#i have a glass of milk and some vanilla puffs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whirlybirbs · 4 years ago

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( this chapter’s gif by @august-walker from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 4/?

summary: you formulate a plan, meet steve rogers, and bucky goes on a date.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.8k, mother of pearl

a/n: this ended up being mostly a filler with a lot of romantic growth - i had to break this chapter up from the unce unce unce clubbing that coming up, so please enjoy!

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MOSCOW, 1975.

In all the years that James Buchanan Barnes has had a heartbeat, he’d come to know the sounds of grief well.

War taught him a lot of things — that they were all just little boys playing with guns, and that no matter how many times you thought you’d be ready for the vomit-inducing pungency of violence, you never were. In the end, you’d do anything to save yourself; you’d crawl through the thick of death and debris a million times over if only to cling to the shredded tatters of your own humanity.

You would kill someone else’s son for the sake of your own mother.

War was disease that devoured every part of you — it was gunpowder snuff and carved flesh. That sickness — inky and desperate — had sunk deep into this heart during the war, and it crescendoed to the sounds of mothers clutching dead sons. The sounds that followed death were like a hollow opera. Waning and wailing.

In the raucous wake left by warborn grief, Bucky drowned everytime.

To the Winter Soldier, the operatic quality to the sounds of grief were as insignificant as a child’s rhyme.

He did not drown. No, he waded through the waves, comfortable in the cold and unphased by the stinging cut of loss. That was not something he could comprehend. After all, there were orders and there were targets, and everything in between was absolute.

He was the disease that devoured all.

He’s holding a gun to Andrei Kuznetzov’s head in a dining room with ornate trim — with silverware as delicate as scalpels that tinker against fine china. The carpets are red, the curtains are red, there’s blood on the table cloth. The guests continue to eat. Kuznetzov’s wife is screaming, red nails dug so deep into the dining chair’s arms it’s carving out the fabric. War dogs, like him, keep her rooted in her seat, and her tears find polished boots. She’s begging and bartering but the man with Kuznetzov’s life in his hands is not listening. He is eating his veal, bloodied meat dancing between his lips. He takes a sip of wine as his medal emblazoned chest glimmers in the light of crystalline chandaliers.

The spoils of war.

His smile is stained red.

There is no deal to be made.

The Winter Soldier pulls the trigger.

NOW.

His eyes are open.

Panic is the first emotion he feels, and it seizes him up quickly in its grasp. He doesn’t know this view, he doesn’t know where he is, not again, not again, not again —

Then:

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you know you snore?”

The relief that the sound of your voice brings is immediate, and just like that he remembers. He’s laying on the bed. You’re sat up across from him at that small desk in the corner. He reaches as he rubs his face to thumb the edge of the pillowcase. He exhales tightly.

He’s fine. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is not longer the Winter Soldier. He’s in his Brooklyn apartment. He is fine.

When’s the last fucking time he’s slept in a bed?

He sits up, scratching his neck as he does. You lean back, half rotated in the desk. Before you is a mess of papers and his laptop — and on top of the keyboard sits his notebook. It’s open to the page where all he’d been able to figure out about Innessa was scrawled in his chicken scratch.

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed and immediately his back complains.

“How long was I out?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. He moves to part the curtains. The room blooms with warm morning light.

You offer an apologetic smile into the vanilla sunshine. “Three hours. I wanted you to get some shut eye. You were starting to look a little overwhelmed last night��”

“You click too fast,” he waves, standing and immediately rolling his neck to the side. You watch as the man, before as peaceful as a sleeping pup, now regains his usual thinning veiled level of threat. Bucky is dangerous — it shows in the way he holds himself. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and groans. He exhales again, posture sagging a bit, “I couldn’t keep up.”

You’re standing now, socks padding against the hardwood as you eye his cowlick with a budding bloom of affection. With his notebook between your index and middle finger, you offer it out. You cling to your empty coffee cup in the other.

“I didn’t peek,” you say warmly, “Pinky promise.”

His laugh is more like a hot puff of air. Bucky manages a look that feels like an emotional dethaw.

“Thank you.”

You lead the way to the kitchen, stretching your own back as you go. You’d been up all night — this is your third trip out here for yet another cup of coffee. The pot has been on for too long, though, and you know the coffee sitting there is beyond bitter. You’re moving to dump it down the sink when Bucky grumbles.

“Don’t.”

“You want it?”

