You didn’t fight and defeat Paris’ number one villains for years, growing from a teenager into a young adult together, without getting close. Their respective crushes on each other had faded over time, but it didn’t mean they would’ve said no if all the circumstances aligned, although they wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.

The one thing Adrien Agreste wasn’t, though, was a good cook. Not that he didn’t have everything he could possibly need in his kitchen. The apartment he now lived in, although a huge step down from the Mansion that had once been his home (but what wouldn’t be), was still a lot bigger, and a lot more comfortable than what a normal student should have been able to afford.

It was a lot better equipped, too.

Marinette had told him the contractors were abusing his trust by installing things that were way more expensive than they ought to be, knowing he wouldn’t double check, but he’d waved her concerns away. With his father’s demise, he’d just wanted to move out as quickly as possible to avoid the crowds of paparazzi, and if signing a very large cheque could provide him with the knowledge the workers wouldn’t blab, then so be it. He couldn’t bring himself to sell the Mansion despite the knowledge it had been Hawkmoth’s lair the whole time -there were too many memories associated with his mother there- but he’d had some offers to rent it out for movie settings which would definitely cover the costs of keeping it, as well as his rent. He’d looked into his finances and put all the money he’d earned as a model in a bank account, and donated the rest to a fund to help Akuma victims. There was no way he was keeping his father’s dirty money when so many people had suffered at his hands.

Since then, Adrien had fallen into a nice little routine as he moved from Lycée to University. He made the most of his freedom by exploring every nook and cranny of Paris without anyone being able to say anything about it. No curfews, no limitations, but for his own tiredness and others’ private property, of course.

It left little time for him to learn basic cooking skills. He was often too tired to make anything when he came back from his nocturnal meanderings, so he went for the easy solution: food delivery. There were so many restaurants nearby he could’ve eaten something different every night for a month and still not have gone through all of the options. It was more diverse than anything he’d ever eaten, and it suited him just fine.

Little did he know that this habit would be disrupted by his best friend moving in next door.

Marinette had been looking for a new flat. Not that she didn’t enjoy living with her parents, but she found herself wanting a little more privacy now that she was at University. The reveal that she was Ladybug had brought a lot of attention to the Tom and Sabine bakery, which was good, but a lot of it was journalists prowling around in the hopes of getting an exclusive interview with her. She was tired of being pretty much mauled anytime she left the house, and although she could easily leave via the rooftops as Ladybug, she refused to let them dictate how and when she could get in and out. Which is why, when she’d seen the words “à louer” on a window of Adrien’s building as she visited him for their weekly game night, she didn’t think twice about calling the number. Adrien had been a step ahead of her, so the owners were expecting her call. A week later, she had officially moved into the flat across from his.

She hadn’t paid much attention to his habits at first. She was too busy settling in, and with all the planned evenings with Nino and Alya, plus the ones with the Miracuclass students who remained in Paris, she didn’t see how late he came back at night, and ordering in didn’t seem out of place. What better than a pizza for poker night? Or sushi for movie night? It was easy .

As winter settled in, though, and nights out dwindled to once every fortnight, she noticed the ballet of scooters and bikes that came almost at a fixed time every night. Generally when she was about to fall asleep, doing a grand job at waking her up. Groggily stalking up to the window one evening, she’d noticed Adrien meet the delivery person as he came back from wherever he’d been, paying his due and coming up. She’d dismissed it due to midterm season approaching, but exams had come and gone and things hadn’t changed. She kept an eye out, and after two additional weeks of seeing Adrien collect a brown paper bag, knowing fully well that he ate a sandwich every midday thanks to her father’s well-meaning gossip, she’d decided to take action. She couldn’t let her partner have such a questionable diet.

“What's it going to be tonight?” She asked, leaning arms crossed against her door frame one night as he appeared on the landing.

Adrien froze at the top of the stairs and looked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

“Er…“ He raked his mind for something, anything that would sound even remotely healthy, but nothing came. He sighed defeatedly. “None pizza with left beef.” He mumbled, his head lowered guiltily. He’d seen the meme the night before, and had wanted to try it out.

“What?”

He repeated a little louder.

“Okay that’s it, you’re coming over to my place for dinner.”

He knew from her tone of voice there’d be no arguing with her, so he sheepishly followed her inside her flat, still clutching his pizza box. He wasn’t too unhappy about the outcome, if he was honest. Marinette was a good cook. He’d have a nice meal tonight.

“What about the pizza?” He asked weakly.

“We can use it as… bread, or something.” The girl suggested, crinkling her nose at the thought. For someone who came from a long line of bakers and was part Italian, calling the contents of the box pizza or even bread seemed inherently wrong.

Adrien trailed a little behind her as she walked towards her kitchen, marveling at what she’d done with the place.

Marinette’s apartment mirrored his in terms of structure, but whereas his decoration was very minimalistic, hers was a lot more eclectic, without looking cluttered. Her furniture wasn’t a set, yet fit together very well and gave the space a cozy feel. The painted walls, as well as the coloured posters, curtains, rugs and cushions made it feel very homey. He wanted nothing more than sit on her sofa and snuggle under the knitted blanket with her to watch a movie.

Platonically, of course.

Adrien walked into the kitchen and was greeted by the pastel yellow of the walls and warm lighting. Her utensils provided nice splashes of colour that brightened up the room. He particularly appreciated the Ladybug-themed colander that was drying next to the sink.

“If you look in that bottom draw,” she indicated with her foot before reaching for a jar of dried rice in a cupboard, “you should find some saucepans, if you could take two out please, Chaton.”

He obliged, resisting the temptation to lift her up to help her. He knew she wouldn't appreciate it.

“Can I put you in charge of cooking the rice?” She asked, handing him the packet. Adrien accepted it but looked at her quizzically.

“Sure!” He replied excitedly. “Do you have the instructions anywhere?”

Marinette stopped in the middle of washing vegetables she’d taken out of the fridge and squinted her eyes as she gauged whether or not he was joking. He seemed genuinely at loss for what to do.

“Have you never prepared rice before?”

“No?”

“It’s like pasta.” His clueless face made her sigh defeatedly. “You’ve never made pasta either, haven’t you.”

“Does instant ramen count? Or pasta boxes?” He flinched slightly.

“How you’re still alive and actually fit is beyond me.” She rolled her eyes. “Right, I guess we really are starting with the basics then. Consider this lesson number one: pour some water in that saucepan.”

She moved away from the sink to allow him to access it, but stayed close enough to be able to turn the tap off for him. He clearly had no idea of how much water was needed.

“Right, now put the saucepan on the hob, and turn it on.” She saw a smirk spread on his face. “And don’t even think about making a joke, I know what it sounded like!”

“You’re no fun, Buguinette.” He pouted, pressing the button she indicated.

“Add a little salt, and then we’ll just let it come to a boil.”

Next, she handed him a chopping board and tomatoes. She hesitated before giving him a knife. “Can I trust you not to cut yourself?”

“Har har.” He grabbed the knife. “Joke’s on you, because salad is actually the only thing I know how to make. How do you want these?”

She resisted making a comment on how knowing how to make salad wasn't something he really could brag about. “Sliced. We’re making ratatouille.”

“Ooh, nice!”

He listened as she talked him through the recipe, impressed by the fact she didn’t need a cookbook to remember how to prepare it. She taught him how to prepare an aubergine, which he could recognise thanks to the emoji, but could not imagine how to bring to an edible form.

“We just want to sear them in some oil with the courgettes, then we’ll let them cook gently with the rest of the vegetables and the herbs.”

He’d been quite dainty on the amount of herbes de Provence he’d added, which had prompted her taking his hand and shaking the spice pot to cover the tomatoes with it.

He looked at her concentrated expression as she stirred the pan and couldn’t help but smile, his hand still hovering above the hob.

Marinette looked at him inquisitively. “What?”

“Nothing.” She raised her eyebrows. “I just forgot how cute you are when you’re bossy.”

Marinette stammered in response, her cheeks pinking. It didn't matter how at ease she felt with Adrien now, she still couldn't take a compliment from him. He grinned and took advantage of her distraction to steal the wooden spoon from her and taste the dish.

“Authorisation to add a little salt?” He asked, refilling the spoon with ratatouille for her.

She took it, trying not to focus on the fact his lips had been just where hers were. She let the flavours flood her palet thoughtfully.

"Authorisation granted."

She smiled fondly as Adrien excitedly added missing spices to the mix.

"See? I am a competent cook!" He added with a satisfied smile.

"Please, you're barely a sous-chef." Marinette snorted. She backtracked her slightly harsh words seeing her partner's pout. "Don't worry though, you'll get the hang of it! It's just a question of practising." She rubbed his back encouragingly. "Would making the plates pretty make you feel better?"

"I think so." He mock sniffled.

Marinette made a point of taking out her Chat Noir plates, which she'd been planning on keeping for special occasions. The way Adrien's face lit up upon seeing them made the fact they were her only dishes that couldn't be dishwashed seem irrelevant. Adrien made a mental note to try and find matching Ladybug ones, although he wasn't sure if he would be gifting them to her or keeping them for himself.

Marinette busied herself with tidying up the kitchen and laying the cutlery as he worked on the presentation. Had her phone been nearby, she would've taken a picture of him as he blepped in concentration.

"Does this look good enough for Madame la Chef ?" He asked as he presented the plates to her. He'd positioned the vegetables around the rice so as to make it look like a flower.

"It's perfect, Chaton." She kissed the top of his head as she passed behind him with a packet of smoked ham. She rolled the slices into little roses and planted them in the rice.

"A table?" She asked as she finally sat down opposite him.

Adrien dug in before she could say bon appétit .

---

When Adrien came home from his morning run a couple of days later, a fresh croissant in hand, he found a conscientiously wrapped package on his doormat. The black polka dots on the field of red were a dead giveaway as to who it was from. He grinned as he picked it up and opened the door.

Breakfast and washed hands later, he sat on his couch, facing the present. He was torn between tearing the wrapping, or being civilised about it. Before he could choose, Plagg flew nearby and obeyed his cat instincts, swiftly disappearing back into his Camembert cabinet with a grin to avoid his holder's reprimands.

"Je sais cuisiner." He read the title and laughed, holding the book in front of him. It was an old edition, a yellow hardback with a picture of the author on the cover.

A post-it note stuck out from the top of the book. He opened it to get to the bookmarked recipe.

For Adrien - saw this and thought of you! Since you're so keen on instructions, this might do the trick! Feel free to use it often ;-)

Love, Marinette

P.S.: I suggest we try this recipe next!

Adrien read through the page, and felt his stomach grumble. He was very pleased at the thought that something had reminded her of him and that she'd bought it for him. The "love" and the fact she was obviously looking forward to repeating their cooking experience were added bonuses.

He himself could hardly wait.

#auyeah2020 #mlauyeahaugust #college au #miraculous ladybug #the miraculous tales of ladybug and cat noir #mlb #adrienette #cooking trope #neighbours au #miraculous fanfic #miraculous fanfiction #elle writes

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rachelkaser · 4 years ago

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Stay Golden Sunday: Big Daddy

Blanche’s Southern gentleman father visits with unusual news. Sophia curses a neighbor.

Picture It...

Sophia and Dorothy meet in the kitchen the morning after a big storm. Sophia is cranky because Rose woke her up, afraid and wanting comfort. All four Girls meet in the living room, where Blanche excitedly explains that her father, who she calls Big Daddy (who everyone calls Big Daddy, in fact), is coming for a visit. She excitedly reminisces about how beloved he was by her community growing up, getting caught in her remembrances of her saccharine Southern upbringing (which Dorothy finds ridiculous). Blanche hurries out to go get gifts for him.

Rose goes out to the lanai, and calls out for Sophia and Dorothy. They find that the storm has knocked a tree down on to their lanai furniture. Their next-door neighbor, Mr. Barton enters and notices the tree. When Rose says it’s fortunate his tree didn’t fall on his house instead, he takes exception to it being “his.” He refuses to move the tree despite Mrs. Barton’s attempts to smooth over the situation. When he makes a derisive remark about “you Italians” to Dorothy and Sophia, the latter gives him the Evil Eye. He’s now cursed until he moves the tree. Mr. Barton scoffs and leaves with his wife.

DOROTHY: Oh Ma, why’d you do that? You just made matters worse with that ridiculous curse. SOPHIA: Ridiculous? The curse works. Believe me. I’ve used it before. DOROTHY: Oh, when? SOPHIA: Baltimore Colts, New York Jets, 1969. Draw your own conclusions.

The next day, Dorothy says she’s confirmed via their property map that the tree definitely belongs to Mr. Barton and he has to haul it away, though Sophia still things the curse will do the trick. Blanche emerges in a mint-colored Southern Belle gown, but when she answers the door, it’s Mr. Barton. He’s convinced Sophia slashed his tires, and refuses to move the tree. Dorothy opens the door in a fury after Mr. Barton storms out, only to see Big Daddy Hollingsworth, in a Colonel Sanders suit with a ten-gallon hat on.

Blanche excitedly introduces everyone to her father. Big Daddy pays great compliments to Rose, who he compares to Dinah Shore (which... yeah, I can see it); and to Sophia, who he praises for her stunning, classical “Eye-talian” beauty. (Sophia: “You need boots to listen to this guy.”) He tells Blanche he has a surprise for her: He’ll be singing at a club the next night. Blanche is stunned, and asks why he’d do that, and he says singing is his “calling.” After he leaves, Blanche worries at his apparently out-of-character behavior, and Dorothy encourages her to talk to him instead of jumping to conclusions.

BLANCHE: I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for why my daddy’s lost the stuffing out of his comforter.

Big Daddy returns that night, and Blanche is waiting up to talk to him. He effuses about how much he loves singing, and plays her one of his own compositions. It’s a genuinely terrible song that leaves Blanche cringing. When he finishes, she tells him this sudden career change concerns her, and tells him to go home and rest. He reveals that he sold their family home to fund his singing career, and Blanche explodes, forbidding him from continuing with his schemes. Big Daddy takes exception, and yells back until the other Girls come in. He apologizes to them and leaves the house.

Blanche is still upset and tells the Girls her father’s really gone off the deep end, selling the property he spent his lifetime building. As the Girls drift into the kitchen, Blanche is having trouble reconciling that her father is no longer the pillar he once was and has reached an age where they need to start thinking about his mental health. Dorothy and Rose comfort her, with Rose reminiscing about a time her father pulled a tuna-shaped parade float up a hill singlehandedly while dressed as a jar of mayonnaise. Blanche says her dad’s always been there to take care of her, and now she’ll have do the same for him.

BIG DADDY: You know, if there was some rain coming down, and a soft train whistle in the distance, this moment would have the makings of a first-rate country song.

The next night, Blanche, Rose, and Dorothy are off to see Big Daddy’s show at the Sagebrush Club -- Sophia declines when invited. Mr. and Mrs. Barton arrive, and Mr. Barton is a mess, asking to see “the witch.” He begs Sophia on his knees to remove the Curse, as he’s suffered several other inexplicable misfortunes. Sophia agrees when he promises to remove the tree, and he quickly hurries out. Mrs. Barton stays behind to apologize to the Girls and reveals that she did all the “curse” work to get her husband to act right.

The Girls arrive at the rather seedy Sagebrush Club, where Blanche pretends not to know every man present or that there’s a mechanical bull in the backroom. She asks a waiter about their reservations, and he reveals management canceled Big Daddy’s second show after the first show. Blanche goes backstage to comfort her father. A very stereotypical cowboy named Rusty attempts to put the moves on Dorothy and Rose, but Dorothy quickly puts the smackdown on him.

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Blanche enters Big Daddy’s dressing room and tells him how sorry he is that his show was canceled. Big Daddy says he’s just going to have to try again. Blanche asks him why he’s going to continue when he’s no good. He tells her he knows he’s no good, and opens up to her about the real reason he wants to try this: He’d always wanted to have a big adventure, but settled down with Blanche’s mother. Now he wants to try something new, something adventurous. Blanche apologizes for not hearing him out, and sings the chorus of his song with him.

“Excuse me, Rose, but have I given you any indication at all that I care?”

Both the A- and B-plots this week are excellent, and the characters all have some great zingers. Big Daddy, Blanche’s very Southern father, makes his first appearance on the show, and after being talked up by Blanche both in this episode and in previous episodes, he doesn’t disappoint. He honestly wouldn’t look out of place as a one-off character on Dallas.

I find it interesting that both Rose and Blanche have already had episodes where they have to learn how to interact with their parents as adults. Dorothy and Sophia are already on that level, so I suppose it makes sense that those two need to learn how to do the same thing. Outside of Sophia, parents don’t play as big a role in this show as children do, which makes sense considering the Girls are grandparents themselves -- Big Daddy is the only one who will play any kind of recurring role.

BLANCHE: Now listen girls, my father is an old-time Southern aristocrat, who is used to fine manners and gentility. So please, please, please be on your best behavior. *they all look at Sophia* SOPHIA: Why’s everyone looking at me?!

The A-plot’s a bit melodramatic, but it’s mitigated by the scene where Big Daddy tries to sing. It’s such an hilariously terrible performance, but I think the funniest part actually comes from the audience. After he strums the final note on his guitar, there’s a beat for the audience reaction, and you can hear one or two members hesitantly start to clap, as if they’re not sure if that’s the expected reaction, but other than that it’s silence until Blanche says her line.

This is one of the final roles of character actor Murray Hamilton. It’s not often I get to say an actor appeared on both of my favorite older TV shows: Golden Girls and Perry Mason. If only he’d also appeared on I Love Lucy, then I’d get the hat trick -- I’m still looking for the actor who was on all three. Hamilton died just four months after the episode aired, which is presumably why the character was recast when he appears in a later episode. He’s very convincing as Blanche’s gentlemanly father, even though he was only 10 years older than Rue McClanahan. Though it is a bit disconcerting that Blanche’s father looks younger than some of the men she’s dated.

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No one says how old Big Daddy is, but presumably since Blanche is in her 50s (she wouldn’t admit that on pain of death, but come on, she has a 16-year-old grandson), he’s got to be in his late 70s, early 80s. While it might be a bit late to launch a career as a country-western singer (who does Beatle medleys for some reason), the message that you’re never too old to try new things and your mental health should not be called into question for it is still a good one.

That said, the part that worries me is when he tells Blanche, almost as an afterthought, that he’s sold his family estate to fund his new venture. Since that’s a property that presumably his four children would have grown up on and that they’re now not going to inherit, it’s actually kind of concerning that he just sold it without making any of them aware of it. I know I got on Kirsten back in the episode about Rose’s will for acting entitled to her mother’s money and getting mad that Rose would have spent it, and I still stand by that.

SOPHIA: Play it safe. Stick with the curse. DOROTHY: Ma, I’ve stayed with you all these years. *Sophia raises her hand to administer the Evil Eye again*

But the difference here being Blanche is more upset that he would do something so impulsive after having spent so much of his life building up that estate -- and I’m with her on that, not because it points to a potential health problem, but because it’s reckless and foolish. And it doesn’t really get resolved. Blanche just agrees to support her father and doesn’t seem to address the fact that he’s now effectively homeless.

One of the funniest parts of the episode is at the beginning, when Blanche is reminiscing about her Southern upbringing and makes it sound like she grew up 100 years in the past -- what with all the sipping mint juleps under an old magnolia and exchanging prize-winning pecan pie recipes. That’s funny enough, but what makes it funnier is that Dorothy and Sophia have about as much patience as you’d expect two Brooklyn women to have for such gauzy nonsense:

DOROTHY: Tell me Blanche, during any of this, would the farmhands suddenly break into a chorus of “Dem Old Cotton Fields Back Home?” ... BLANCHE: I want him to feel right at home. SOPHIA: Then get the Millers across the street to tar and feather their lawn jockey.

The B-plot is what really makes this episode great. While Blanche and her father working out their issues is engaging enough, but Sophia steals the show when she goes to war with Mr. Barton. The Evil Eye she directs his way is nothing short of epic. I also enjoy that Dorothy is just as invested in it as her mother is, getting equally offended at being referred to as “You Italians,” she tries to get Mr. Barton to back down through the power of civic justice and a property map, and when all else fails, echoes her mother calling him “Mouth,” albeit accidentally to Big Daddy.

Also, bravo to this show for fleshing out Mrs. Barton. She appears in two scenes and at first appears to do nothing but try ineffectively to correct her jerk husband. Then comes the revelation that she was actually responsible for all the misfortunes that befell him -- I admire her ingenuity, because that’s the only way a stubborn bastard like her husband would ever apologize to his neighbors, despite clearly being in the wrong.

DOROTHY: Blanche, who do we see about our table? BLANCHE: Oh I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve ever been here. RUSTY: Well howdy Blanche! COWBOY: Howdy Blanche. Ladies. BLANCHE: No, I’m wrong. I think the museum did have its Christmas party here.

By the way, is it just me, or is there a lot of interest in Sophia’s Italian-ness this episode? Not only is her subplot about the Sicilian evil eye (when I was a kid, I thought that was made up -- I’m obviously not even remotely Italian), but Mr. Barton uses it as an insult, and then Big Daddy compliments her “Eye-talian” beauty. Sophia’s Sicilian flavor is one of my favorite things about her, and this episode has some of her best moments.

Out of all the characters, Rose is the one who ends up getting short shrift this week. I’m noticing something from this first season: Whenever there’s an episode where one Girl is left out of the bulk of the story, the writers compensate by giving her a big monologue in roughly the middle of the episode, usually in the kitchen over cheesecake. Once you notice the pattern, it’s impossible to un-notice it -- several episodes in this first season alone have followed this pattern.

ROSE: What on earth do you do with a mechanical bull? DOROTHY: Introduce him to a mechanical cow, Rose.

Still, if Betty White only gets a handful of lines and one monologue this week, she makes full use of them, and it’s especially cute that, unlike Dorothy and Sophia, she seems to enjoy the very Southern-ness that Blanche and her father exude, saying “It’s like being in Gone with the Wind!”

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰🍰 (four cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite part of the episode:

The entire curse B-plot, especially the lines: “I can’t sleep! I can’t eat!” “You can’t sit.”

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#golden girls #stay golden #picture it #stay golden sunday #blanche devereaux #sophia petrillo #rose nylund #dorothy zbornak #s01e24 #big daddy

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buckyreaderrecs · 5 years ago

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A Toast to Whiskey: Chapter 2 / 2

CLICK TO READ PART ONE

Summary: You work in an old bar hidden away from the modern world. It’s almost charming, but not quite. That’s probably why Bucky likes it.

Part 2: Steve finds Buck, then you. Lush! Bucky and a cat! Christmas! Domestic bliss!

Words: 10,093 Pairing: Bucky Barnes/reader Characters: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Peter Parker Additional tags: Bucky needs a hug, recovering Bucky, mostly canon compliant (Infinity War and Endgame didn’t happen, Stark Tower still exists), angst, she/her pronouns, brief mention of Nazis, mention of suicide attempt (no scenes of it though), medium level discussion of Bucky’s past trauma, Peter is mentioned and has one line, v briefly mentioned: Sharon/Peggy/Sam/Wanda/Pepper, friendship with Steve, Lush Cosmetics, Steve/Bucky friendship

Dedicated to: all the people that helped brainstorm Christmas gifts - @browngirlmagic @megthemewlingquim @pinnedandneedled @cosmicbreathe @headmistressofbitchcraft @valkyriesryde

Note: When I thought of this fic, I split it into two parts that were meant to be equal. Part one was 2,325 words. This one is 10,093. I am sorry. Lol.

A Toast to Whiskey Chapter 2 / 2

To say you missed Bucky's presence was an understatement. It was kind of remarkable, actually. Considering how quiet he was, how he mostly just sat, it seemed strange to miss him so deeply, but that you did. He'd been in your life for months. To have him suddenly not there was a lesson in soft brutality. Others noticed too.

"Miss ya boyfriend there, missy?" the regulars teased.

"Where'd that mystery man get to then?" co-workers asked.

When two weeks Bucky-less came and went, you finally resigned to the fact that maybe you'd just have to let it go. You'd have to stop wondering if The Avengers had a phone number. You'd have to stop taking detours wherever you were going just to pass Stark Tower in the hopes you'd cross paths with Bucky. You'd just have to… stop.

Then the most surreal thing happened. Captain fucking America walked through the bar's door.

It was around midday on a Friday. You'd just opened up and were still pulling chairs from the tabletops from where they rested overnight. A few regulars were sat at the bar, waiting for their table to be set up over by the television screen. They paid no mind to Steve Rogers as he stepped into the dimly lit room, the streams of light he briefly let in highlighting the dust particles in the air.

When you saw him, your stomach dropped and your heart jumped out of your mouth. As Steve approached, you stumbled backwards, recollections of all bad news delivered before flashing in your mind.

Please, no.

"Hi. Are you Y/N?" he asked. When you managed to nod your head, he continued, his voice calm. "I'm-"

"I know. Is he okay?" you interrupted.

Steve had been interrupted many times. He was used to it. Another thing he was unfortunately accustomed to was giving people bad news.

"Yes. We’ve found him-"

"He was missing?!"

The volume of your voice drew attention from the people at the bar. "You right there, Y/N?" one of them asked.

"Yeah, yeah, Dave. Thanks. I'm alright."

Looking back to Steve, you caught the last split second of a smirk being willed off his face. "Y/N," Steve started. "Buck doesn't… doesn't know I know about you. But…"

"Where is he?"

"He's fine. He's at the Tower," he answered, his hands coming up in a defensive position. "Look, Y/N. I think he needs a friend…"

"What are you?" you snapped, suddenly blaming Steve for whatever had happened.

There was silence while you watched each other, working each other out.

Steve had not purposefully set out to spy on Bucky, or anything of that nature. In passing Peter Parker had said, "Mr. Rogers Captain Rogers Sir," and told him how he thought it was super cool that Bucky Barnes' local pub was across the road from a place Peter sometimes bought bubble tea from. It sparked curiosity that Steve ignored for as long as he could. But it got the better of him.

"I'm his best friend. But you've been given me a run for my money for a while. He spends more time in here than with the rest of us combined."

You thought about that for a second. Fuck, that was sad. "That means he spends a lot of time alone,"

"Yeah… Think that's been the problem…" Steve replied slowly.

Out of nowhere, Steve's composure changed. In a motion too fast for you to track, he pulled a chair off a table and sat. His elbows were pressed into his thighs and his head was in his hands. He groaned a little, then sat up straight, looking right at you.

"Buck… he… he does it sometimes. Disappears for a few days. No communication. He's always come back though. And it's only ever been a for a few days… This time, after a week we got worried…"

"You found him though," you pressed, annoyed at the pace of Steve's story.

"We found him. He wasn't in good shape, Y/N. I don't think…"

When Steve had walked in, you thought that something had happened to Bucky on a mission or something like that. The worst case scenario, of which you had only entertained for the shortest of times, was that Hydra had been lurking in the shadows, waiting.

Another possibility became painfully apparent at the end of Steve's trailed off sentence. Somehow, the thought of it hurt more than all the others.

Steve could see it on your face you knew what he was trying to say. You needed to hear it though. It was the only way it could be real.

"He wasn't planning on coming back."

Bucky wasn't planning on running away either. It was the metaphorical end of the line for him. Like so many times before, Bucky Barnes had forgotten to factor in Steve bloody Rogers. Saved by his best friend yet again, Bucky had woke up in a clinically clean room in Stark Tower. If he thought it was hard to get drunk, trying to kill himself was even harder.

You knew there was no comparing your friendship with Bucky to Steve's. There hadn't been a friendship in the history of humankind that could compare. Making Steve say it out loud wasn't kind, but it wasn't unnecessary cruelty either.

"Will you come see him?"

…

You thought you'd known weird. Turns out, nope. Being escorted into Stark Tower by Steve Rogers was weird. Being full body scanned by technology you couldn't begin to comprehend was weird. Feeling so, so much about someone you barely knew was weird.

All the weird became secondary to a rushing wave of relief at seeing Bucky Barnes. The wave met a tall, unmoveable wall very quickly. Bucky wasn't awake. Steve sat in a chair next to Bucky's bed and motioned for you to take the one on the other side.

Bucky was pale, lips chapped and hair stringy. Someone cared for him though. Although messy, the hair was tied back in a bun. There was a tube of chapstick sitting on the bedside table.

The sheet was pulled up under his arms. He was in a thin, white singlet. You'd never seen his vibranium arm; he'd always been in jackets in the bar. He'd always worn gloves, even after it was apparent you knew who he was. The scars on his body were confronting, but you had to file that away for a later day.

"Fuck," you finally said on a breath out.

Steve nodded in deep agreement.

"He's gonna wake up." You'd meant it as a statement but it definitely curved up too much at the end.

"He will," Steve confirmed. "He's lost a lot of blood… They tried blood transfusions but his body… The serum in him is too unstable. It made him worse. We just have to wait. He'll heal himself,"

"Okay," you said softly as you shuffled the chair closer to the bed.

As you took Bucky's hand in yours, you thought what all people do when they're bedside like that. Can they hear me? Do they know I'm here? You rubbed gentle circles across his skin with your thumb.

For a while, Steve was still, then he too dragged his chair across the floor. He got as close to the bed as he could, then folded an arm on the mattress and rested his head. You watched him look up at his best friend. Steve reached out with his free hand and gently stroked Bucky's cheek once, then settled in for the wait.

…

Sleep was uneasy, but it came. When you uncurled your body from the chair, you were alone with Bucky. He hadn't moved, hadn't dreamed. He wasn't really asleep but in some sort of super soldier serum limbo that you hoped to God wasn't a form of Hell.

It was only about ten minutes before Steve arrived back in the room. He came bearing gifts - coffee and a doughnut.

"Did you think he was going to wake up, like, when I got here?" you asked.

Steve shrugged. He'd changed clothes at some point while you slept. Grey track pants and a white t-shirt. Comfy. Casual. Not very Captain America but you guessed, pretty Steve Rogers.

"No. Yes. I don't know… We don't know when he'll wake up… I just thought he'd want to see you,"

"Do you think he comes and proper hangs out with me? Because he doesn't. He just kinda…"

"I know. Buck's never been that much of a talker. Even before. Doesn't stop him from being charming," Steve said.

"No… it doesn't. Guess he wouldn't come to see us if he didn't wanna," you reasoned, thinking about the awkward prospect of Bucky waking up and asking why the bartender was there.

"He wouldn't, no," Steve agreed.

Silence was comfortable with Steve, which was a blessing because you sat watching the television with him for a couple of hours. That's when you really took in the room beyond Bucky and the bed. It was a strange mix of hospital and home.

When you had arrived earlier, the elevator delivered you to a sweeping hallway. It didn't give much away in terms of what the function of the floor was. Stark Tower was multi-purpose. Very multi-purpose. It was head office to an ever-growing business. It was science and technology laboratories. It was home base for The Avengers. Those were the things the public knew the building did.

On the list of suspected functions included primary home of Tony Stark. Correct, although he had many other properties. Pepper was trying to sell some without Tony knowing. The Tower had to house weapons too, as the headquarters of The Avengers. Correct. Definitely in the upper limit of what was legal. Where did all The Avengers live? Where did the ones from space stay when on Earth? Theory was the Tower. Correct. Many, but not all, superheroes affiliated had very large, very beautiful private spaces in the Tower. I surely had to have its own medical wing. Incorrect. It wasn't a wing.

Stark Tower had its own dedicated floor for bio and med. Cutting edge research. Direct and tailored medical support. And that's where you had found yourself. A hospital room, spectacularly disguised as comfortable. Regardless of the armchairs by Bucky's bed and the huge flat screen, it wouldn't ever not smell like bleach.

By mid-morning, it became apparent that this wasn't Sleeping Beauty and Bucky wasn't going to wake up just because you were there with all your true... whatever.

"What's the plan?" you asked.

Steve sighed hard, stood from the chair and stretched. Your attention stayed on Bucky, but when Steve failed to answer, your eyes flicked to him. He seemed very agitated by not knowing what to do. He couldn't Captain America his way out of this one.

"You're welcome to stay. There's a room next door. We can take shifts… Or if you want to head home I can call when he wakes…"

"I'll stay," you decided quickly. Nothing else seemed as important.

…

Two days later, you'd gotten more sleep than you would have predicted. The room next door to Bucky's was another designed for the injured, but it doubled as a hotel room just as well. The bed was comfortable and nobody disturbed you when it was your turn to rest. You and Steve shared takeaway and swapped stories. It was nice to find a real human beneath the public image.

Steve could see why Bucky had continued to gravitate back towards you. You made him feel normal. And he almost came to enjoy the routine you and he had fallen into, keeping watch of Bucky. Then, as you were throwing grapes across the room, aiming for Steve's mouth, you both heard him.

Bucky mumbled a very groggy, "Fuck," as his eyes adjusted to the light.

"Buck?" Steve called, appearing at the bedside in a second.

You walked over more slowly, carefully. What if he did think it was strange you were there?

Bucky tried to move, but Steve put his arm across him. "Nope, Pal. Stay right there,"

"Lemme up, Steve," Bucky said, still groggy.

Steve folded, moving away so Bucky could sit up. He rubbed his face, his unshaved jawline. You almost thought he hadn't noticed you, but then, "How long have ya been spying on me then?"

Bucky looked at Steve, raised his eyebrows.

Neither you nor Steve had ever been in this specific situation before. No script for what someone waking from a suicide attempt should do or say. But you were both shocked by Bucky's… normality. He'd just sat up like it was another day. Not like he'd run away, hurt himself, never said goodbye.

"What the absolute fuck!" Steve whispered. Was it to himself or to Bucky? You were unsure. Bucky just stared at him, expressionless. "That's not- How could- Jesus, Buck. What were you thinking?"

You cringed, knowing it was the wrong thing for Steve to say.

"What was I thinking?" Bucky repeated.

There was a second of silence. Two. Then Bucky just ripped the covers off, swung his legs out of bed and stood up. He looked down at himself, then up at you. It was the first eye contact you'd had since he woke, and it caught the breath in your lungs and swallowed it up.

"Hey, darlin'," he greeted softly. He'd never called you that before. Before you knew it, he'd closed the space between you and had pressed a kiss to your cheek. "Sorry for all the fuss,"

"Ahh…" you started to say, but he was already walking away.

"Bucky!" Steve yelled, following him through the door. "Where are you going? We need to talk," he urged.

Feeling very out of place, you just followed Steve, hoping sticking close to him would lead you back to comfort.

"Steve, look," Bucky said, spinning on his heels. "I know, alright… I know… But I need… I can't be here. This place is drivin' me crazy… And I'm already ten different types of that,"

"Where are you going to go?" Steve asked, his voice smaller and sadder than it had just been.

Bucky shrugged casually, almost comically.

"You scared the shit out of me,"

"Not the first, won't be the last," Bucky joked, deflected.

"It could have been."

That made Bucky shut up. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Steve.

"But it wasn't. Someone needs to stick around to look after your stupid ass," Bucky said.

"Then stick around."

If you felt out of place before… Watching the two men hug then step away from each other, you could feel the weight of their history in the air. It was oppressive and you were honestly in awe. Then, before you knew you were even speaking, you just squeaked out, "You can stay with me."

…

Bucky had taken you up on the offer like he wasn't an ex-prisoner of war with decades of trauma just sitting below the surface of his crumbling composure. He'd disappeared upstairs to change and grab a bag or two, leaving you and Steve standing in utter shock.

"Are you okay?" you asked as soon as Bucky was gone.

"I… Christ, I don't know, Y/N. That wasn't normal was it?"

You laughed then. "I don't fucking know. Do you mean for someone who just… or for him? 'Cause you're meant to the expert,"

"Not anymore apparently," Steve said, more hurt than bitter.

"I'll… try to…" You were going to say 'look after him' but the concept of looking after Bucky Barnes seemed ridiculous. Steve had kinda just proven that.

Steve looked defeated, so you did the only humanly right thing to do. You pulled him into a hug. He welcomed it.

"Thought when we brought him home he'd be alright," Steve mumbled into you. "Stupid,"

"Not stupid. Just hopeful. I… Look, I don't know what…"

"I know. Sorry. Sorry, Y/N. I've just pulled you into all this when you were just-"

"No, no. It's okay. I… I'm glad I'm here. He can come stay with me. Make a plan or something. Does he have a doctor or anything?"

The enormity of the situation dawned on you both then. The complexity of it stunning you into silence. Bucky had gone through abject horror and hell and he'd survived. His body had been stitched and sewn back together. His brain had been rewired, given back to him. But now what? Nobody had really thought of that.

…

Bucky was back to his cap-wearing, strong and silent type on the way over to your apartment. Through the doors, he dropped his bags and looked around.

"I'll make some tea," you said quietly, leaving him to introduce himself to the space.

Your apartment was on the third floor of a pretty old block of units. The space was small. Sometimes it was too small for just one bartender… And yet, Bucky didn't seem too big for the space. From the kitchenette you watched him walk from the front door across the open-plan space. He glanced at the bed, probably wondering where exactly you planned on keeping him. Bucky stood at the window, surveying the view.

"How do you take your tea?" you asked.

"However," he replied.

Frowning, you shook your head. "That's… not… What do you mean?"

Bucky turned, smiled, almost confused at your confusion. "Not picky,"

"Everyone has a preference."

He just shrugged.

"No… Come here. Sit down," you ordered.

Bucky smirked. He considered it for a second, then strode over to the kitchenette and sat at the small breakfast bar.

"Take your fucking cap off. This is your home now so you can drop the weird mysterious guy thing," you told him, putting four mugs out on the bar.

Bucky chuckled and obeyed. "Didn't Steve tell ya to be gentle with me or somethin'? Don't cha know I'm all messed up?"

You could hear it in his voice that he was taking the piss.

"There he is," you said, smiling. "Alright. I'm gonna make four teas, alright? You're gonna try them all and you'll know which you like best,"

"Don't think it matters, Y/N. It's just tea,"

"It's not. It's not just tea. It's… it's about preference. You can have things the way you want."

Bucky watched you pour the boiled water, brew the teas.

"I don't want someone else tryna fix me," he said seriously.

You pushed milk and sugar towards him. "If Captain America can't fix you, I don't think anybody can."

Bucky took the mug and held both palms to it. You wondered if he could feel the warmth in his left. (He could.)

"Then why am I here?" he asked, going to sip the tea.

You paused, trying to think of a good answer to that question.

Thinking.

"I… don't know… One minute you're sitting at my bar drinking whiskey. Next minute you're… in my house drinking tea… I have no fucking idea how this happened."

He made a face, pushing the mug back across the table. You swapped it for milk no sugar.

"It's a bad idea. Me being here."

Bucky tasted the tea and let you swap it again. No milk no sugar.

"Then why are you here?"

"Ain't that what I just asked you?" he quipped.

No milk sugar. And an unimpressed look that made him laugh.

"I'm here because since I've been stateside I've just wanted to… I don't know. Rest. Take a fuckin' second. Feel normal… First time I've felt normal was in your bar drinkin' your whiskey,"

"…What about my tea?"

"Also works… Milk and no sugar."

…

Bucky didn't make any jokes about how tiny your place was. After tea, small talk, you handed him the television remote, threw him a blanket and told him to make himself at home. You both went about your nights individually, but side by side. After all the tension of Stark Tower, it was overwhelmingly relaxing. There wasn't a moment where you asked yourself if it was stupid to let someone as dangerous as Bucky Barnes into your home. There wasn't a moment of reconsideration. It was just… easy from the first night.

"Buck, that sofa folds out bigger," you told him, climbing into your bed after showering and getting into P.J.s in the bathroom.

Bucky, who was still in the jeans and henley shirt he'd changed into at the Tower, glanced over. "You going to bed?" He sounded scandalised.

"Sorry, Jesus. Some of us haven't been asleep for days."

Bucky laughed. "Brave joke, darlin'."

There it was again, that nickname. Was it chosen or did it slip out when he wasn't watching his words?

In the morning, it was like you'd spoken in your sleep, conversed with each other and decided on a routine. Bucky was standing in the kitchenette when you woke. He'd clearly been for a run; his headphones hanging around his neck and his runners still on his feet. He was cooking.

"Hey," he greeted when you made your way over, sitting down. "Wow. Can see why you work at a bar. Not a morning person."

Your morning expression was one part deep confusion about not still being asleep, and one part anger about not still being asleep. Bucky kinda loved it.

As you ate bacon and eggs with him, you tried to process how you got to that point. It seemed like a fruitless task. Up until Bucky, your life was… well, it was easy to explain. Doing A resulted in B happening. A simple story. Then, Bucky. Doing A resulted in nothing, and suddenly Z was happening out of nowhere. Like, Jesus Christ, stuff like that just didn't happen. But the coffee was really truly being poured and Bucky was really truly just… there.

…

You went back to work quickly; you'd used up too many leave days sitting by Bucky's hospital bed. Picking up a couple of extra shifts in that first week Bucky was at yours, you hardly had time to really talk to him. He was a ghost in your home for all intents and purpose. It worried you. Each time you left the apartment, you'd try to find a new way of checking he was okay, that he'd be there when you got back.

"Are you doing anything today?"

"Seeing Steve later?"

"Not planning on trying to hurt yourself today?"

Bucky recognised the concern in your voice. It was the same tone he used to take with Steve before everything happened. It was the same tone Steve used on him now. Goddamn those turning tables. He did his best to be reassuring without lying to you. He felt he owed you that much, at the very least.

What else did he have to offer though?

That's when it started. Bucky Barnes turned into your bodyguard, personal chef, housekeeper, and handyman. When you realised it was part of him trying to cope, settle in, be okay, you just let him do it. You'd never won any fights to try to stop him. And, you kinda liked it.

He'd be lingering out the front of the bar when you locked up. Bucky would walk you the two streets home, mumbling "Can't believe you do this alone," the whole way. If he was early for pick up, he'd come in and put chairs on tables. He mopped once. The task was completed with frightening efficiency.

By the end of the week, the apartment was spotless. What did the Winter Soldier look like holding a feather duster? Had he read the spines of all the books on the shelves? Was the television on while he cleaned, or was he a music kind of guy? You could have sworn you saw him narrow your eyes when you left an empty dish on the coffee table.

"You went food shopping?" you asked stupidly one morning, waking up to the sound of Bucky unpacking groceries. He raised an eyebrow, went to provide sass, but you put a hand up. "Don't! Just… make me some coffee, please."

As he placed the mug on your bedside table, he gently ruffled your hair - the only part of you poking out from under the covers. "Got work?" he asked.

"Yeah. Closing. Don't start till 7," you answered, emerging into the daylight of the morning… Of the almost-afternoon, you learnt as you checked your phone. "What you got planned?"

"Same thing I've been doing all week, Y/N."

He was back in the kitchenette, folding plastic bags neatly into a pile.

"There's a bag under the sink full of other bags. Don't need to fold them," you told him. He looked up at you; when would you stop over-explaining things, he wondered. "It's like, a thing everyone has. The bag of other bags. And a messy Tupperware cupboard,"

"Are you okay?" Bucky asked, a little amused.

"No! I just woke up and it's too bright and you're folding plastic bags. Are you okay?"

Bucky shrugged. He did that a lot, sometimes accompanied by a twitch of a lip curl. Sassy bastard.

"So when you say 'same thing you've been doing all week,' you mean clean and watch T.V.?" you asked, sitting up and plumping a pillow to act as a headboard. Bucky waited until you'd picked up the coffee and were looking back at him before he nodded. "How about we just… hang out,"

"Hang out?"

"Yeah. 'Cause I don't wanna move from here until I absolutely have to. So we can watch stuff on my laptop and stay in bed and Ubereats something fancy." When he failed to reply, you added, "You deserve a chill day."

Bucky crossed the space and dramatically flopped down on the bed. "Just exchanged one bossy boots for another, huh?"

"Really pretty, well-meaning bossy boots, yeah!"

…

Bucky was sitting in the window, patting a black cat you'd never seen in your entire life. He looked over when the front door closed behind you.

"Hey," he greeted, voice soft so not to startle the cat.

"Who's your friend?"

"Dunno… She was just out here when I got out the shower,"

"Right… Well, say goodbye and come inside. Got something for ya."

Bucky left the window open, and the cat remained out on the fire escape.

Inside, Bucky plonked himself on the sofa and watched you unpack things from the large paper bag you'd brought home. Bucky's bright eyes sparkled with curiosity and you could tell he could smell something unfamiliar.

When everything was unpacked, you looked at Bucky.

"This is gonna sound so dumb. I know that. But just bear with me, okay?" Checking to see if Bucky was taking you seriously, you saw his focus was on you entirely. "I… I cannot even begin to comprehend what it must be like being you. It's… It's fucked. It's fucked even in the context of superheroes and aliens and all of it… I don't know how you do it and I know it's hard and I have no idea if you're… Like, okay? Or getting better? Or if being here is helping at all but I wanna help. I want to do something for you but I know I can't do anything like, proper. I can't… I don't know… So I thought maybe I can help in a different way. In a kind of shallow… ah, superficial way? So that's what this is."

Bucky was trying to keep his expression neutral.

Bucky also didn't know how he continued to exist. Sometimes he thought it was because he felt he had to make up for what the Winter Soldier did. Save a life for each taken. Balance the books. Sometimes he thought maybe he was just superhumanly resilient. Maybe he was just more okay than made sense, and that was fine. And sometimes, like in those days he went missing, he thought he had no right being on Earth any more.

"I… I don't know what this is," Bucky started, motioning to the table of unidentifiable objects. "But you're already doin' more than enough. Me being here is helping. You give me space," and at that, you snorted, but he continued, not letting you redirect the conversation like he was so good at doing. "It's the only thing that I know helps. It helped in Wakanda. It's helping here."

In the quiet of three seconds or so, you and Bucky watched each other, testing each other's honesty. You had to trust each other, which was hard. But it was happening.

"Okay," you whispered when you grew too hot under his gaze.

"What's all this then?" Bucky asked, sitting up straight and putting his best version of 'excitement' on his face.

"This is… treat yo' self, self-care. You look after your insides, I'll look after your outsides,"

"My outsides?" he said, tone suggestive and eyebrow raised.

It made you blush.

"Skincare. Haircare. That kind of thing… It's from a store called Lush and I'm a bit obsessed. They invented the bath bomb!"

Bucky set his expression to 'I'm giving you nothing' and crossed his arms across his chest. "Bath bomb?"

"Yeah… They're these… things you put in the bath… It fizzes and makes it smell nice and look cool and is good for your skin and stuff. I didn't get one because we don't have a bath…"

You thought you were losing him, but that's just what he wanted you to think. He was wildly interested in whatever it was you were trying to sell him. He didn't hate the idea of skincare, haircare, and whatever else was going on in those little black pots. He'd looked after himself so well in the 40s. His hair was always perfect. Wasn't caught dead with too much stubble.

"I got like, a full routine for us to do together… If you want…"

Bucky liked the pronouns you were using. …we don't have a bath. …routine for us.

"You're beautiful. You know that?"

It caught you off guard. You hoped it was a rhetorical question. Blushing hard, you broke eye contact and looked at your Lush haul.

"So, you're in?" you asked quietly, pretending to read one of the labels.

"Yeah, doll. I'm in. Where's my fluffy robe?"

Squealing in happiness, you jumped up. "No robes, but pyjamas, yeah?"

Bucky took the bathroom and you took the… bedroom/loungeroom/kitchen/rest of the apartment. Once together, you put on old episodes of Golden Girls and sat Bucky on the couch. He watched as you run about finding all the perfect bowls and towels. When you had the random-under-the-sink bucket filled with hot water, you returned to him.

"Okay. First, we put on hair and face masks. I got this hair one 'cause it kinda smelt like chai latte." You opened the pot and let him smell it.

"Never had a chai latte…" Was his only response. He read the pot, "H'Suan Wen Hua… Chinese,"

"You know Chinese?"

"I know a lot of languages," he replied.

"Hmm… Okay, well, do ya want me to do this or do you want to?" you asked.

Bucky looked genuinely confused. "Do what?"

You hadn't wanted to assume Bucky would be cosmetic-clueless, but maybe it was better to just play spa. Let him sit back and relax and you do it all for him. The thought of that was both terrifying and exciting.

"Sit back. Watch T.V. Lemme do this."

And that's just what he did.

You could literally see him relax into the sofa as you saturated his hair with the treatment, massaging it into his scalp then pinning it all on top of his head in a curl, secured with a clip. If you had been able to see his face, you would've seen him biting his bottom lip, holding in a bigger reaction to the feeling of your fingers raking through his hair.

For the longest time, he'd only known touch to equal pain or death. After that, it was the tentative hands of doctors and Steve's sometimes suffocating arms. But you… you were a whole different kettle of fish. You, he could get used to.

When you jumped onto the couch next to him, it looked like you startled him out of a daze. Bucky seemed happy. It made you happy.

"Alright. Face mask. I got two different ones because the one I like kinda smells fucked but in a good one. Here, smell," you ordered, shoving an open pot of very garlicky Cosmetic Warrior under his nose.

He frowned like a child. "Smells like what Sarah made Steve eat when he was sick,"

"That's cute. But yeah. It's strong. Try this one."

Mask of Magnaminty was more his thing. Mint was a familiar smell. Bucky sat very still as you gently painted his face with the cool green goo.

"You can smile," you whispered as you watched him try to conceal a grin. "Feels nice, huh?"

"It's… different," he agreed.

It was quiet. Bucky watched the concentration on your face as you carefully finished the job. When you tapped his nose, complete with an audible "Boop!" he laughed.

Fuck, his laugh was spectacular. Maybe it seemed golden because it was a rare thing. Maybe because the action made the corner of his sparkly blue eyes crinkle. Maybe just because you liked him. A lot.

"'Kay. I'm just gonna go put mine on," you said motioning to the bathroom, "Then we can-"

"Do you want me to do yours?" Bucky interrupted. And holy fuck, how had you not thought of this as a possibility. Bucky had 1940s manners. Not even Hydra brainwashing could take that away from him. Of course he'd offer reciprocation.

"Ah… Sure. Yes."

He took the pot from your hands and dipped his fingers into the goo. "Stevie's the artist, not me. But I'll do my best," Bucky promised.

"I didn't know that,"

"Think all his best parts didn't make it into the history books," he continued. "Don't think some of them made it to 21st century…"

"If I say something based on knowing you for not long, promise not to get salty at me?"

"Salty a bad thing?" he asked, to which you nodded. "Okay…"

"Maybe it's because like, he went rogue for you or whatever. And we got sold this fairytale best friends since birth story… But I kinda expected you guys to be… Nicer to each other."

To his credit Bucky didn't stop painting your face. He was however, clearly unsettled by the statement. He thought for a second. "Yeah… It's… I don't know…" He shrugged. "We'll be alright. He knows I love him… Just handles things different. And he doesn't like being upset. Needs to fix everything. Fight the fight… I've never been like that. Not really… He was the one that wanted to go to war,"

"You didn't?"

"Nah… conscripted."

That fucked you up a little. Hydra wasn't the beginning of his lack of autonomy. He'd been owned by other people since he was basically a kid.

"It's alright," Bucky said.

"Is it?" You'd asked so quietly for a second you thought maybe no noise had emerged from your mouth. There was a twitch in Bucky's expression that reassured you it had.

He'd finished your face mask, putting the pot on the coffee table and wiping his hands on the same towel you had used. It was smeared with green and grey colours. Bucky's gaze focussed on it while he spoke.

"I don't want to keep fighting… But if I don't, I don't know how I'm meant to make up for what I've done."

Your nose began to tingle, the tell-tale warning sign of crying. Biting your lip and willing yourself to be calm you nodded, mostly to yourself. It would be a lie to say you understood, but you could genuinely see his sad logic.

It took so long for you to say something that Bucky had already picked up the next tissue paper wrapped product in your line of Lush. He was rotating it in his hands, trying to work out what could be inside.

"I.. I don't think you can… But not, not because… You just don't have to because it's not your fault. Like, you're not the… reason it all happened. So it doesn't make sense that you have to make up for it. That's not your responsibility. If anything someone has to make it up to you."

Bucky looked at you, a small smile on his lips. He was grateful that you weren't changing the subject, shying away from a hard conversation. It wasn't like you were saying anything brand new to him. But it was nice to hear you say it. He believed you more than when the others had said it. It was a sentiment they all had to believe, because there was red on all their ledgers. Not yours. You had no stake in the claim.

"If it's not my responsibilities, who gets that? It's on me, Y/N. I'm here. Capable. Gotta do it… Someone can make it up to me when I'm old."

There was finality in the statement. That was that. So, you did what any good bartender would do.

"Okay… Well… How about I pour you a whiskey and you tell me how you don't think 102 is old?"

There was that laugh again.

Two Foot Soak and Fancy Frees and whiskey fireballs later, Bucky was well and truly on his way to joining the Lush cult. He looked ridiculous, sitting there covered in product and trying to drink while not getting face mask on the glass. After picking Yog Nog shower gel over Snow Fairy, he disappeared into the bathroom to wash himself clean.

When you were both showered and back in pyjamas, you showed him how to do the towel-hair-twist things that he claimed only women knew how to do. "That's sexist," you teased. And when he did it first go, you suspected he had known all along.

"All that's left is body lotion,"

"Sleepy," he read, taking the pot from you. Opening it, he considered the scent. "Lavender,"

"You're good at this,"

"Everyone knows the smell of lavender,"

"Whatever," you said with a shrug, reaching out to scoop some of the lotion up.

Bucky watched you for a second, before snapping out of the moment. Probably not the coolest thing to do - watch a girl cover herself in lotion. Unless you wanted him to watch. If you did - he would have complied.

Watching Bucky out the corner of your eye, you tried not to laugh. He could tell.

"What?" he sighed. "What am I doing now?"

"Nothing. It's just… Winter Solider covering himself in lavender scented body lotion… It's a mood."

Bucky frowned, not sure exactly what you meant. He did know you were happy.

…

After the self-care session, you and Bucky had fallen asleep on the sofa. It wasn't like in the movies where bodies overlapped and comfortable sleep was found. Bucky was sat upright, head rolled back into an awkward position that would have almost definitely caused an ache by morning. Even for a super soldier. You were on the opposite end, curled up with your feet pressed into Bucky. A siren somewhere outside woke Bucky around three in the morning. He carried you to bed, tucking you in and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. You didn't stir at all.

Each night thereafter you let yourself drift off on the sofa, enjoying the proximity to Bucky and knowing you'd wake up in bed. It was on the cusp of being routine until one particularly stormy night. Wind had been howling for hours, catching somewhere in a drain or gutter just outside the windows. It caused a high pitched whistle that kept pulling you from sleep.

As Bucky laid you in bed, you woke, confused for only a moment.

"Is it like that every time there's a storm?" Bucky whispered through the darkness of the room. You made a grumbling sound, which Bucky correctly interpreted as a yes. "I'll fix it tomorrow,"

"Wait," you grumbled a little more clearly. "Stop sleepin' on th' couch. Come 'ere." You had your hand around Bucky's wrist and were pulling. There was no way you'd be strong enough to actually pull him onto the bed, but there was no way Bucky was going to say no either.

He crawled under the covers with you, trying to decode what it meant that he was in your bed. Meanwhile, you were wide awake trying to work out if he was buying your sleepy mumbling.

Which was worse, the tension of the want to wriggle back into him, let him curl his arms around you and keep you safe, or the anxiety produced by the thought of rejection? At what moment had Bucky turned from customer to friend? From friend to something else? Had those lines ever existed, or did Bucky's unreal history smash any chance of social normalities in his future? Did the carnage leave only constant unknowns and unmapped territory in its wake? Why did he always smell so goddamn good?

…

It was the start of June when Bucky Barnes had walked into a dusty bar seeking solace. It was the start of August when he disappeared into the night, not planning on returning. Alas, Captain America. So, it was almost four months ago he found refuge in the two-room apartment of one bartender. That brought him all the way up to December. Christmas.

"S'not what it used to be," Bucky grumbled from where he was sitting on the sofa, socked feet on the coffee table.

"But you didn't have my eggnog in the 40s," you countered.

Bucky narrowed his eyes and hid a smile with another sip from the mug in his hands. God, he loved your eggnog. He loved a lot of things about you, but he kept that to himself. He said nothing and continued to watch you decorate the small, plastic Christmas tree you'd set up in the corner of the room.

"You're not gonna help?" you asked.

"You're doing fine, darlin'. I'll tell you if you miss a spot,"

"You're a little fuck, you know that?"

"Mmm. Been told once or twice."

You snorted and got back to your tinsel.

Now, you weren't a psychologist and you didn't know shit about the deep trauma Bucky had experienced and still lived with, but you felt he was definitely in some early stage of recovery. The bed you occupied and the sofa bed he did were close enough that you could hear the whimpers of nightmares. Mornings after, you could pretend you hadn't heard. But, when he shared your bed, which he often did, there could be no ignoring the fact that you knew. However, the nightmares had lessened over the past two months. He made more jokes. He checked the windows less. He went over to Stark Tower a lot to keep training. You even suspected he'd made a friend in Sam Wilson.

"Would it be weird if I got Steve a Christmas present?" you asked, standing back from the tree and looking at your masterpiece.

"He'd probably cry,"

"What? Why?"

"Neither of us got much as kids… Everything's special. Don't think he's grown out of that," Bucky explained, trying to sound casual but the admiration for Steve was too thick in his words for that. "What are ya gonna get him?"

"Not telling you. You'll go snitch. You tell him everything," you accuse, spinning on your heels to point a finger. He made a face that said 'yeah, that's valid.' Smiling, you moved to plug the fairy lights into the electrical outlet. "Should we invite him over?"

By the time you'd stood, marvelled at your sparkling beautiful tree, taken a photo of it, then turned back to Bucky, you saw he had his deep-in-thought face on. It was his serious face, reserved for serious things. You put your phone down and sat next to him, nudging your way to curl up under his arm that hooked over the back of the sofa.

"Talk," you said softly.

"This is your house… so you should do what you want…"

"But?"

"I don't know… I… Nothing bad's happened here, you know? Nobody even knows where here is. It's… safe… from everything else," Bucky said, speaking slowly, carefully. There was a vulnerability in his words that made your heart ache.

"Yeah. It is. Okay. That's okay. We can keep it like that… Our little safe space, huh?"

Bucky nodded, then turned to look at you. God, he was so soft. He smiled, turning you into a pool of feelings.

"Thank you," he said, probably not meaning to whisper it.

You just nodded once and looked back at him. How could anyone have ever wanted to hurt him? How could they fucking touch him?

Before you could even work out who moved first, your foreheads were pressed softly to each other's and he'd wrapped you up in his arms. Bucky often smelt like Lush shampoo you'd bought him that he referred to as the "green jellybean" shampoo. And he always smelt like mint toothpaste because he brushed his teeth multiple times a day, citing a lack of access to such good oral hygiene supplies in the 40s as the cause. Under all that was his own scent, that unique humanness everyone has. Bucky's was sweet and warm and it contrasted against the mint much like the coolness of vibranium pressed to skin.

You knew him. You knew he wouldn't go where you'd not invited him.

As softly as you could control yourself, you tilted your head up and kissed your lips to Bucky's. A second. Two. He kissed back. His first kiss since 1945. And for the first time since coming out of Hydra brainwashing in 2014, Bucky Barnes was so fucking happy to be alive.

…

"I've just realised the best reason for this happening here instead of at ours," you said as you climbed the stairs to Steve's apartment. Bucky hummed a response from in front of you. "We don't have to do any dishes,"

"You don't do dishes anyway," he replied, not trying to be funny but simply stating a fact.

"Killin' my Christmas joy, Barnes,"

"Reckon I was the one bringing the joy," he said, reaching out to gently touch the dress you were in.

Bucky banished you to the small bathroom while he wrapped your Christmas gifts the day before, but as you emerged he seemed perplexed. "Feel like maybe you should have this one now," he'd said, then handed it over. The dress was beautiful, probably very expensive and new despite looking quite vintage in style. "Thought maybe you'd wanna wear it to Steve's tomorrow?" Yes. Yes, you fucking did.

When he saw you in it, saw how it fit you and how you glowed, Bucky felt validated and like all his insides were made of goo. Walking up the stairs to Steve's, he felt the same. Maybe worse. Oh, God, maybe like the first time he'd brought home a girl to meet his family. Bucky tried to distract himself from… you, by counting stairs and taking in his surroundings in detail.

Steve's apartment block was very unassuming. Nobody would guess Captain America lived there. Of course, the other residents had seen him around, shock eventually giving way to acceptance. As you arrived at his door, you could smell and hear all the other Christmas Eve parties happening on his floor.

"Door's unlocked!" Steve called from inside at the sound of your knocking.

Pointedly, Bucky locked the door behind him when he came inside, then put the brightly wrapped gifts on the small table beside the coat rack. Steve was far too busy hugging you tightly to notice that though.

"Y/N! You look beautiful!"

"Yeah? Thank you! Guess where this came from," you quizzed, spinning on the spot to make your dress twirl.

"Bucky?" Steve guessed too quickly.

You pouted, annoyed the game was over. Looking over at Bucky you asked, "Did you tell him?"

"He didn't tell me," Steve said. "That's just a very Bucky dress,"

"You're right. He does also look spectacular in it," you agreed, laughing.

The night went on, and it came as no surprise that Steve was an excellent cook. Although he dismissed compliments, citing Wanda Maximoff for recipes, he seemed to almost buzz at how much food you and Bucky consumed. When it was time for presents, you took a bowl of paprika mashed potato with you to the couch.

"Wait… I thought you were moving these to get to our gifts," you said confused, pointing to the pile on the coffee table.

"I like Christmas," Steve replied, shrugging.

Each carefully wrapped box had a sticker tag on it, the handwriting beautiful. Each one with your name on it looked like typed font it was so perfectly replicated. Bucky's, however, all had variations of his name. Bucky. Buck. Buckaroo. Jerk. Punk.

"I wanna go first," Bucky announced, clearly annoying the scene Steve had playing out in his head. "Here," he said, throwing a box at Steve. Obviously, he caught it.

Steve was immediately suspicious of Bucky's enthusiasm. He did his best not to give his best friend the satisfaction he so badly sought. Simply, Steve rolled his eyes when he unwrapped the ridiculous Captain America action figure.

"See, if you press here, he says things!" Bucky explained, reaching over the coffee table to press the button.

The action lit up and a recorded voice proudly announced, "Avengers, assemble!"

Bucky started to cackle. Steve held in a grin, sucking in his bottom lip to bite it between his teeth.

"That's not even your voice," you noted.

Steve pressed the button again. The toy said, "Freedom and justice for all!"

Bucky was absolutely beside himself.

"I… don't think I've ever said that," Steve said, composing himself. "Actually, Buck, before you get too proud, here." Steve handed Bucky a gift. It stopped Bucky in his tracks. He narrowed his eyes at his friend and began to slowly unwrap it. "If I'm a joke, buddy, so are you," Steve said in the best anti-Captain America tone he could.

Bucky held up the teddy bear. The Bucky bear. Unlike Steve and the action figure, Bucky didn't seem embarrassed by the toy.

"Didn't know they still make these," he said slyly. Bucky knew for a fact they did not make them. He'd gone looking out of interest. Unless Steve had found a mint condition, not at all aged bear, which was incredibly unlikely, it meant he had one especially made.

"If you don't want him, I'll have him," you said, reaching out for the teddy with grabby hands. Bucky (the human) smiled as you hugged Bucky (the bear) to your chest.

"That backfired, didn't it?" he grinned across to Steve.

Steve shook his head. "Here, punk. Got you these too."

Steve had bought Bucky three more gifts. One of the past, one of the present, and one of the future. The past was a vintage record player, which momentarily sent Bucky into a hazy daydream. To use in the here and now - a top of the range knife sharpener. The future was the box set of Gadget Man. You wondered if Steve knew how weird Richard Ayoade was.

He wasn't done; Bucky hadn't been kidding about the whole 'had nothing growing up = now overdoes gifting' thing. Steve presented you with what you could only assume was a very expensive fancy decanter, the most beautiful antique brooch, and a book about the women of WWII. "That's the only one Peg had ever approved of," Steve said.

"You remember everything, huh?" you replied. All those months ago, waiting for Bucky to wake, Steve had told you about Peggy Carter and all the other women he'd met in the war. He'd recalled how enraptured you were.

Lucky last was a pair of matching ugg boots for you and Bucky. Buck pulled his on immediately, loving the feeling of his wriggling toes in the softness.

"Okay, so you moonlight as Santa. Cool," you laughed when Steve was finally done.

Steve grinned with pride.

"Our turn. This one is from me," you said, handing two parcels to Steve. "Bucky told me about how you used to draw. Reckon you both need some… non-combat hobbies."

Steve unwrapped the illustrator's pencils and drawing pads. "Y/N, these are beautiful… It's really thoughtful. I'll draw you something,"

"Draw me," Bucky chimed in.

"She's already unlucky enough to see you every day, Buck. Doesn't need your face on her wall," Steve replied casually, nonchalantly.

You adored when Steve and Bucky were soft around each other, to each other, but fuck it was fun when they'd bicker like an old married couple. The swings they took at each other were always held back with love.

"Christ," Bucky laughed. "Anyway, you interrupted me. I wasn't finished. Here," he said, tossing Steve another gift.

A new leather jacket ("…faux leather, Steve, gotta get with it…"), some very specific thing for Steve's bike that you did not understand, and a fondue set. You also did not understand that.

"Apparently…" Bucky started, leaning back on the sofa looking smug as fuck. "…Peggy told Sharon. Funny stories from Aunt Peg's past and all that… Sharon told Sam. Sam told me. So, ah… fondue."

Steve said nothing.

"I don't get it,"

"Why are you like this?" Steve asked Bucky.

…

The mewing sounds of a black cat woke you early on Christmas morning. Bucky sometimes opened the window when he got up, left a little dish of milk out on the fire escape for the stray. It didn't seemed cagey, like it was used to being inside the apartment.

Bucky emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and smiling happily at you and the cat. "Mornin'," he greeted, reaching down to pat the cat's back, just where its tail began. The cat shimmed happily.

"Are you talking to her or me?"

"I mean… Both?"

You shook your head at him while he went about making coffee. The cat followed him, curling around his ankles like she'd been his best friend forever.

"What's her name?"

"Becca."

You nodded, watching the cat. "So, are you gonna come wish me a happy Christmas?" you asked Bucky when he remained focused on the cat, then on pulling bowls and pans from the kitchen cupboards.

"How 'bout you come here and wish me a happy Christmas. Since I'm about to make you special pancakes,"

"Special pancakes?!" you repeated, quickly getting out of bed and slipping your feet into closest pair of ugg boots. Not yours. Bucky snorted as he watched you cross the apartment walking like a little kid in their mother's high heels. When you got to him, he opened his arms and pulled you in close. "What makes them special?"

"If they work, they're gonna be eggnog flavoured… Maybe," he answered, leaving the hug to begin cooking.

After eggnog pancakes and The Grinch, you both pulled out your Christmas gifts.

"Did you actually go into a Lush store?!" you squeaked, quickly taking the lid off the Merry and Bright giftbox.

Bucky sighed. "Yeah… I did… Had to get something without the bath stuff in it," he told you.

The image of Bucky Barnes walking into a Lush store and asking for a giftbox for you was all a little too much. The signature smell of the store was in the air and Bucky looked relieved.

"I love it. It's perfect. Thank you," you said softly, hugging him.

It was his turn. Bucky opened the small box, held up the contents. You'd never seen confusion so perfectly executed in expression before. The pink cat collar looked especially tiny hanging from his finger.

"Notice anything different about Becca?" you asked then.

Bucky immediately started to look around for the cat. She came when he called, and he picked her up. Still confused.

"See that little tattoo in her ear? Means she's yours. Took her to the vet to see if she was microchipped or anything. But she wasn't. She was homeless, and now she's not. She's wormed and flead and registered to us. Turns out she's young too. Just a bit of a big boi, probably all that milk you've been giving her,"

"Y/N... I..." But he didn't know what to say, so he turned to the cat. "Did ya hear that, Bec? You don't have to sneak ya in anymore."

Bucky put her new collar on while you told him that he'd have to take her to her appointment the following week; she needed to be desexed. And, that you had to give her a name at the vet. "I don't know if we can change it now... Didn't want to ruin the surprise, so I just did it. But it's not like it says Bucky on your birth certificate, so…"

"What did you call her?"

"Whiskey,"

"Whiskey… Of course you did. How about I make us some tea then, before you get ready for work? Do a toast to Whiskey?"

…

"Most places are closed Christmas," Bucky stated like you didn't already know that fact.

"Yeah… But I don't know, we open every year and the regulars come. I don't know where they'd go if we weren't open," you explained, pulling your boots on.

"I'll come with you," he said then, quickly dragging himself off the sofa and looking around for something to wear. No real cleaning had taken place in a couple of days. The Christmas spirit was well and truly alive in the form of loose bits of tinsel and stray gift bows. Clothes were scattered about too, and empty shopping bags. You were surprised Bucky hadn't freaked out about the mess.

"You can if ya want, but you don't have to. Don't feel obligated or anything."

Bucky was dressed and at the door before you'd finished with your laces. His beauty was effortless.

"I don't," he reassured, tying his hair up in a bun.

As you and Bucky turned the corner onto the bar's street, you could see a couple of people leaning against the old building. Out of instinct, Bucky's grip on your hand tightened and he walked a little closer to you. Approaching the bar, you recognised Dave and another regular. "Hey, guys," you greeted them, hugging them before opening the bar and letting everyone in.

Like it was a normal day, the tables filled with people and the jukebox was set to bad 70s and 80s rock and country. You poured out a free round of beer and ordered a couple pizzas for the men that had only your bar to call home.

Once everyone was settled, you wandered back over to Bucky, who was residing in his usual place.

"What's a boy like you doing in a place like this?" you asked, grinning and resting on the bar.

"Oh, you know. Good service. Think I might ask the doll that works 'ere out," he replied, trademark Barnes.

It made you laugh. Bucky leaned across and kissed you gently.

"So what will it be? Whiskey? Oh, fireball! For Christmas?"

Bucky made a face he couldn't hide fast enough. "Don't take this the wrong way, darlin', but… prefer your eggnog,"

"I've made you fireballs before at home?"

He tried to hide a smile. "How 'bout that old bottle. Still floating around?"

The 1940 bottle of whiskey. In the wake of Bucky's abrupt disappearance all those months ago, you'd hidden the bottle behind stacks of till rolls and bags of straws. It did nothing but remind you of Bucky, which in turn caused nothing but heartache. In all honesty, you'd forgotten about it until the moment he'd asked for it.

"Not drinking with me?" he asked when you only poured one glass.

"Buck, you know I love you, but I'm just not drinking that shit ever again."

He watched you for a second, studied your face to see if you were going to take it back or laugh like it was a joke. But you didn't do either of those things. Rather, you just smiled. Gentle but sly. Knowing.

You kinda loved him from the get go.

"Think I've been waitin' eighty years for you," Bucky said, his voice shaky, like the words had slipped from the deep, pure recesses of his mind without filter.

"Merry Christmas, James Buchanan Barnes. Glad you're here," you replied, holding your can of Dr Pepper up to tap against his glass of whisky in a toast.

"Merry Christmas, darling."

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Please like, reblog, and comment if you’ve got any feels about this! It took ages to write and was a lot of work. I’d appreciate it a lot. xo Rhi

Tag list: @browngirlmagic @darlingtholland

#Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes fic #Bucky Barnes fanfic #Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky Barnes/Reader #Bucky Barnes x You #Bucky Barnes/You #Bucky Barnes/Y/N #Bucky Barnes x Y/N #mine #Bucky Barnes needs a hug #Recovering!Bucky

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missionbayhomesforsalebocaraton · 4 years ago

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What Happens If a Seller Leaves Something in the House in Mission Bay, Boca Raton, FL?

In a perfect Mission Bay, FL home sale scenario, the house is left clear for the buyer to move in. Sometimes, the opposite of perfect happens, though.

Knowing what happens to things left after a home's turnover boils down to answering one question: is the item a fixture or a chattel? Most seller-leaving-stuff-after-home-turn-over situations are easy to solve. It's as simple as determining which category the thing left behind falls in.

Some instances might be more complicated than this, though. And in case you experience such, this article will help you do the right thing, whether you are the buyer or the seller.

This article will discuss scenarios that may occur after a seller leaves their stuff behind. Read on for tips on how to deal with this.

Is it a fixture or a chattel?

The first step in deciding what to do with the seller's stuff is to know whether it is a fixture or a chattel.

A fixture is a permanent part of the Mission Bay home you are selling or sold to you. It's a real property that comes with the transfer of the house and lot. It is something whose ownership is transferred with the house and is not personal property.

If it's a fixture, the buyer automatically becomes the owner of the item being settled. The generally accepted rule is that if somebody cannot remove it without damaging any to which it is attached, it is a fixture. Therefore, the buyer can do anything they want with the fixture left behind since it is now theirs. The new homeowner has all the rights to keep, sell, or dispose of the items.

Chattels, on the other hand, are movable properties. While it is easy to know who fixtures belong to, chattels are quite complicated. Chattels are not automatically owned by the seller just because they are the previous owners of the house. Some chattels might also be considered fixtures upon thorough checking.

We have listed three questions you may answer to help confirm which category does the item belong to:

1. Is the item permanently affixed?

A chattel may not be a chattel if it is affixed to the home, and its removal may damage the property. For instance, a bedroom cabinet can be a fixture even though cabinets are usually movable. If it is glued to the flooring or walls, for example, and may create dents upon moving the item, it makes the chattel a fixture. In line with this, inserts that are glued, cemented, or attached to the cabinet are considered fixtures.

2. Does the purchase contract say anything about it?

A purchase contract for a house contains more than its proposed price. Most, if not all, purchase agreements contain a clause that defines the items included in the sale. Unless otherwise stated by the contract, fixtures stay as fixtures and chattels remain chattels. Always stipulate in the contract what stays and what goes. That way, you can avoid issues with leftover items moving forward.

3. Is the item hidden or buried?

There is usually a pre-closing inspection that happens before closing the deal. This is beneficial for both buyers and sellers. Buyers take this opportunity to ensure that the home is clean for them to move in. Meanwhile, the seller gets more time to ensure they have taken the last of their items out of the house. In some cases, previous owners unintentionally forget their things.

These things are usually the ones that are hidden or buried. The overriding rule is that the item is not immediately considered as abandoned to the buyer. The new owner of the house has no right to deal with it any way he likes. The buyer does not have the right to sell or dispose of the item. Instead, he must hold the item on behalf of the owner as a bailor. The buyer can contact the seller if they can deal with it amicably upon discovering such things.

What are the things I can and cannot do with the items left behind?

Distinguishing a fixture from a chattel is just the first step. The next relevant decision to make is what to do with the stuff left behind on the Mission Bay home.

Fixtures. If it is a fixture, the item’s owner is the buyer, and thus, he can do anything he wants to do with it. He is free to use, sell, or junk the possessions left behind. What he can't do is demand any compensation from the seller for any cost or inconvenience.

Chattels. As mentioned in the initial part of the article, it might be a little more complicated for chattels. While a fixture is outright owned by the buyer most of the time, chattels' ownership is not always given to the seller. We listed two usual scenarios that complicate what to do with chattels:

The chattel belongs to a third party. Some homeowners do not live in the house they are selling. A lot of sellers may have had the place on rental before they decided to sell it. And sometimes, the tenants of these sellers may leave behind some items too. If this is the case, ownership of the object remains with that third party and the property. The buyer will become a bailor for the item on their behalf.

The chattel is under finance, lease, or mortgage. If the item was under finance, then a solicitor can do a search before settlement to discover this. The finance company will have the right to repossess these things. This is stated initially in most financing contracts.

If the item's owner is not a third party and it's not under finance, it's most likely owned by the seller. If this is the case, the buyer has no entitlement to sell, use, or throw away chattels without the owner's authorization. The buyer should also ensure that the stuff left behind by the seller is not susceptible to theft or damage.

How can you avoid complications and inconveniences by items left behind in a home sale?

Bailment obligations make the stay in a new house less enjoyable for buyers. Getting their things back is a hassle for sellers. Going back to their old house after the buyer has moved in is considered trespassing. Worry not, because you can avoid complications such as these.

It will be beneficial for a home seller to inspect the Mission Bay home with a real estate agent. They are the best person to discuss what is and isn't a fixture for clear understanding. In case you want to take something that you like upon moving out, you can replace it with standard ones. That is legal as long as it won't hinder the house's new owners from enjoying their stay in full.

You can note items that you consider fixtures and specify them in the purchase offer as a buyer. Does the house have appliances or light fixtures that you want to ensure remains after the sale? List them in the proposal.

Whether you are a buyer or a seller, it is best to state in the contract what goes and what stays. Doing so avoids complications in the future. Getting an expert to help you with the home buying or selling process is a smart move too.

If you're looking forward to selling or buying a home in Mission Bay, Boca Raton, FL, call me, Kristi Ramella, at 561-206-2507.

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In case you cannot view this video here, please click the link below to view What Happens If A Seller Leaves Something Behind in the House in Mission Bay, Boca Raton FL? on my YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZHIdo2QkNRQ

#MissionBayHomeForSale #MissionBayBocaRatonFLHomes #KristiRamella

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cinemaocd · 5 years ago

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The Mirror and the Light raises more questions than it answers

Going into The Mirror and the Light, the third and necessarily final book in Hilary Mantel’s Thomas Cromwell trilogy, the basic plot wasn’t much in doubt. Thomas Cromwell would rise. Thomas Cromwell would fall. In the summer of 1540 he would be executed. Along the way his son would get married, while he remained single, despite wide-spread speculation that he was angling after the King’s daughter Mary Tudor. Those who Cromwell promoted would be raised as well and some would remain loyal while others would betray him. Cromwell’s fall would come some time after Henry VIII’s unsuccessful marriage to Anne of Cleves, and his role in promoting that marriage would play some part in his downfall. Cromwell’s past interactions with his two most powerful enemies, Stephen Gardiner and the Duke of Norfolk, would also have some bearing on his downfall, since they were the main figures behind his arrest.

These are the undisputed big historical facts that Mantel had to work with, or in many cases, work around. There were many other smaller facts that she had to play with as well, some of which appear in the book as delightful asides like Cromwell putting a neighbor’s house on rollers in order to settle a boundary dispute, or Cromwell importing beavers to control the streams and rivers of England. There was also some evidence that Cromwell had an illegitimate daughter, born sometime after his wife’s death. Mantel massages the timeline to make this fit into her backstory of original characters from the first two books, and cleverly ties the daughter to the seemingly random charge in his arrest that he “sheltered Anabaptists.”

Of course Mantel created a whole plot, a series of original characters, and interpretations of historical figures and events for the first two books. They were fiction, after all. Like any good writer (and Mantel is an excellent writer, always in control of her material), she left questions unanswered to hook readers into the third book. If you were expecting these plots to be tidily resolved, you will be disappointed in The Mirror and the Light. The book fails to resolve many questions, creates more plot threads and then leaves those loose as well. Does that mean the book isn’t successful? I would argue that it is precisely because she fails to resolve these puzzles and questions, that Mantel manages to walk the knife edge between genre fiction and literature with a big “L.” She is certainly aware that these characters have all been the main actors in romance novels and murder mysteries as well as history plays. Indeed that is the subtext of almost every movement of plot within the novels.

While Wolf Hall seemed to be a conversation with playwright Robert Bolt about the veracity of A Man for All Seasons, which made Thomas More the hero and Cromwell the villain; this last installment seems to be deeply concerned with T.S. Eliot’s Murder in the Cathedral, about the murder of Thomas Becket at the hands of Henry II. Cromwell digs up Becket’s bones at their resting place in Canterbury, tears down statues of Becket and even keeps the supposed remains of the martyr in his house, in case the king changes his mind. He considers commissioning a play that shows what a terrible person Becket was for disobeying his king and bowing to Rome. Henry II was excommunicated, and Mantel dwells on the possibility that if the current Henry suffers the same fate, the whole nation could be lost to invaders given free reign by the pope to do their worst to the heretics. This is one of the reasons Cromwell is so eager to align England with Lutheran princes via the marriage with Cleves. But of course, Cromwell, as always, has half a dozen reasons for everything he does.

Eliot celebrates Becket as a champion of the separation of powers of church and state, a founding principal of modern democracies and one which was much threatened during the time Eliot wrote the play, 1935, with fascism on the rise in Europe. Of course it does not take a rocket scientist or even a political scientist to put two and two together with our own times. Cromwell would be anti-Brexit, pro NHS and anti austerity. Yet, he would also be the kind of neo-liberal who would be quietly feathering his own nest, profiting from selling off National Trust properties all the while making speeches about the enduring greatness of the British monarchy. For every eerily prescient passage about the plague and it’s random destructive path through society, there is a reminder of just how foreign a country the past is: Cromwell--a becon of rationality and enlightenment--believes the source of his fever is a snake he held in Italy. For every kindly head of an English department who is inspired by Cromwell’s leadership, there is a despicable grotesque like Steve Bannon who admires Cromwell’s ability to seize both religious and political power who sees himself, like “self made” white men everywhere, the victim of the elitism that Cromwell faced.

But these are questions for people who get their essays in front of more eyeballs than I ever will. What do I, the Cromwell fanatic think of the new book?

I think die hard fans of the first two books will be generally pleased with this installment. We get so much more Cromwell than ever before. We are moving more slowly through his life and we are, with exception of a few enlightening flashbacks, solidly in the company of the mature, sardonic, earthy man that we we got to know in Bring Up the Bodies. In short, Cromwell at fifty is a pure joy. Mantel as with the previous installments surrounds him with a crew of lively and memorable companions. From his son who has come into his own as Sassmaster of Austin Friars, to the irrepressible Christophe, who stays with Cromwell through his confinement and walks with him to his execution, cursing the king as Cromwell could not, I love everyone in this English Reformation. Even the bad guys like Norfolk and Gardiner remain fresh. Mantel uses them thriftily, lest we tire of their antics, so that when Cromwell is blindsided by an Easter dinner with Gardiner and Norfolk it is one of the highlights of the book.

As we move closer to his doom, Cromwell has flashes of his fate, but the history fan, or even just the person who has made a close reading of Cromwell’s wikipedia entry, can see it collapsing all around him. Yet, miraculously he never wears out his welcome as other iterations of the character do. As much as I enjoyed James Frain’s Cromwell early in The Tudors his characterization gets more shrill as the story moves forward to the point where his execution is almost a relief. Cromwell is a convenient villain because so many of the facts of his life actually support that conclusion. Mantel used every trick in the book from making him the victim of child abuse, to giving Cromwell a love of animals and children to humanize him in the first two books. In the third she sharpens all of these tools, even as she readies Cromwell to make that last journey from the tower.

In the first two books, there are a number of tropes that are quite worn and flimsy. For example, the idea that it was Cromwell selected the group of petty noblemen executed with Anne Boleyn because they once participated in a masquerade mocking his former master, Cardinal Wolsey. The men were guilty of something to be sure: a kind of greedy, entitled, elitist malice, but not the crimes for which they were executed. It is a weak premise really, but Mantel made it work because of the way she showed the working of Cromwell’s mind, and the way in which she brought the reader so thoroughly into his schemes. By the time you realize that you have been spending time with a mass murderer you are so under his spell that you begin to question the entire premise of narrative fiction. Can any narrator be relied upon? Is there any such thing as a villain or a hero? Are there not elements of both in every person? Can’t the guilt for all of this blood really be laid at the feet of the often childish monarch in whose name all of this happened? Where does personal responsibility begin and end in the midst of atrocity?

All of these larger questions are floating around in the background of The Mirror and the Light and as Cromwell focuses in on the grim task of disemboweling England’s religious houses for personal and political gain, you wonder what price all of this is going to have on his soul. In Wolf Hall, Cromwell fell into a fever, (probably malaria--which had a basis in historical fact) after he managed More’s execution. Though More’s death should be seen as political triumph for him, he views it as a personal failure. Cromwell does not like saints who don’t behave like rational men. He likes men like Geoffrey Pole, who he interrogates in The Mirror and the Light. Pole gives in easily to intimidation, talks a blue streak and is pardoned and released. Cromwell suffers another bout of the fever--which he believes will ultimately take his life-- after bringing down the last and largest religious house in England, the nunnery at Shaftesbury. Now it is true that Cardinal Wolsey had an illegitimate daughter who was housed there, but Mantel takes that fact and weaves into the fabric of her story. Again it is a flimsy premise and again it works because it is surrounded by unassailable bulwark that is Cromwell’s character. Cromwell arrives at Shaftesbury with the vague plan of trying to do something for the Cardinal’s daughter before he turns her out of her home. He winds up disastrously proposing marriage to her in an almost comical scene, a proposal which she rejects with such venom that he weeps for only the second time in three books. This is a man who has lost his entire family, suffered deeply all through his childhood and adolescence and yet this is only the second time he weeps? It’s not quite logical, and like the masquerade plot, it feels all a bit creaky, yet we believe it because Cromwell.

Wolsey’s daughter also accuses Cromwell of poisoning Wolsey, a rumor which has touched Cromwell’s ears earlier in the book, from the dying lips of another bastard child, this time The Duke of Richmond, the illegitimate son of Henry VIII. The injustice of the accusation drives Cromwell’s grief more than the girl’s rejection and he becomes haunted by the idea of who is spreading this rumor. While it could be any of Cromwell’s numerous enemies, it is never fully resolved. On second or third read of this or the other books, we might find the clues that Mantel hid in the story. Similarly multiple readings of the first two books reveal clues as to who terrorized Anne Boleyn by leaving her hate mail, setting her bed on fire and murdering her dog. Mantel has not exactly solved that mystery but she puts the probable solution into the mouth of one of her least trustworthy characters, Lady Jane Rochford, the wife of the late George Boleyn. If Cromwell believes her, he doesn’t say. We are left to decide for ourselves.

In the end, Cromwell’s bout of grief-driven malaria does contribute to his downfall, as he misses a crucial session of parliament, in which Stephen Gardiner forced through a series of laws meant to reverse the Reformation. Cromwell has to stand by and watch friends and fellows in the struggle to create a bible in English, burned at the stake. In Wolf Hall, Mantel says that a “blacksmith creates his own tools,” meaning that Cromwell created the very laws which he used to take down Katherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. The blacksmith imagery pays off in the final chapter of the last book, when we are reminded of Cromwell’s childhood nickname “put an edge on it” when he spies the dull instrument with which is to be executed. In The Mirror and the Light, the blacksmith is left at the mercy of his own tools. Unable to find proof of Cromwell’s heresy as a religious dissenter, Gardiner uses the law that Cromwell created to prevent any of Henry’s heirs marrying without the king’s permission. He takes idle gossip started by Cromwell’s oldest frenemy Eustace Chapuys, that Cromwell is planning to marry the Lady Mary Tudor, and uses it to fabricate the evidence used in Cromwell’s arrest. He uses the exact methods that Cromwell used to bring down Anne Boleyn: spin a rumor into fact while using the king’s momentary dissatisfaction as the window of opportunity to make ordinary ambition look treasonous.

The scenes with Mary are both heartbreaking and hilarious, as are many of the scenes with other possible, past marriage candidates such as Bess and Jane Seymour. Just as Cromwell’s relationship with frequent correspondents Stephen Vaughn flavored the earlier books, Cromwell’s relationship with Thomas Wyatt is the closest thing to a romance that Cromwell has in The Mirror and the Light. Cromwell’s seemingly irrational loyalty to Wyatt is explained away by a deathbed promise to Wyatt’s father (there is also a convenient deathbed promise to Katherine of Aragon retconned into this book to explain the lengths he goes to to save Mary Tudor from father’s wrath). Another flimsy trope that works because of the strength of Mantel’s characterization.

In prose that is frequently breathtaking and always interesting, Mantel saves some of her best stuff for describing the relationship between Cromwell and the king. If his friendship with the poet Wyatt is like that of a lover, his strange entanglement with Henry is like that of a spouse. In one scene Cromwell and Henry fall asleep together on a sofa. The intimacy is heartbreaking, partly because we know how it will end. When Cromwell is in his most pitched delirium of fever he realizes that Henry will use him up and spit him out. When he recovers himself, he writes The Book of Henry --treasonous advice to some imagined future privy councilor. Even if he does not consciously acknowledge that Henry will kill him, as he has his other spouses, his fever self, his true self, seems to realize it.

#Have this 2500 word brain dump #The Mirror and the Light #Hilary Mantel #Thomas Cromwell #This really only scratches the surface of my feelings #but I will probably need fic to go further

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spicy-yikes · 5 years ago

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So I know the Steven Universe movie clarified that Steven is Steven and any true consciousness of Pink Diamond is gone but what if Steven’s existence is a byproduct of Pink Diamond’s corrupted gem? P.s I don’t know if this theory has been posited before but here I go

Corruption causes gems to forget who they are. For all gems it turns them into something primal but I theorize that a corrupted diamond could absolutely elevate the absence of self from primal instinct with or without intention.

Often times a corrupted gem will adopt the appearance and behaviors of the creatures around them. So many gems have jellyfish, fish, and bug like characteristics to name a few. None of these are necessarily native to their planet but they blend in with the Earth’s ecosystem.

This corruption happened well before humans were at the population rate that we see let alone that population sprawled out. Pink had seen and enjoyed humans at this time but outside of the diamonds and those working at the zoo it appears that other gems had little to no contact with the human race. It makes sense that other gems would not adopt any human features or characteristics in their corruption but I firmly believe that Pink could.

Corruption can also exists in stages as demonstrated by Centipedle.

I would also like to point out quickly that corrupted, cracked, and shattered gems are all different states. A gem does not have to appear damaged to be damaged so there would be no reason for White to comment on a crack for a corrupted Pink at the end of the original series.

This is also a viable explanation for how Steven was created since the series gives no insight into how human/gem reproduction would work.

What really sells this theory, for me anyway, isn’t the mechanics of corruption or a lacking explanation of Stevens conception but the staggering number of dialogue and story evidence that exist when keeping this theory in mind.

“I thought you'd never want to hurt anyone! You hurt everyone! How could you just leave Garnet, and Amethyst and Pearl, and-and Dad?! They don't know what to do without you! Maybe they didn't matter to you as much as hiding the mess you made! And that's why I'm here, isn't it?! Did you just make me so you just wouldn't have to deal with your mistakes?!” - Steven, Storm in the Room

While Steven ultimately decides to give Rose the benefit of the doubt later in this scene Rose isn’t really there to answer. Steven rationalizes good intentions onto his mother but creating Steven to either escape or fix her mistakes is 100% within Rose’s character.

As Pink, Rose created other Rose Quartz in order to maintain her disguise. She has already given life to multiple beings in pursuit of correcting her mistake of asking for a colony. She even goes as so far as to give them aspects of her personality in addition to her physical traits as Rose. Steven comments in Steven Universe: Future that he and the other quartz are “like siblings.”

Pink created her ego of Rose to fix her mistakes as well but it failed in the greater picture. Now, as Rose, she’s left with corrupted gems. I theorize she attempted to heal them in secret and, of course, failed. At some point, she would have come to the same conclusion that Steven would come to later: healing corruption takes more than one diamond.

But how would Rose get help from the diamonds? She’s their enemy. She can’t return as Pink because Pink is dead. Even if she miraculously returned; why would they listen to her now when they didn’t back then? She can’t reconcile the two identities without admitting the betrayal of both the Crystal Gems and the diamonds. She’s so used to running and hiding and lying that she is unwilling to accept the consequences of coming forward which could cost her Earth itself.

So Rose can’t just create another identity for herself to assume in order to fix these mistakes too. It would just be another layer of lies that would bury her deeper and yield who knows what consequences.

If only there was someone who had attachments to Rose and Pink diamond but was blameless because they are neither Rose nor Pink, who could uncover her secrets. Someone to unbubble Bismuth. Someone who could unite humans, Crystal Gems, and the diamonds because they can be all three at once. Isn’t it awfully convenient that Steven fits that exact profile?

Rose corrupted her gem to make Steven. Steven’s physical form is copied largely from Greg. The corruption erases the identity of Rose and Pink Diamond so completely that Steven is not aware of having been them except for the occasional flashback of memory upon processing that Rose was Pink.

It’s also strange that Steven keeps glowing pink in Steven Universe: Future. That his hair and body resemble Pink in some scenes. What hits me the hardest though is that Pink/Rose kept trying to solve their mistakes in secret and before Steven’s meltdown into what I consider to be further corruption he says:

“Oh, don't worry! I fixed that too! I can fix anything. I can just keep messing up and fixing things forever, and you'll never have to know or think about any of it! How messed up is that, that I've gotten away with this for so long? You have no idea how bad I am. Y-You think I'm so great, and I'm so mature, and I always know what to do! But that's not true! I haven't learned a thing from my problems! They've all just made me worse! You all think of me as some angel...” Steven Universe, Everything’s Fine

Steven hasn’t been doing this behavior for long. A few weeks maybe a few months have passed since he adopted this process but he says it’s been for so long. Rose is the one who has a long history of this behavior and the issues with being idolized for maturity and having answers applies to both Rose and Steven. The subconscious realization that Steven is ending up just like Rose pushes him into that further state of corruption we see. It’s also Steven’s own tears that heal his corruption enough to bring him back to his normal state and his willingness to heal. I firmly believe that despite exposure to all four healing properties that since he is unaware of his base corruption that he wouldn’t revert. Diamonds must consent to being healed and you can’t consent if you don’t know any better.

This also explains why when Steven was separated from his gem it cycled through Pink and Rose before settling on Steven’s form. The gem itself had a reflexive memory but knows Steven best and thus is Steven.

There’s probably other connections but I’m tired and it’s late so y’all just have fun with this theory. Good night!

#steven universe #steven universe: future #corrupted gem theory #theory #rose quartz #pink diamond #spoilers

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wasalwaysagreatpickle · 4 years ago

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Friday 2 September 1831

10 50/..

At my desk at 7 3/4 – wrote the whole of the last page and so far of this – feel very bilious and giddy – the following note from Mr Rawson – ‘Dear Madam I was very sorry to hear Mark Wilcock had been trespassing over the grounds at Shibden Hall, as he ought to have known better and I think must have been in a little in liquor – but I will take care he does not offend again in the same way – yours truly Christopher Rawson – ‘Hope Hall, Friday morning’ –

Breakfast (a weak tea again) at 9 1/4 – gave my father Mr Rawson’s note to read – Letter about 1/2 hurried page from Lady Gordon dated Wednesday 34 Hertford Street and as follows – ‘I had written you a long letter saying that I would go – and with many thanks to you; but my advisers have stopped it and say I cannot decide for certain reasons for a day or two – It is now past post time and I am writing in a horrid hurry – yours Caroline Duff Gordon. I’ll write on Friday definitively’

Just read this and said to Marian I found I could not be off on Monday – should not be able to fix a day positively till after Sunday’s post – Marian said she never expected I could get off then – I said I would as soon as I could – some time afterwards she going out of the room, and, I thinking I should have no better opportunity of speaking to my father on the subject of my going began by saying I was hurt and annoyed etc. etc. this led to a regular running through of the whole matter, and my saying I thought Marian had behaved very ill – In the course of the conversation, mentioned what I had heard Marian say of leaving a thousand pounds to her little protégée Sarah – and of selling the 3 farms she would have here and said I had not made my uncle’s will and was not to blame for it, etc. etc. what I had done about my father’s will was to satisfy my uncle etc. etc. I thought Marian not much fit for the management of complex affairs – I would pay no debts for her – should be glad of her having some sure provision and my father knew best, but I thought it would be well to entail the farms here – if she had children they would have them, and if not my father could make such further disposition as he chose – I did not want to dispose of them – I had not in fact, the disposition of this Shibden property – for to know a persons wish and promise to comply with it was as binding as any entail could be – I gave it to be understood that I had not the final disposition of the estate – for said I had once made a will (and told Marian what I had done) but that she had thrown in my face what I had left her, and I had then told her, she should not have it to do again – did not name at all the will I am now going to execute – said I was surely as much my father’s child as Marian and thought it odd to be thus absolutely set against Cordingley, or, as Marian afterwards said, her (Marian’s) money (though I said I would pay all additional expenses) and turned out of the house – this led my father to say, well! as to that it was all nonsense – if I chose to go, it was very well but I did not need go unless I liked it – How so, said I – if you say that I must explain – if I cannot have Cameron here, and cannot do without her, what remains for me to do? – why, said my father, you used to do without her and you might do without her still – As for that, said I, surely I must be the best judge what I can do with or do without – I know I used to do without but we cannot always do as we used to do – I cannot and indeed in this case ought not –

Here George came in to say my aunt was in the drawing room, but as it was eleven and after I thought he meant Mr Charles Robinson whom I expected at that hour, and therefore went off in a minute or 2 – some talk with my aunt and Mr Charles Robinson came about 11 1/4 – explained to him that I wished to have all the new tenants under lease – named the nature of the lease, and that I wanted the same rent Jackman paid (£14 for the 6 1/4 days work of marshes – Mr Charles Robinson pays only 12 guineas) but that I was willing to pay him a fair valuation for what he had laid out excepting for the shed of which there might be a memorandum made on the back of the lease that he should on quitting receive what ever might at the that time be considered a fair equivalent or as I shall on signing the lease add be allowed to take it away? – He well satisfied, as well he might and the lease to be prepared – we then talked of the mill concern – I said I had told Mr Adam the rent would be doubled but that this was my idea on the 1st of my coming over but that the paper Thomas Robinson had given me so far from doing harm had done good, and that I was now inclined to make the terms better for them than before but would pledge myself to nothing as yet – at all rates I had not named and should not name the valuation paper (vide page 204) – He said his brothers were now determined to agree, and all would be settled on Tuesday – I promised to meet them at Mr Parker’s office on that day, and possession of the mill being previously given, we would make a new agreement, and all should be finally determined as far depended on me – they must see what they could make of George previously as to the mill on condition of his having it on a lease from me – I had nothing to do with that, but that till I had possession I would do nothing –

Asked Mr Charles Robinson where to get scalpels and bistourées in London – he recommended Laundy of Saint Thomas Street opposite the gates of Guy’s hospital London – he made instruments for the hospital and would get me admission to see the preparations – would introduce me too, if I liked to Doctor Hodgson who has written a critical catalogue of the morbid preparations at Guy’s – as a present to a foreign medical friend had best ask for Sir Astley Cooper’s pocket case of surgical instruments price from £2 to £3 –

Mr Charles Robinson seemed uncommonly satisfied with his visit and stayed above 1 1/2 hour – Stayed talking to my aunt an hour – read her Mariana’s letter –

Reconciled her to staying here I urging the great expediency of it and saying it was in fact gaining time for if there was not a change of one sort or other by and by we could make some other arrangement it would hasten my settling with somebody or other

Said if Lady Gordon did not go to Spain she would probably go somewhere in the spring – in the mean while I could go quietly to Paris, and if I wanted a quiet place to settle my accounts etc. in England might try the Star and Garter at Richmond and give up all thoughts of Copp’s hotel at Leamington –

Richmond would be no more expense than Leamington and I could do without seeing Mariana again? –

Came upstairs at 1 1/2 and wrote all but the 1st 5 lines of today till 2 1/4 then writing instructions for Mr Charles Robinson’s lease, and writing fair copy of paper respecting the water at Upper Brea etc. till 4 – off (down the old bank) to Halifax at 4 1/4 to Mr Parker’s office – saw himself and with him near an hour – ordered leases for George and Charles Robinson shewed him my fair copy of the Upper Brea water paper, and the note I had had from Mr Rawson in the morning, and asked if he Mr Parker as a gentleman thought such a note sufficient – enough for the future conduct of the man (Mark Wilcock) but nothing for his past impertinence which ought to be apologized for – Mr Parker quite of my opinion but did not think the man worth an action, and no other remedy against him – I should get a farthing damages, he would have costs to pay or go to prison – the case was very clear – few witnesses required and £100 would certainly quite cover the expense – said I could not possibly let the thing go unpunished – this £100 might do me £200 worth of good as to character afterwards and I had quite made up my mind to bring the action if the man did not give an apology in writing –

Wrote at Mr Parker’s the rough draft of second and very civil note to Mr Rawson, and home up the old bank and at my desk in 20 minutes at 5 3/4 – rather shortened and altered, I think much for the better the note and wrote and sent by George at 7 1/4 to ‘Christopher Rawson Esquire 4 Hope Hall’ the following – ‘Dear Sir. I am much obliged to you for your note of this morning – nothing can be more satisfactory as to the future conduct of Mark Wilcock who, I am happy to find is your gamekeeper, as, in this case, you will doubtless be able to settle the matter for me – I am sorry this annoying business has occurred, and still more so to feel obliged to say, the man was not in liquor when I myself discharged him, and that such was the manner in which he set me at defiance in the presence of the two men who had before discharged him by my authority, that I am really called upon to beg you will be so good as insist on his coming here, and giving me a proper written apology in the presence of the two men in question, and of such other persons as I may choose to have present – Had you said 1/2 a word about the game, I should have had the greatest pleasure in giving you run of the estate, I am dear sir, very truly yours A. Lister. Shibden Hall Friday 2 September 1831’ –

Read the note to my aunt and father or rather the copy of it just after I had off George – Dinner at 7 1/2 – sat over it talking to my aunt till 9 20/.. – then we went to the rest till 10 5/.. when came up to my room at which hour Fahrenheit 64 1/2˚ - rather showery morning – fine afternoon and evening –

#anne lister #anne lister code breaker #1831 #christopher rawson

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doof-doofblog · 4 years ago

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"You Have Lost Everything!"

Monday 2nd November 2020

Hello again everyone! Hope you're all having a good week, regardless of the new lockdown! It's been a bit of manic week for me as I don't know whether I'm coming or going with my own personal issues, but thankfully everything seems to be a bit more clearer now. Anyhow, let's jump right into Monday's episode. The previous episode ended on such a big cliff-hanger, I'm looking forward to seeing what this episode has in store.

From what I can tell, the episode starts the day after the events of the poker game. Martin and Ruby are discussing what happened. Does Martin perhaps feel guilty? He probably shouldn't have left his friend while he was so vulnerable and weak. But I love the fact that something doesn't fit right with Martin, he thinks that Suki must've known about Kush's gambling problem, otherwise she never would've toyed with him the way she did. Ruby plays dumb and and mentions that Suki only got lucky and that Kush should've been more careful. To me, it's like they're on two different sides, Ruby is wanting to ruin the Slaters, while Martin is just wanting peace, but something tells me Martin is going to flip when he finds out his wife is behind it, possibly causing his children to be homeless.

Meanwhile, at the Slaters - everyone appears to be gathering their things together in attempt to come up with some money. They're trying to sell their belongings to be able to afford a deposit for another place to live. Kush tries to console them telling them he's going to try and sort it. But Kat, Stacey and Jean don't have much hope. Kat declares that Kush is a gambling addict, to which he is still in denial. I do fear for the Slaters, I'd hate to see them down on their luck. Kush promises to try and fix his terrible mistake as Kat receives a phone call about another cleaning job, it may be rubbish but it seems they have no choice. They need all the money they can get right now.

At Jack's, Denise has come round to collect the rest of her things only to discover that Jack has already gathered her things in a box for her. They have a little quick discussion and Jack applauds Denise for taking Raymond in and states that he's lucky to have her. Even though they have sadly decided to go their separate ways, you can see they still care deeply for each other. Jack asks whether Phil has kept or word and whether she has heard from Ellie, Denise confirms that Ellie has simply disappeared. Phil has kept to his word for the time being so it would seem, but how long will it be until that changes?! Suddenly, Isaac calls Denise - we can heard crying in the back ground and Isaac is calling for Denise for help as Raymond is crying. It's going to take a long time for young Raymond to settle, but hopefully in time he'll start to enjoy his new family home.

On the Square, Honey is getting herself ready to meet with the police officer who is supporting her after her horrific ordeal. Jay approaches her and she asks whether they'll be to meet in the park later on, Honey doesn't feel quite ready to tell Billy what has happened, she certainly doesn't want the children finding out. As Jay and Honey agree to meet each other later on, Honey leaves to go and see the police officer, only as she leaves Billy approaches Jay and starts asking questions on who Honey is seeing. He states the fact that by the look of what the lady is wearing, it could either be an estate agent or police. He asks Jay what's going on but Jay is reluctant to say anything. But as Billy turns to ask Honey herself, Jay stops him in his tracks and instructs him to get inside, how is he going to find the words to explain what's happened to Honey?!

In the Cafe, Kheerat has joined his Mum, she appears to be gloating after her big win the previous night. As Kush walks in, he sheepishly approaches the Panesar's and asks whether they can have a quick word. Suki, at first, doesn't seem interested. She states that a bet is a bet, but Kush tries to plead to her and explains if it was just him, he would've moved out by the weekend, but there are children involved here, she needs to take them into consideration also. She agrees to hear him out and makes a slight dig if he's ready for another poker game, even though he's got nothing left to gamble. Kush begs her to give him a few more days just to scrape some money together, but Suki points out he can barely afford to pay the current month's rent. She even think's she's doing him a favour - Erm, how?! - Kush sees that his pleas are going on deaf ears, as he walks out slowly, Kheerat compliments his Mother on how clever she is. He makes an interesting statement, she has never won a poker game in her life and somehow she's managed to swindle Kush into losing their house. Can Kheerat smell a rat? I really don't think it's going to be long until Kheerat stands up to his Mum. He appears to be the only decent one out of the family and you can see he doesn't agree to the decisions his Mum has made - Jags, the Slaters, who is going to be her next victim and what is it going to take for him to finally break?!

Haha! Sorry but I have to mention Rainie and Stuart again, out of all of this doom and gloom happening with multiple families at the minute, it's just nice to see Rainie and Stuart enjoying married life. It's just that little bit of comedy that we need. Rainie's emotions are all over the place, considering she's pregnant. I just loved her outburst about the make-up artist using her lippy on a corpse. Of course, Stuart is trying his absolute best to support his wife, but it looks like she's driving him round the bend with her mood swings. I personally think they make a brilliant couple, they bounce off each other really well. What do you guys think? What is you opinion of Stuart and Rainie being together?

At the park, Honey is waiting patiently for Jay, she looks up and notices Jay is approaching with Billy following along behind. She greets him politely, making very little small talk as it's clear she doesn't want him knowing anything. But as Billy begins to speak and apologises to her, she realises that Jay has told him everything. When Billy asks what the police have said, she confirms that Paul had been arrested and she's waiting on hearing the results to confirm whether she has been sexually assaulted or not. She also informed them that the police had found the video on his phone of her lying in the alleyway. Billy is horrified to learn what Paul has done, he can't seem to keep his rage to himself and announces he's going to kill him, but Honey stops him in his tracks and claims that his reaction is the reason why she didn't want him knowing, because she knew he'd respond in that way. She points to Jay and mentions the fact that Jay is half his age and has been brilliant towards her, shown her every bit of support he can. As Billy walks away, Jay confides in Honey that he was trying to the right thing, he felt if he told Billy, it would give Honey that extra bit of support, but Honey explains that Billy does mean well, but he will never change his ways. Is anyone else sensing there could be a bit of romance on the cards for Jay and Honey? They're spending a lot of time together recently, I mean, of course Jay is trying to be there for Honey during her horrific ordeal, but could something grow between the pair and could they potentially end up falling for one another?!

Ooooh the next scene grabbed my attention straight away. It seems really interesting. Jean is on the Square, announcing to her neighbours what has happen to her family in recent events. Informing them that Suki is making them homeless, throwing them out on the street within a week. It looks as if she either pleading for help or she's trying to get the community on her side. She tries to explain to her friends and neighbours that the Panesar's are all out to get them, But before she can make anymore statements, Suki stops her in the path. Informing everyone that it was Kush who betted their house away, to which Jean responds (the truth) the she played him! Ooooo I do hope it'll all come out, everyone will see how dirty Suki is! Kheerat will disown his Mother, Martin will blame Ruby for causing his children to go homeless. Ooooh it's all going to kick off I can see it coming!! It may take a bit of time for it to come to light, and honestly I can't wait to see the reaction of people when it does! Meanwhile, as Jean is out on the Square with her neighbours, Martin decides to visit Kush at home. At first, Kush doesn't want to hear what he's got to say, as he's had an earful from everyone else. But Martin is just being the best friend he can be and has simply just come round to see how he was doing. Something tells me that he kind of blames himself as he was the one who introduced Kush to poker, but Kush reassures him that he is not to blame. Kush explains that before poker he used the gyms to get away and get rid of all the anger and kind of give himself some breathing space, some head space, but since the lockdown and the gyms being closed, he's felt lost and it turns out her turned to poker to relive that feeling of getting away from everything. Kush explains to his friend that he will sort things out, he considers even giving his Mum a call, but Martin says that he will be able to help him, but the first thing Kush needs to do is to admit that he's an addict, as that would be the first step to take control of the situation.

Out on the Square, Jack has delivered Denise's things to her, as she thanks him for dropping it off, Jack informs her that he's done a bit of research on Ellie during recent events and he tells her that 4 of her properties were raided, and it just so happens that Phil managed to get Raymond away on the same day. Jack seems think there is a coincidence, but Denise doesn't want to know anymore. As far as she's concerned, her son is home where his belongs and he's safe. It's understandable why Jack is trying to look out for her, I get that he's concerned about Phil, but Phil does still have a right to see his son, he is Raymond's Dad after all and I don't believe he would ever put Raymond in danger. Phil may have a bit of a reputation as being a hard man, but the one thing he would never let come to harm is his family, and I think that should be something that both Denise and Jack need to remember.

Am I right in thinking that in the next scene, Honey confirms to Jay that there was no sign of any sexual assault?! Maybe Jay chased Paul off before he could go through with his vile attack, which means Jay pretty much saved Honey. Honey discusses how Billy must be in the pub right now, downing his third pint in a way of dealing with the news he's been given. Jay informs her not to worry about Billy, she needs to focus on herself and try and get better. He politely says goodbye to her before leaving for work, BUT just around the corner, we see a very shaky hand holding a brick. Oh no, Billy! He's hiding behind a wall as he watches Paul leave his house - so it looks as if he's been let out on bail - Billy watches as he walks away and slowly begins to follow him with the brick in the hand, but before he can do any damage, Jay rushes to stop him. Jay tells him this is not the way to be helping Honey. I do feel sorry for Billy during this conversation, for him, it's like the past is repeating itself. He explains to Jay that the same thing happened to Little Mo after they got married, fans will remember that during one particular episode, Little Mo was left alone in the Queen Vic cleaning up and someone broke in and sexually assaulted her, all that could be heard were screams coming from the hall. He admits to Jay that he couldn't support Little Mo through her ordeal and he fears he won't be able to do the same for Honey, so instead he decides he needs to act as the man he should be. But Jay reassures him that beating the guy up won't make up for what happened to Little Mo, and it won't make up what's happened to Honey. It seems that Jay's words hit home and Billy eventually drops the brick.

Back with the comedy duo, Stuart and Rainie. After Rainie lashing out on their beautician, Stuart has been left to do the make-up for the deceased. I think it's brilliant how he walks in covered in make-up, and even stating that the body he was working on was smiling at him every time he walked around the room, which clearly made him feel uneasy. As they're discussing advertising for a beautician, Tiffany is informing Keegan (two characters we haven't seen for a long time!) that she's trying to find a job to save up to pay for Keegan owning his own sandwich stall on the market. It looks as if Rainie overhears their conversation and asks Tiffany whether she does make-up, it's then that Tiffany confirms she's almost a qualified beautician. Something tells me that Rainie is going to offer the job to Tiffany, BUT will Tiffany accept? For some reason, I can't see Tiffany working in an undertakers, but who knows? If she's desperate for the money, she might grab the opportunity with both hands! Meanwhile, Martin finds Ruby in Walford East and confides in her that he feels he's to blame for Kush's gambling addiction. He informs her that Kush is convinced that someone set him up, to which Ruby once again, plays dumb. She tries to console her husband and tells him that he's trying to be the good friend, which Kush really deserves right now. Oh and isn't it a coincidence that while they're having this conversation, Suki just happens to be walking around the restaurant. Martin clocks to her presence and as she walks past him, he makes the very snide remark that if she actually did play him, then she is just disgusting! It looks as if those words hit Ruby hard, is she seeing that this is also hurting her husband as much as it is hurting the Slater family?! Could she be feeling some form of guilt? Will it end up eating her up and will she come clean to her husband?!

At the Panesar's office, Stacey is cleaning out her desk and belongings. As she mentions to Kheerat that she'll leaving as she'll probably have no where to live in the next couple of days, she disrespects his Mum right in front of him. But Stacey can see right through Kheerat, she knows he doesn't approve of his Mum's actions and she tells him to tell that he doesn't agree. Suddenly Suki walks through the door and Stacey makes herself scarce. Kheerat tries to persuade his Mum to let the Slater's stay, he noticed that the shop was quiet all afternoon. If her actions to what she's done to the Slater's start to make an affect on the community, no one will want nothing from them and they will struggle with their businesses. Kheerat tells her that if all goes to pot she'll have to start working for him. Suki then possibly realises that her son has a point and changes her mind and announces that the Slaters can stay, under one condition, their rent goes up! So once again, they're playing to her tune again! How many times has she put the rent up for the Slater's alone? Two, three times? She assures her son that she always gets what she wants, one way or another! Ooooo I do hope that one day Suki will get her comeuppance, whether it be from the Square or from her own children.

Back at the club, Jack looks like he's called a meeting with Callum. Callum asks whether he wants information on Phil then he really isn't interested. But something doesn't sit right with Jack, he brings up the topic about Ellie's properties being raided and stating the fact it was the day that Phil got Raymond back. Callum comes up with the excuse that he heard something being mentioned in a night club and tries to explain that he no idea that the property was Ellie's! I kind of feel like Callum is keeping his word to the Mitchell's. Now he's been made one of the family, he can't turn his back on them because it would mean turning his back on Ben also. Jack informs Callum that even though Denise is struggling with Raymond, she is trying her absolute best to support the young boy. He warns him that if he does anything to ruin it for her, then there will be hell to pay!

The last scene of this episode, Kush is seen sat alone in the house, we see him react as he heard the front door opening and closing. It looks as if he's hoping it'll be Kat, but Stacey appears and informs him that she's gone out for a drink with some unknown security guard. Kush looks absolutely devastated and distraught. It's becoming clear to him that he has made things incredibly worse, not just for his family but for his relationship with Kat also. As Stacey yells at him, he puts his hands to his ears, trying to block it all out until the issue becomes louder and louder and he yells at the top of his voice "I'm an addict!" - He finally admits it, even though the truth is most likely ripping him apart inside. Stacey only wishes he could've admitted it earlier, she tells him that Alfie lied to Kat repeatedly and he was supposed to be the good one. But now he's not just lost the house, he has lost everything!

How in the world is Kush going to be able to fix things? How is he going to be able to make it up to Kat and the rest of the family? I just want to thank you guys for reading, I'll be back very soon with another post! Enjoy the rest of your day folks! Please feel free to message me on your thoughts and opinions on what's currently happening in the soap, I'd love to hear from you! Love you all xXx

#eastenders #kushkazemi #staceyslater #jeanslater #katslater #martinfowler #rubyallen #suki panesar #kheerat panesar #honeymitchell #jaybrown #billymitchell #denisefox #jackbranning #stuarthighway #rainiecross #callumhighway #tiffanybutcher #keeganbaker

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kshitij1997 · 5 years ago

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Greetings, people!

Oh, damn I haven't done this in some time.

Well, the life of an engineer is a hectic one and I had written myself into a corner and was blocked for many days as a result. Not anymore. I have decided that I would update this once a week from now on.

We're getting somewhere in this, hopefully you people enjoy it.

All frozen and Tangled characters belong to Disney, all I own is this head-cannon and the original characters.

Let's continue!

Chapter 6: Of children fortunate and not so fortunate

Throughout Europe, the new year was always celebrated with utter pomp and show, what with firecrackers bursting in the city centres and town squares and if there weren't any firecrackers at hand, one could always fire a musket up in the air. Singing, dancing, drunken behaviour, smashing of public property, brawls and general noise. It was comforting to see that even though the major empires were coming up and clawing at each other's throats on a regular basis, nothing would really dampen the typical European spirit even if some drastic changes ever happened.

Which is not to say they didn't have different customs. The Ottoman Sultan for example, would start celebrating three days in advance, binging and drinking while being surrounded by scores of concubines, throwing golden medals and eggs onto the streets for all his citizens to collect. This pious act of charity was ample for the people to forgive the Sultan his misgivings. As for the Tsar, the rumoured massive drinking appetite of the typical Tsar held strong and displayed itself in all its glory during the coming of the new year, singing, jumping on tables, screaming Moktor! a drinking chant he had borrowed from his Arendellian ally, banging a kettle drum while removing his royal tunic and tying it around his forehead, it certainly wasn't a sight the typical Russian nobles would forget easily even as they were busy distributing free beer and bread throughout St. Petersburg. The royal family of the Southern Isles always started as a family dinner but dissolved into everyone getting wasted and threatening to kill each other right then and there. However, for some unexplained reason, they always ended up weeping and caressing each other. One could be forgiven for thinking that it was an Irish wake, unsurprising as the Southern Isles had some sizable Irish ancestry. As for the Duke of Weselton, it was an opium binge, smoking up into the wee hours of the morning. If one made the mistake of asking the duke his plans during such a session, they could be trapped there for the rest of the day and miss the blessed celebrations. Now that his merchants had begun smuggling Marijuana from central America, those plans became more outlandish every passing year as the intoxicant made its way in the duke's habits. The Monarchs of Corona were more chaste and less dramatic in comparison, nevertheless it didn't stop them from holding a quirky national lottery at the end of the year in which save the crown, the state and the Monarchs, nearly everything was for grabs.

It could be a normal brooch, or a kettle, or something outrageous like the ancient Dusseldorf cathedral, or even better, the Munich Palace of Justice. However, short of the royal palace, nothing truly awed the people of Corona as the Mansion, a building so singular and unique in the Rhinelands that it had acquired a legend of its own. How that massive building was built during the earliest crusades in the holy lands, had sheltered thousands of innocents in the mindless massacres which was a hallmark of said crusades, how the same building became a terrible final place for those unfortunates who were accused of witchcraft and found guilty, how said building harboured the Coronian resistance as they battled the Habsburgs for the identity of Corona in the thirty years war. One could see that the Mansion was home to centuries of history both good and bad, a monument to human suffering and human triumph; it was a matter of prestige and honour to those who lived there.

Since the passing of the Patriarch, the Mansion was up for bid for the first time in fifty years. Unfortunately, the Mansion had been burned down, some said it was a careless baker, some said it was a figure as dark as night, yet many believed that it was Flynn Rider, the little boy who cast a gargantuan shadow in all of Rhineland, where some thought he was a hero who avenged someone dear to him and brought down tyranny, while some thought he was a rat bastard, who sold out everyone from his trade to escape the noose and ruined the businesses of the Rhinelands. Ah well, the public could never make up its mind.

Even though the public was upset by the loss of the Mansion, they had to agree that the Monarchs were generally generous in the lottery and accepted the loss with a heavy heart. After all, a cooking pot was much more useful in cooking than an entire monument , no matter how symbolic it was and how brightly it burned into oblivion.

Last but not the least, the kingdom of Arendelle often saw a lot of parades and street performances around that time of the year. Typically the various students who had come from abroad to study would often bring out a procession, banging some drums, beating some cymbals and singing songs in unison in their native languages, becoming a crowd of thousands as they used to go door to door, either offering food and gifts, and inviting those to join them who weren't in severe want. The fact that It always snowed in the final fortnight of the year as if on clockwork never dampened their spirits. The evenings would often see people from all strata of Arendellian society coming together without social barriers. In recent years, the crowds had started becoming rowdier and more rambunctious, but they all settled as the Monarchs addressed them from their pedestal at the Royal Palace, bringing the year to a dignified end and rousing hopes for the new year. The Palace courtyard itself often became a fair ground, with various stalls selling delicacies, trinkets and souvenirs.

Queen Iduna had always enjoyed the fairs at the palace and meeting foreigners in the parades when she was a commoner, and now she loved it even more as she had her husband to share that joy with. It was a common sight to see the royal couple strolling around, meeting the stall owners, trying some exotic foods and relishing them. Now with baby princess Elsa, they had developed a very sweet tooth as well, they had been spoiled for chocolate as the baby girl always went gaga over the sweet. Even though she hadn't yet spoken, by now her parents were well acquainted with sounds of disapproval or enthusiasm coming from her. For example, when Elsa tried to nibble on any sweet, she would always gurgle and moan and form wisps with her tiny fingers, which always succeeded in bringing a smile to the couple's lips. After the exciting parades and stalls of food, the evening had surprisingly become calm as it approached the new year. Princess Elsa had had an active day, and now was sleeping in Queen Iduna's arms in the royal bedroom, her face buried into her mother's bosom.

"I guess Sophia is to take the credit or the blame for this" grinned Agnarr.

"Ha, yes surely. I wouldn't put it past her at all." smiled Iduna "However it's a shame Elsa can't drink the hot chocolate yet. It's getting lonesome drinking it by myself."

"What does that mean? It is OUR drink, right?"

"It was once, but then you got self-conscious about your health and everything." Iduna teased.

"Well, I can't really flaunt my stretch marks for my certification of fatherhood." Agnarr teased back.

"That was rough. Parenthood has changed you for the worse." Iduna laughed after staring at Agnarr for nearly a minute about that comment.

"On the other hand, I think you've become soft, I still remember the day you made the Duke of Weselton shit himself." Agnarr smirked.

"Boo you, I'm with child." Iduna accepted the challenge "I can still drive you around in circles, you know? You remember earlier today, when I made you cook an Artichoke salad for my cravings. Oh god, you were hunched over the damn stove. Good fun. And a story the whole litter would enjoy someday." Iduna finished with a laugh.

"A whole litter? Dammit woman." Agnarr laughed.

"Yeah, better stay in shape." Iduna smirked.

"Alright, I admit defeat. I swear I can still hear the blessed kitchen ladies sniggering." Agnarr backed off "Ah well, another bun hmm?"

"Yes, another bun. Due in early spring, if Dr. Klaus is to be believed."

"I would wager my life under his knife, should the day come." Agnarr said quietly.

"Hush, don't say that." Iduna whispered. "It'll be a new year in a matter of minutes, how can you think of doom at such a precious moment?"

"It's because I know how life can turn out for a lot of people. I tell you Iduna, all things considered we are luckier than most, and I know fate has a way of balancing the scales." Agnarr replied with an inscrutable face natural to kings, but Iduna knew better.

"Look, it's true we have been fortunate. However, we've had our share of suffering as well. We both have lost a lot in order to find each other and come together. You know, I still wake up sometimes looking towards the North, reminiscing what could have been if somehow war didn't break out, and I would have become a herald for the voice, be one with the fifth spirit, who knows? However, I do know that if I hadn't ventured south, I would have never met you. Not to mention the peace we brought together, the people we have allied with, the thousands of opportunities that have opened for the people because we have worked together and a lot more. Sure, we can lament what we were forced to give up, but then we wouldn't have this, and we certainly wouldn't have Elsa." Iduna consoled him.

The king of Arendelle gave a weak smile and continued " That is true, but her abilities do make me nervous. I hope we can mitigate any problems that arise from the fifth spirit's blessing."

"We got some time to figure it out. I know what you're insinuating, no need to say it out loud, anyone could hear us. Look, the key here is proceed carefully, and to make sure she's not afraid of herself. We'll be there every step of the way, and I tell you this, our baby is going to dominate the world." Iduna reassured the king.

"We certainly can't let them do what they did to Rapunzel." Agnarr shuddered at the mere thought of the incident.

"That will certainly not happen, believe me. Elsa's a light sleeper, if anyone other than us dares to take her, she'll shriek and bring the castle down." Iduna tried to ease his worry with some humour.

"Ha, our proud little banshee." Agnarr grinned.

They were interrupted by the fireworks bringing in the new year.

"godt nytt år, Iduna." "godt nytt år, Agnarr." Said the royal couple as they embraced, and Iduna felt Elsa smiling in her sleep.

While Elsa may have been at perfect peace with the world in that moment, another infant was not so lucky.

"Another fucking year gone." Hissed princess Paulina of the former kingdom of Poland, as she tried to rock the five-month-old prince Hans to sleep in his cradle. The baby prince had always had trouble sleeping, but that was to be expected as babies generally need contact to grow properly, however the princess in question didn't believe in it.

"Another year gone to shit, and I am just another windbag for your fucking father, eh kid?" the princess made a point not to join the new year's celebration, citing colic as her cause of worry, but truth be told, she could never tolerate the whole family together at once. She was alone in a strange land, among strange people who didn't think too much of her; Afterall, they had seen many like her come and go over the years. The only joy she found in her life was the one thing or person she could claim to be her own; her infant boy Janus, or Hans as his father preferred to call him.

"Your father professes his love for me, yet betrays me everyday with those loose women that lick his balls all day, his heart condition doesn't flare up then, does it? He doesn't fucking keel over then, does he? Your father promises he'll bring justice to my homeland, and then has the entrails to stab me in the back by sending his fucking lapdogs to participate in the massacre of my poor people?!" She foamed at the mouth. Little did she care that her kid could not console her or understand her yet, her bitter vitriol needed to flow somewhere, and her infant was in the unfortunate way.

"But remember this Janus, someday you will bring glory to all of Warsaw, and bring justice to all of Poland and her murderers." Whispered the princess as she calmed down and reached out to her child. The baby was only too glad for the contact and grabbed it with both hands.

"Good boy" whispered the princess with a smile to her fateful son, but the smile disappeared as she remembered what she had set out to do. The sheer memory of her father's murder by the Russians' firing squad as her family's ancestral home of over three hundred years burned to nothing, made her blood boil to vapour. But she knew better than to make a public display of her misery. No, she would wait, and hold fast as her fateful kid would hopefully bring Europe to heel one day. But for that to happen, the child needed toughening up and foolish superstitions and fancies like love and family had to be quelled before they did any damage to her 'chieftest pearl'. She pulled her hand away from Janus and walked to the window, not caring that the baby prince had started wailing loudly.

"Great, let it out, it's just pain and anguish leaving you, little prince of destiny." Whispered the now inscrutable princess as she witnessed the coming of the new year fireworks and chants from her dark little room.

"Godt nytår, Janus."

More than 900 miles away, a craven boyish figure on a horse had nearly crossed the borders of Corona into France as he approached the city of Alsace, when he decided to take refuge into the chapel two miles ahead of him. The new year celebrations had long ended and everyone had fallen asleep, save for the priest in the chapel. Eugene walked up lead footed and tired from the expedition up to the chapel doors and then he knocked on the door.

The priest opened the door silently and saw the gruff boy and took him in at once. Now, Eugene's week-long ordeal had exhausted him, and anything he could beg for was enough to feed only either him or his horse. More often than not, Eugene chose to feed the worn-out horse. But now, finally some good shelter for both the horse and Rider.

"Comment tu t'appelle?" the priest asked in a language Eugene didn't fully understand. When the priest didn't receive any answer that he could expect, he got up and peaked outside in the direction from which the little boy had ridden in.

"Tu parle Francais? Parlez-vous allemand?" The priest asked.

"Je parle allemand." Eugene replied in the little broken French that he knew.

"Ah, Deutsch." Replied the priest. Then he went in, brought a spare change of clothes and some bread and stew left from the celebration, and a quilt and mattress for the little boy.

"Essen, mein Kind" spoke the priest as her made the bed.

As Eugene bit into the bread, he couldn't hold back any longer, and burst into tears.

The priest patiently waited for him to calm down, then asked him in German "What's your name?"

"Flynn" the kid replied, his voice still raw from sobbing.

"You are far from home, aren't you?"

"I don't have a home, not anymore."

"What happened to your home, your family?"

"It got burnt down, I tried to get help, but it was too late." Flynn lied, fearing what could happen if he answered honestly.

The priest replied "It's alright, my child. Please rest now, you may stay on or leave in the morning if you wish."

"Danke, Vater" Flynn said.

"Frohes neues Jahr, mein Sohn. And don't worry, your horse is safe." The priest smiled and said quietly.

Well, it was a different tempo for me in this chapter, trying to show one day from a lot of different perspectives. I'll just say poor Hans for now.

As always, constructive feedback is always welcome.

#frozen #frozen elsa #frozen angst #hans frozen #frozen fandom #frozen fanfiction #frozenxtangled #eugene tangled #frozen agnarr #frozen iduna

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dimancheetoile · 5 years ago

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of stardust and galaxies

Written for @shikasaku-week Hanami 2020 Day 2 Prompt 1: of stardust and galaxies

Read on AO3

I had an absolute blast writing this, you have no idea. This story is set before another that will also be posted for ShikaSaku Week.

Yes I did re-use the parents I invented for Sakura in Withered Flowers but they're really not important enough in this story to warrant me spending time researching names for them.

Please tell me what you thought about this one, I'm truly interested given how much I like it!

•

The war went on for much longer than anyone could have ever anticipated. The losses were massive, in scale of destruction and in numbers. After a particularly violent attack from Madara, Konoha was simply razed off the map. Entirely and thoroughly destroyed, until not even the foundations of the buildings remained.

The scope of the fire jutsu Madara used went far deeper than simply destroying the entire history of their village and every single memory kept in those narrow streets and green parks. His black fire, raging and wild, scorched the earth deep into its own core. They tried to rebuild, for a while. Tenzō's mokuton had been vital to the reconstruction effort, but it quickly became apparent that it wasn't worth the chakra exhaustion. Nothing would grow on the cracked earth left behind by Madara's madness.

Driven out of their own homeland by starvation, Konoha's remaining population began its exodus.

Having lost most of the people who used to lead Konoha no Sato, and a good chunk of the people who would have been considered successors to those leaders, the citizens were aimless for days as they regrouped and gathered the very few items they had remade for their new homes that they were going to abandon one more time.

In the end, things settled in the way things always settle after a disaster. Desperation and urgency bred to create exceptional circumstances and someone who wanted nothing to do with power ended up with way too much of it on their hands for their taste.

Haruno Sakura was born to civilian parents in the Farmers' Guild, who only had one expectation for their daughter, which was to marry a nice civilian who owned a reasonable business or worked a reasonable job and live a reasonable life together until they died at a reasonable age only a reasonable amount of years apart.

Unfortunately for Haruno Hashiru and Uzumaki Noroshi, they would both lose their life in a raid of their small property in the farm lands around the village. Having no living relatives and her inheritance barely paying for the funeral arrangements and handling of their property, Sakura was put in the orphanage, and that was that.

Sakura grew up in one of the worst orphanages of the Five Nations, surrounded by children who suffer just as must as you and whose bitterness and malice is proportionate to how poorly they're, in turn, treated by the people supposed to care for them. You don't grow up in that kind of environment and have huge expectations for your life.

Had Sakura not met a clan heiress and her clan heirs friends when she was at a turning point in her life, she would have remained a low-life, desperate kid who would have grown up on the streets of a village that never had the emotional capacity to care for its civilian population, given that it was born out of the desperate attempt at peace of two historically warring clans that treated its own, very rare civilians like cannon fodder.

She would have grown up starved and angry, desperate to put food in her plate day by day. She would have begun selling her body at the age of twelve, to the highest bidder willing to pay for her virginity, and the money from that sale only would have put food on the table for three months, in the underground squat where she would have lived with a few other street urchins, leftovers from a government feasting on its weakest population.

(in another life, she would have kept her eyes shut, round, childish face crushed against the pillow and thankful that she didn't have to look into the beady eyes of the man paying for the last shreds of her hopeful innocence, his white mane moving in rhythm to the thrusting of his hips. She would have thrown a shaking hand forward when he was done, feeling cold and clammy inside, numbly wondering that he kinda looked like a frog, from this angle, then closed her fist around the money before leaving in a rush. In another life, the man would have pulled his loose pants back up under his yukata, feeling good about himself because he just gave a girl enough money to feed herself for a few months. In another life, it never would have crossed his mind that he could have simply given her the money and offered her a shoulder to cry on)

(in another life... right?)

She would have eventually joined a gang, on her knees as often as she would slit throats in back alleys, and a few days before her seventeenth birthday, she would have bled out in the backroom of an unregistered club, throat torn open by a masked figure in a grey uniform the gang members knew too well. As her life would have slowly poured out of her, she would have looked at the back of the ANBU that just killed her and was giving a highfive to the one standing closest, and she would have died with a smile on her lips because the figure smelled like the ramen from Ichiraku that she had never gotten to taste, too expensive for her and her crew.

But Sakura met three clan heirs and after living for ten years in the orphanage, she had been taken in by the Akimichi Clan, when the three friends had taken one look at her shared bunk, on the third day of knowing each others, and had unanimously decided that this would not do and their new friend needed a better place to live.

(Ino had stomped her feet and Shikamaru had pleaded and Chōji had cried a little and eventually, Chōza had caved in and took in the girl. None of the three sets of parents had told their children that their actions didn't solve the problem. None of the three sets of parents asked their heirs why they didn't insist on bringing back every single child from the orphanage, or asked them what they thought would happen to the other children who hadn't made friends with clan heirs. None of them asked anything, because as kind as they are with their own children, willing to give in to their whim of playing heroes for an orphan, they ultimately don't care enough to change a system that benefits them first)

Sakura grows up learning two very important lessons: no one cares about the civilians, and she'll never be in control of her own destiny.

So she's not surprised a single bit when, as the last surviving member of the inner circle around the executive powers of Konoha, she's eventually pushed to the top under the guise of “honoring the deceased” and “giving her the position she deserves for her heroic actions in the war” and named Nanadaime Hokage.

That night, as the slow caravan of Konoha survivors comes to a stop for supper and rest, Sakura crawls into her tent and cries herself to sleep.

A few days later, they finally reach Kiri and Sakura negotiates asylum with the Mizukage. In those few days, she's named herself a cabinet made of the last remaining experts amongst Konoha's sparse population. There aren't enough people in that cabinet for her liking but she can't afford to be picky, so she brings all three of them into the negotiations and they come out with the least worst deal they can hope for, one that is still considerably better than anything they would have managed before the days of the Alliance and better than anything Sakura could have come up with on her own.

The Konoha survivors are put in the deserted district where people who died in the Mist coup used to live in. It's a bit cramped, but they can't afford to complain, so they adapt. At least they have a roof over their head and enough food to feed everyone. Kiri was just as affected by the war as the other nations, though the village itself didn't suffer much in its infrastructure. But they're lacking the numbers lost on the battlefield, and that's where the Fire citizens come in.

People just fill in the gaps left by the war, integrating seamlessly into Wave's economy. They're not naturalized, keeping their Fire citizenship and Sakura remaining their leader. The way it works is that the workers build a wall to close the district off, with a big gate that remains, more often than not, open. Sakura lives in an old administration building, having transformed the top floor offices into a few bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom, two empty rooms waiting to be converted to a kotatsu room and a shrine.

On the ground floor, she has meeting with her advisors, she does hearing for her people and she forges the basis of what promises to be the Fire-Mist treaty, a cooperation and integration policy that would make Konoha's survivors into what amounts to a foster village of Kiri. If this thing comes to pass, they would essentially be a separate state-entity, with its own laws and government, but with privileged relations with Kiri in terms of right of passage, trade, taxes, imports and exports, as well as an equal share of the land.

An equally beneficial treaty, then, but a text of law that still takes a long time to redact and hammer into shape to be certain that no one is getting screwed over by poor wording. The main thing that her village-within-a-village brings to the table is the proposition of an Academy of Medicine and a House of Health.

In short, Sakura would open what amounts to a carbon-copy of Konoha's Academy, training kids to become genin. From that point on, the children would get two options: either continue on the path of becoming a shinobi of Kirigakure, or join the Academy of Medicine and train as a medic-nin. All children of the village would go through the first part of the training, not only Konoha kids, and would receive complimentary medic training so that every genin, even if they don't go on to become medic-nin, have a solid understanding of chakra control and healing, in hopes of reducing field-losses.

The House of Health would be civilian medics, in every specialty, all in one place for convenience. Classes would be provided for Kiri citizens to learn first-aid or more in-depth knowledge. It would double as relief for the overcrowded Kiri hospital, taking in all non-threatening cases so that the hospital could focus entirely on its surgery division and two research labs, as well as the paediatric wing.

The House of Health would have a sub-division for monitoring pregnancies and offering a more casual environment for labour, with a few empty houses around the House, fully furnished and waiting for the soon-to-be parents. They would spend the entirety of the labour in the comfort of the provided home, going at their own pace and being on their own or with their family. And if anything goes wrong, there would be an entire House of professionals right next to the houses to give a hand when needed.

Those propositions are basically what sold the treaty to the Mizukage, despite a few clauses that she was a bit iffy on, but agreed to in the end because the prospect of a fully-functional, advanced medical system and healthcare administration, alongside trained professionals under the tutelage of the greatest medic in the world is one of those things you don't say no to, under any circumstances.

So the treaty is signed, the old Kiri Academy building is remodelled to host the new courses and the House of Health is built right next to the Konoha district. Happy endings, right?

It's another morning, another day of working a job she frankly wants no part in and that she only performs to the best of her abilities because she's aware of the weight of the enormous responsibility placed on her shoulders. You know. A typical morning.

There is a rasp on the door, barely a knock before the bamboo panel slides open. It's not meant for privacy anyway, simply there to protect the inside of the house against Kiri's weather. Sakura looks up from her paperwork, vaguely surprised to see Shikamaru standing there. Vaguely, because he's still her Councillor and they have a lot of private meetings without the rest of her advisors, and because she's way too exhausted to question anything more deeply than with mild curiosity and vague surprise.

“Hey, Shikamaru. What's the new disaster?”

Half-fallen over her desk, legs starting to sore from the extended kneeling, it takes her a moment to realize he's not moving, and he's not answering. She looks up, frowning, but what she sees on his face is enough to have her up and right in his space, taking one of his hands.

With Ino and Chōji, Shikamaru is amongst the three people she's known the longest in her life. Only her parents beat that record, and they're dead, so the three clan heirs are probably the people she knows the best as well. Living with Chōji might have made her slightly more attuned to his emotions, but the difference is inconsequential. So she knows for certain that something is wrong.

“Shikamaru?”

His lips are pressed into a thin line, his eyebrows furrowed. He's not looking her in the eye, instead looking down at their feet, still quiet. She dares a hand forward, brushing against the side of his arm before retracting, a small comfort for both of them, she hopes.

“I need your help,” he finally says through gritted teeth. With that, it seems like all the tension is drained from his body, and he looks more defeated than anything.

“You have it, always,” she answers, trying for a soothing voice but knowing her own anxiety at this weird situation is slipping through the cracks. Shikamaru has always been the stable one, the rock, and she knows, as sure as the sun rise and sets, that if he crumbles, he'll be taking her, and the entirety of Konoha with him.

He scoffs at her answer. “I never wanted you to know this. This is mine and I don't want you to know.”

She flinches a little, surprising herself by how much that hurts. For one second, Shikamaru catches it, and guilt joins the frustration and anxious expression on his face.

“I'm guessing you don't have a choice,” she says softly.

“I really, really don't.” He sighs, a sad, depressing little noise that Sakura feels all the way inside her bones. “I need you to- I need a surgery.”

Sakura's eyebrows rise in disbelief. “You... need me to operate on you? Why? What's going on? You know I can't just perform surgery on you based on your words, I need to do, at the very least, a physical exams, and maybe a few scans depending on where the problem lies.”

Shikamaru's smile is feral, self-deprecating, and she hates it so much. “Oh, trust me, you won't need to do scans.”

Sakura sighs, leaning against the way with a leg propped up.

“Would you consent to a physical exam right now? We can go to the House.”

Shikamaru shakes his head. “I don't want anyone to know there's something wrong with me. You don't need an exam room to see the problem anyway.”

She bites her lip in consideration, then nods seemingly to herself. “Alright, follow me then. We'll go to my place.”

The tension seems to bleed out of Shikamaru's shoulder and he accepts easily. Sakura leads them out of her office and into the corridor that leads to a staircase. After climbing it, Sakura slides the door panel open and walks into the part of the building that serves as her home.

Shikamaru follows her without a word until they reach one of her unoccupied bedrooms. Or that's what it used to be anyway. Shikamaru raises an eyebrow, looking at her questioningly. She gives him an awkward smile, gesturing at the miniaturized operation room and the drawers upon drawers of medical equipment.

“Look, you have no idea how many people just barge in through my window after a mission, Mist and Fire alike, just because they don't feel safe going to the hospital. Post-mission paranoia is real enough that I'm willing to indulge them, and I refuse to let a disaster happen at the hospital just because I want my beauty sleep.”

He nods, the reasoning sensible enough. It's not like she needs the four bedrooms anyway, given that she lives alone.

(silently, he wonders about that, why she's never dating, why she's never showing signs of being interested by anyone. He wonders how anyone can work as much as she does and not want to come home to someone who wants to take care of you. Dating, post-war, is awkward. No one wants to actively seek out partners, because everyone is just a little too depressed to be able to make the efforts required to have a healthy, communicative relationship. But on the other hand, a good bunch of them are getting desperate. He can't really talk, he's single too, but at least he's dated before, civilians and shinobi alike, and he knows how important it can be not to be alone)

(she's always been alone)

“Well, we're alone and I've got everything I need. Do you want to tell me what's going on, now?”

The knot is back in his stomach, and Sakura looks like she knows exactly how little he wants to talk about this. Not that any of her patients is ever easy, unless they're civilians, but she doesn't tell him that, because she wants him to trust her sometimes this year and not worsen the situation.

Eventually, Shikamaru sighs, and begins to unhook the clasps of his flack jacket. Sakura nods, satisfied, and brings the tray with her basic equipment closer. She already has her stethoscope around her neck and the monitor for his blood pressure, when he takes his shirt off, and really, she has to put down everything now, doesn't she, because it's obvious what's going on.

Shikamaru self-consciously crosses his arms in front of his chest, but it's not enough to cover the two scars running across his upper torso.

She sighs, dropping the monitor back on the tray, and looks at him, head slightly tilted.

“Does anyone else know?” she asks, more to get him to talk than because she needs to know. She has to get him to relax, to trust her with this.

“My parents, obviously. Ino's and Chōji's parents too. And the surgeon who did this, he was one of the first to openly do those surgeries, so my parents brought me all the way to Kumo to see him. He's- like me.”

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Shikamaru. It does me great honor to know you find me worthy of who you are.”

“I- Sakura, I need to know if... will you see me differently now?”

She's never seen him like this, so uncertain, so out of place. He's so confident and calm, such a driving force for their people. She hates to see him like this. Sakura offers her hand, in the space between them, and Shikamaru uncrosses his arms to take it without even pausing. She smiles softly, touched.

“Do you see me differently for my own scars, Shika?” With her free hand, she bunches her shirt up to show her midsection and the seven, thumb-long scars scattered on her skin. “Sasori skewered me like dango on a stick. His spikes were thorough and touched all of my lower organs. I have a fake portion of small intestine and I'll never be able to have a child. Do you see me differently, knowing my scars?” she asks again.

He's looking at her with wide eyes and a deep, bleak sorrow that they all learned from the war, when grief and tears could put you in danger and you needed to get over things quickly on the outside, only to break down on the inside later.

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly.

She shrugs. “I'm not. I killed an akatsuki member, someone who would have kept hurting people again and again, and both Gaara and Kankuro survived because I was a part of this mission. I won't ever regret losing a few pieces of meat if someone's life is on the line.”

She squeezes his hand, a small smile on her face.

“So, about that surgery. Were you asking about a cosmetic procedure, to make all the scarring disappear? Or were you thinking about bottom surgery?”

Shikamaru frowns, and she can see the cool, confident guy coming back little by little, putting a happy smile on her face. “I didn't know you could do something for the scarring. In that case, both I suppose.”

“Why come now? Why not before the war, or right after? Did something change?” She hates to ask personal questions when he already seems so uneasy, but she can't agree to anything without all the facts.

“Before the war, the surgeon we went to used to send me parcels with shots and creams. He stopped, I don't know if it's because of shortage, or not knowing where to send it, or-” Or maybe he's dead, she thinks but doesn't say. “I ran out of shots two months ago and I was fine for a while, but I- it came back,” he says awkwardly, a plea in his eyes for her to understand without him having to say it. She nods quickly, refusing to let him worry. “I can't live like this. I'm miserable, Sakura.”

To hear those words, from the kind of man Shikamaru is, is heartbreaking. He deserves nothing less than happiness and fulfillment, after everything he went through being the youngest chūnin, then the youngest jōnin, then a War Councillor. Someone as calm and reliable and smart as Shikamaru shouldn't be miserable. Not on my watch. Maybe being Hokage will finally do her some good, if it means she gets to help him feel good again.

Sakura nods, weighting her words carefully before speaking. “Well, the scarring I can take care of right now, it's quick and painless. However, for your surgery, I need to know what result you want. Size, shape, do you want to be able to have biological children, all of that.”

He doesn't try to hide his relief when she doesn't push or try to have him talk more about his mental health. Not that I won't later, she thinks, but she can cut him so slack right now, given hos vulnerable he must feel.

Shikamaru is silent for a long time, eyes downward on his hand in hers, looking deep in thought. She wraps her other hand around his, pressing gently to show her support.

“I have a feeling you're exponentially more competent than the man I saw when I was younger. He only had one option for me, and a pretty scary one. But I'd like to reduce the scarring now, yes. I haven't taken my shirt off in public my entire life.”

Sakura smirks, dirty and unashamed. “Oh trust me, it was for the best. You have no idea the talk I've heard in the onsen about the comparison some of the kunoichi and jōnin make. I think a good portion of them is keeping a tally and you staying as cool as a cucumber whenever they try to get in your pants is making you the grand prize of their little competition.”

He grins, a small blush on his face that Sakura doesn't comment on. “I'm not Sasuke or Naruto, I don't have an urge to flash everyone when I'm fighting bad guys.”

Sakura bursts out laughing, the joke so unexpected it releases all the tension she hadn't noticed was left in the room. It's the first time she laughed thinking about them ever since the war, and being suddenly the last living member of a cursed team. Feeling almost giddy with being able to laugh again, she raises their joined hands and kisses his knuckles. He looks at her with wide eyes, his blush even more noticeable now.

“Right, options,” she says, wiping a tear. “Lay down for me, will you? I'll start working while I explain.”

He obeys, laying down on the examination table while her hands light up in green. She gets closer, bending slightly over him to have better access, then her palms slowly swipe over his chest, her chakra coaxing his cells into duplicating faster and cloning the genetic makeup of the older, original cells around the scars. Slowly, the two raises lines begin to smooth and loose their color.

“So there's an invasive procedure, and even more invasive procedure.” Shikamaru snorts in nervous laughter and she gives him a wry smile. “The first one involves using the unneeded tissue from what's already there and constructing a penis using what your body knows to be his. With implants, you'll get testicles, and connecting nerves will give you sensation. You will be able to get a full erection, but because I'm only using pre-existing tissues, your result will remain small compared to the average.”

She can see that he's listening intensely, but his blush has crept onto his neck despite her using very clinical language. She finds it absolutely adorable but she doesn't fancy being choked to death by her own shadow so she doesn't mention it. She doesn't say it either, but she's so proud of him it warms her up from the inside.

“The more invasive surgery starts with me collecting sample from you to be grown in lab so I can get enough skin and nerves and muscle made of your genetic makeup to basically construct a penis of the size and shape of your choice. Once attached, just like the other option, it'll be fully functional, sensitive and responsive. Now in both cases, you'll have a choice between implants to give your testicles the appropriate shape, or they can also be grown in lab and I can use your eggs to synthesize sperm glands and make you fertile.”

Sakura leans back, her hands loosing their green tint. Shikamaru sits up, staring down at his chest with wide eyes, tracing with his fingers the smooth skin where his scars used to be and where nothing is left now but an absolutely normal chest.

“Now bear in mind that I've only theoretically managed a successful transplant to make someone fertile, but I was doing the opposite procedure on a woman. When you break it down, it's exactly the same process and I've synthesized it all before, but I've never done it on a man, simply because I was never asked to. I'm certain I can pull it off, but you know, warnings and all thaaa-wow!”

Sakura can't stop the shriek of surprise when Shikamaru draws her in for the strongest hug of her life. She flails for a moment before she manages to wrap her pinned arms around his waist, his own circling her shoulder and crushing her against his bare chest. Shikamaru hides his face in her neck, and she stops the words that were about to leave her mouth when she feels the first tear drop into her neck and roll down her chest.

He's crying silently, face scrunched up enough that she can feel it against her skin. She caresses his back, drawing patterns over his warm skin, and she hums gently, rocking them together to the rhythm of a song she can barely remember.

“Thank you,” he manages, his lips moving against the fragile skin of her neck.

“Always, Shikamaru. I promise.”

She doesn't move any more than her rocking his large, warm body, waiting for the storm to pass, for the clouds to part enough that they can see the stars. Finally, he releases her, rubbing harshly on his skin until she gives him a tissue. His eyes are red and puffy and his cheeks rubbed raw, but he's he most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

“I'll take the second option,” he finally says, clearing his throat when his voice cracks. “Including the fertility package. Do you do a price for family?” The joke is weak but he's trying and she's so proud she might just choke on it so she laughs and she draws him into a side hug, his head resting on her shoulder.

“Put some clothes on, exhibitionist. Let's get out of here and we'll talk more about this later, yeah?”

He nods silently and complies, following her out of the house and into the streets of Kiri. Time passed quickly and it's already well into the night. Without saying a word, Shikamaru takes her hand and laces their fingers together. She gives him a smile, shaking with excitement and giddy with the novelty of simply walking hand in hand with someone. The people of the Konoha District give them long looks, but their eyes are kind and their smiles wide, happy to see their leader finally take something for herself.

Kiri's night sky is beautiful, so different from the one in Konoha, often hidden in clouds. Here, they can see every single star winking at them from their shimmering clusters, count the constellations drawing patterns into the darkness of the void, watch galaxies form and die as they live day by day in their new normal.

“Hey, Sakura?”

She hums in response, looking away from the beautiful canvas of the sky. He's looking at her like she's personally responsible for every star shining above them, and her heart picks up.

“Can I take you out to dinner?”

She breathes in the joy, grins wide. “Of course you can.”

He blushes again, and it's her new favorite thing, she could watch him for hours. She's so happy and humbled that he trusted her with himself like that.

“On one condition, though.”

He does his best to hide his nervousness when he answers, “What is it?”

“Money upfront for the surgery, Nara. I want a kiss before the fourth date.”

He giggles, high and pretty, and even he seems surprised by it. “You've got yourself a deal, Hokage-sama.”

#shikasakuweek #shikasakuhanami #shikasaku #shikasakuhanami2020 #naruto #my writing

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writers-whim · 4 years ago

Text

Descended from the Stars (III)

II III IV

Holding back tears I say goodbye to Gran and watch as she starts her hours drive back to the secluded house I've called home for the past six years. I'm left standing in front of the Academy's main entrance, hearing and seeing a few other students saying their own goodbyes as I pass them, entering the Academy.

The campus is enormous. It could be considered its own town or city with its size. Tall white painted concrete walls separate the campus and the outside world, even though it's in the middle of nowhere. The tall iron gate I'd just come through seems to be the only way in or out.

Closing my eyes I take a deep breathe, gathering the courage to continue walking further into the Academy. Snapping them open I begin my journey through the secluded paradise.

Patches of grass are spread evenly throughout the large space, wooden benches and small trees adding life to the place along with the groups occupying them. A tall fountain sits in the centre of the large open area, roads branching in every direction from it.

Nocte Academy is more than I expected it to be. I'd expected a large modern building at the front where classes would be held, dorms in separate buildings out the back along with sports fields and other classroom blocks. High school has influenced me too much.

I follow the main road to the fountain before turning in every direction, taking in as much as possible. Most of the roads that branched off from the fountain lead to rows and rows of two-story houses in colors ranging from red to white to black and every other color on the spectrum. Cars are parked outside many of them leading to the conclusion that they're occupied by the second year and above students.

One or two of the roads lead to rows of shops selling clothes, school supplies, food, etc. I can faintly make out the green of a football field or park further down another. A large build labeled 'Performing Arts' takes up one side of another road, the other being occupies by an art gallery and more stores.

The main road continues straight ahead to the main campus building, the entrance to the main hall already crowded with first years. As I continue forwards the positioning of the footpath allowed me to get a better view of what I have already seen and observed more of the campus.

More houses can be seen further out in what seems to be a more secluded area, only these were much larger two-story homes with only a few three-story homes at the furthest point of the road. A large forested area appears on the horizon next to the larger homes, blocking the view of anything beyond.

Pulling my luggage up the stairs leading to the entrance, I huff when I get to the top, blowing a stray piece of hair away from my eyes. Walking inside I look around, people chat with each other, standing diligent by their luggage as more people enter and try to find space in the mass of people in the hall.

A raised stage is at the far end of the hall, a large bulletin board beside it. A boy walks up to the microphone on the stage, clearing his throat before waiting for silence. Everyone quickly complied.

He gives a toothy grin as he begins speaking. "Welcome first years to Nocte Academy! I'm glad you made it on time even though there will always be the stragglers. I am Kim WeiJin and I am the student representative for the fourth years of the academy. I want to wish you all good luck with your studies here and for your future after Nocte."

His deep voice resonates through the large hall, his slight Chinese accent is amplified by the mic. "As you know Nocte is known as one of the most prestigious schools in the world..." He goes on to explain rules and some of the buildings of the academy.

"Now, if you were paying attention as you came through the main road you would have noticed the houses on the Southside of the property. Those are your dorms. At Nocte we don't want you to dread coming here because it is a school, we want you to feel at home and prepare you for life outside these four walls if you don't already have your own house." A buzz arose from the crowd as the purpose of the houses is revealed.

"There will be no bills and no mortgage but you will have to cook and clean the house for yourself. For the first term, there will scheduled checks and throughout the rest of the year these checks will be random meaning you have to constantly manage your home," the buzz grows louder as Weijin revealed more and more.

"Once you are given your dorm number that is it for the next four years, incoming first-years will take residence in the lots left by the graduated fourth years so the living area of each year group will rotate each year. North is fourth years, East Third, South Second and First West. This is not only the direction of the residential areas but also the name of the street you will need to take to get there." Heads tilt as some fail to understand the new information given by the Fourth year.

"The list of where you will be staying is posted on the board next to the stage, the number corresponds to the house you will live in. Move-in, settle down and explore before classes start on Monday. Your time table will be in your letterbox."

People begin pushing and shoving to get to the board and get out as soon as possible with the air becoming quickly humid and stuffy with so many people. I press myself against the wall as thoughts run rampant through my mind. What sort of school is this? Am I not supposed to be here? Was I not supposed to be given a letter?

WeiJin speaks again, yelling into the mic to be heard over the noise that has arisen from the crowd. "Can Avery Lee please meet me outside for a moment." This only amplifies my fears and made my heart beats faster as worry sets in. Those who heard the announcement begin chatting even louder while those who didn't remain oblivious. I glance at WeiJin again only to see him already gone from his place on the stage. I hurriedly grab my bags and speed walk outside.

The light of WeiJin’s glasses almost blinds me as I advance down the stairs, the reflected light beam hitting me straight in the eye. He looks up as he hears the tapping of my luggage on the steps, looking me up and down as I made my way to him.

"Your an odd case Avery." He looks me straight in the eyes, not at all disturbed by their unnaturally bright green hue.

"Huh? What does that mean?" He laughs, loud and boisterous, attracting attention from those around us.

"Walk with me and I'll tell you as we head to your dorm." He turns on his heal practically skipping in the other direction before pausing and waving a hand at my still frozen form. I scramble to catch up with him as he goes back to his skipping.

"The Principal wanted me to explain something to you. You're a special case and I was surprised to hear that you had been admitted in for several reasons-"

"What reasons?" I interrupt his little rant, eager for answers.

"We'll get to that later. All the other students know what this school is really about and you are the odd one out in that category which is why I'm here to explain and answer any questions you may have."

We pause as we reach the end of the road. In front of us stands one of the large three-story houses I'd seen earlier, the biggest of them all. Large windows and vines loomed over us as we made our way through the front door. Making our way to what I assume is the living room we sit on the leather couches sitting in front of the unlit fireplace.

"Where are we?" WeiJin grins again as I express my cluelessness.

"This is your dorm, well house, mansion thing." I'm pretty sure my eyes bulge out of my head.

"My house? This?" He nods in response. "Wow."

"Yip, however as cool as this place is I still need to explain everything to you so get comfy."

I lean back into the black leather and grip a red fluffy pillow close to my chest as WeiJin completely distorts my view of reality.

"Wait, what?" I ask not understanding anything WeiJin's just told me. WeiJin sighs in either annoyance or frustration. It's more than likely a combination of both.

"We are all summoners." He repeats his words as if he talking to a toddler, staring unblinkingly into my eyes to get his point across.

"Summoners? Like demons and stuff?" I scratch my head in confusion.

"Kind of. Summoner is a general term used to describe those who have the ability to summon entities from a realm outside our own. All those who can be summoned are summoned through a card connected to their spiritual being allowing their master to summon them at will once they have bonded." WeiJin explains.

So many questions I want to be answered float to the forefront of my mind however I'll let him finish before overwhelming him with them all. I nod, biting my lip slightly as a signal for him to continue.

"Everyone here at the academy was brought up with the knowledge of all this so you are a special case that is the first of its kind here, this means because this is all new to you I will need to explain everything which will take a while." Taking his cue I resume I leaned back position, hugging a cushion from beside me close to my chest.

"Warriors, as a general term, are beings from the stars. Each Warrior can harness an ability from one of the five specialties of Fire, Water, Earth, Air and Spirit. Summoners, in turn, use their powers by ordering their bonded Warriors to do as they wish. Warriors are connected to cards by their spiritual essence meaning each card will summon only the warrior it is connected to. You get cards through trials while others are passed through the generations and others are claimed by the victor of a death battle." He pauses waiting for me to absorb the new information.

"Warriors have four ranks Zodiac, Disciples, Descendants, and Desaliars. There are only twelve Zodiac. The Zodiac is the most powerful Warriors and has powers that fall outside or on the extremely more powerful end of one or more of the five specialties. They are one of a kind and are the only one of their constellation. They are believed to be only a myth as they have not been seen by anyone in millennia.

Disciples are those from the Desaliar rank, which I will cover in a moment, who have chosen to follow the Zodiac as gods, worshiping them and in turn, gain similar but extremely weaker abilities and forfeit their own." He pauses again waiting until I nod to continue.

"Descendants are those who are apart of a constellation and other than slightly stronger abilities nothing is different about them. A single constellation is shared by several Desaliars. Desaliars are the weakest of the Warriors and are the most common among Summoners. They are not connected to a constellation and are weaker than the other three rankings. The Summoners are ranked instars one to five by their ability to control their cards and battle with them as well as their own capabilities."

He pauses again only this time I relent to asking a question as my restraint weakens. "What happens to the Warriors in their cards?"

He cocks his head at the odd question but answers anyway. "We don't know really. Because they are connected to stars and constellations, we suspect that their spirit returns to their connected star and waits to be called again. Maybe they live in the cards, maybe they are trapped in nothingness, who knows. " He shrugs in nonchalance as if he'd never even thought about it.

"What does this have to do with me?" I tighten my hold on the cushion as WeiJin smiles.

"Avery, this school is for Summoners to learn how to be Summoners and control their Warriors, giving them the chance to gain new ones at the same time through trials set up by the Council."

"That can't be true. I'm not a Summoner. I didn't know anything about this before you started talking." I begin to panic, unwilling to accept this new aspect of the world.

"Avery, I know you don't believe me but let me prove to you then you can bombard me with as many questions as you want, I know you have been holding them back."

I watch as he reaches into a brown pouch at his side, pulling out a silvery grey card with lilac spirals dancing across its surface. Holding it flat in his hand his brow creases lightly as a small flash of light appears next to him, fading to reveal a boy with black hair with white tips, dressed in grey and black with lilac accessories such as his belt and shoelaces.

"You called me Master?" Despite is slight smile his voice is monotone and blank of any emotions, as are his eyes, I note as I look closer.

"See Avery, this is all real." WeiJin leans forward as he places the card back in his pouch, the Warrior standing beside him not moving an inch.

"The fuck is this?! He wasn't there before! What was with that light? What the fuck is going on?" I leap, rapid-fire, into my questions taking full advantage of his invitation.

"This is Shin he is apart of the Spirit specialty and possesses the power of Hypnosis. That light occurs whenever a Warrior is summoned and it takes a lot of training to control its intensity." I stay frozen, almost matching the state of the warrior before me.

"You okay Avery?" No, I'm not okay. My whole world, the last nineteen years of my life flipped on its head. Destroyed. Gone. Unbelievable.

"This...is all real?" It sounds more like a question as the statement escapes from my parted lips.

"Yes." Damn his calm and collected self. I sigh heavily, recovering from my almost mental breakdown. "This is going to take some getting used to but eventually you'll get used to it." Another encouraging smile is sent my way by the Chinese charmer himself.

"Do you have any other questions?" What don't I want to question is a more accurate question. "How do Summoners and their Warriors usually interact, I mean I need to know if I want to fit in."

"Summoners order their Warriors and Warriors follow. If they disobey or ignore an order they are punished in whatever way their Master sees fit even if it means destruction, which is only achieved through fire by the way. Summoners can do as they wish to the Warriors they have bonded with but if they discipline or do anything to other Warriors, outside of battle, that their Master doesn't like, the Summoner will be punished before the Council. Some get their cards striped, others are whipped." He says it so casually I get goose bumps even imagining having to discipline or punish a Warrior outside of battle.

"Other than that, Warriors generally follow their Summoners command, in order for them to get stronger, their Summoner has to get better at wielding them and giving orders, however, most don't try to help their Summoners improve, settling with just taking orders. Although there are some who do try to help, they are usually shot down before any actual improvements." WeiJin comments, smirking as he looks towards Shin.

"Relax, for now, look around your new place and try to read up as much as you can in the library I was told was upstairs on our world. Take it easy, you might even find a card hidden in this place, who knows." The light shines again as WeiJin sends his Warrior back to his card, standing as he does so. He pats my shoulder as he walks past me towards the door.

"Hang on, you haven't told me how to claim or summon a Warrior." WeiJin spins a look of horror on his face as he misses out likely the most important part of being a Summoner.

"Right. To bond with a card, you must place a drop of your blood on the face of the card and a Warrior will appear. Once bonded you name them and they are yours to do as you wish. From then on to summon them you can either call to them mentally or verbally by saying something like 'Jeff of Cygnus I summon you' or something like that or you can kiss their card."

"This is sounding more and more like Pokémon." I deadpan taking notice of the fact that he said I would name my Warriors, depersonalizing them even further. I'm not liking the norm of this society so far.

WeiJin chuckles as he turns and begins making his way out again calling back before he left the house completely. "Basically. Good luck Avery." Then I was alone.

Staying curled up on the couch I contemplate moving and only do so once I realize that my luggage is still sitting at the foot of the staircase by the entrance.

Climbing the stairs I drag my suitcase behind me, my smaller duffle bag riding on top of it as the larger is slung over my shoulder. The staircase itself is grand with dark railing and red steps. Cream carpet covers each step and the hallway it leads into on the second floor.

Stopping to explore I leave my luggage at the base of the second set of stairs I open the first door of the hallway revealing a linen closet. I seal the door and push on to the next door. This one opens into a room filled to the brim with books. The library.

The next few doors reveal what seems to be small guest rooms, each with closet and bathroom, more closets and the main floor bathroom.

Picking up my luggage again I proceed up to the third and final floor of the house. This time instead of leading to another hallway, it spans into an open circular room with one hallway splitting off from it.

The room itself is furnished by three leather couches, a TV, a piano in a corner, small bookcases and photo frames filling the blank spaces on the walls.

Turning I begin down the hallway, opening every door I reach only to quickly realize they're all bedrooms, larger than those downstairs and decorated as if they were on a home and garden magazine cover.

Each has its theme of one or more colors like green, blue, red and brown. Each, like those downstairs, has a closet and bathroom. None of them take my eye enough to call my own.

Moving my way back into the main room I spot a pair of double doors made of the same dark oak as the rest of the house, sitting directly opposite the hallway explaining why I hadn't seen them when I first came up.

Opening them all air is pushed from my lungs as I gape in amazement. The room has the same cream carpet as the rest of the house but the walls are a vibrant purple, matching the rug and some of the smaller pillows on the bed.

Light blue curtains, bedspread, and pillows complement the ceiling that is painted to look like the sky. Small holes indicate to me that once night fell and the room turned dark, the ceiling would go from day to night, the small holes glowing like stars.

White sliding doors reveal a large closet that would fit all my clothing and still have room left over. Another door next to it spans into my own bathroom, an oak vanity, three white walls with a dark tile feature wall, a large bath, shower and toilet in pure white. This alone was heaven.

A set of white doors heads out on to a balcony that overlooks the back yard, forest, pool and enabled me to see a large chunk of the campus. I can't help but wonder why I, the clueless newbie have been given the largest and most private house on campus.

I leave my bags in my room and make my way back down to the bottom floor, going back to opening every door I notice. There are the living room and the ash grey and white kitchen across from it. A large dining room that could seat at least twelve opened on from the kitchen.

Another bathroom similar to my own is tucked next to a small laundry that was hidden away near the back door which leads out to the open backyard where a set of outdoor furniture sits on a paved area facing out towards the forest, while the pool rests opposite from it.

Returning to my room I arrange all my belongings where they should be, then take down some of the empty photo frames to put pictures in them at some point. A few of my trinkets are placed on the mantel of the fireplace in the living room while others end up perched in the bookcases or on shelves within one of the three floors.

I don't touch any bedroom except my own, they're fine as they are.

Three hours later and everything is where it should be, neatly organized and clean. My mind is still reeling from everything WeiJin told and showed me, still not able to process it all. Hoping sleep would help I flop onto my bed, curl up and close my eyes, blocking out the world around me as I fade from consciousness.

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