“No,” he mutters, reaching for a mug, “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“Wow,” you chirp, “The Great Depression just jumped out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, yanking open the fridge to search for something to eat, “It does that.”

“Well, grandpa,” you hand him the steaming cup and set out to make another pot, “You’re also living on Depression Era rations — might I suggest some Dolly’s? Because I’m starving and I’ve been up all night and I think that means I get to decide where we get breakfast.”

Bucky’s look is soft — but you don’t see it. You’re too busy scooping sugar into your cup, too busy nudging him aside to grab the milk. He’s rooted there in the kitchen, watching you move about. You’re comfortable. There isn’t a trace of anxiousness in you, not in this moment, and he tries to remember what it looks like.

Your eyes find his and he clears his throat.

“Earth to Sergeant Barnes?”

“Don’t start,” he groans, albeit playfully, “It’s too early.”

“Oh, what? Too early for me to grill you on why you didn’t tell me that little laptop in there was on loan from the FBI? To one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th?”

His face falls.

“Don’t worry,” you raise a hand quickly, leaning against the counter as you sip your coffee, “I figured that out before I did anything massively illegal.”

Bucky rubs his face as he takes a sip of his coffee — the bitterness is enough to slap him awake. He winces, swallows it back, and remembers the taste of instant coffee made in helmets on the line in Bastogne. He can smell snow, and the acrid sting of mortar smoke. Suddenly, he’s craving a cigarette.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Bucky clears his throat. “Did you find anything?”

You frown slightly, lips pulled as you hide your inward disappointment — you push off from the counter and shake your head as you brush past him. Like a loyal dog, Bucky follows. Into the bedroom you go, and Bucky’s again surprised he managed to get any sleep at all in that bed. Maybe it was the comfort of having someone else there, or the genuine exhaustion that had finally choked him out after hours of trying to understand what the hell you were even doing on there.

You plop into the desk chair and snatch up a piece of paper littered with notes.

“I couldn’t do much of my usual snooping,” you explain gently as you gesture to the chromebook, “This thing might have been given to you in good faith, but they’re watching you pretty closely. So, I worked a little magic and ended up running a virtual machine. Gave me enough wiggle room to avoid the malware and keystroke trackers. Even still, I wanted to be careful, so I just did a little looking.”

“Looking?”

“I can’t dig deeper on Innessa, I know where to dig, but I can’t,” you frown, “Not on this laptop, and definitely not on my personal machines. I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and the files I need to poke are very much off-limits.”

“So, what? We’re shit out of luck?”

“No, not entirely,” you stand up and motion to the paper in your hands; your tone is tight, “I know a few people who can help, but getting to them is going to be the hardest part.”

Bucky takes the paper, squinting at the writing as you settle on the edge of the bed next to him. You take a sip of your coffee and watch as his blue eyes dart across the notes; you point to the name scrawled across the top.

“There’s a club in lower Manhattan, but you’ve gotta know the right people to get in,” you mumble, scratching your cheek as a creeping sense of embarrassment bubbles up behind your words, “It’s in the basement of an old computer repair shop. It’s like a blackhat networking event, but with strippers.”

Bucky squints at the paper and reads the name. “The Glass Cannon?”

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly as you stand, “That’s the one.”

Bucky looks up from the paper, attention now rooted on the pacing you’ve begun to do across the room. Back and forth. You’re holding your coffee like a lifeline, gaze far away. That anxiousless way you’d been holding yourself before is gone. Now, he can see the tensing in your shoulders, in your fingers. You’re suddenly nervous.

Bucky stands. His voice is gentle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you snap almost immediately, “Just, y’know. Worried. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. Did stupid shit. And now I’m about to waltz in after six years like I haven’t put that part of my life behind me.”

“We don’t have to do this,” he says immediately, moving to stand closer and halt your pacing. The invasion of your space forces you to look at him. His fingers glimmering in the morning light. You follow the line of his figure up to his eyes. The emotion there makes your heart clench. You can’t pin it down, and it’s gone in an instant.

“It’s the only way we’re going to find Innessa.”

“You don’t need to put yourself in situations like this for me,” he says, stressing the for me part in both expression and tone. The depreciation makes you wince and you’re fast to shake your head.

“That’s what friends do, Bucky,” you stand your ground, but you know there’s more to your reasoning than that, “Plus, she’s a bad guy. And I know you said I technically wasn’t the sidekick, but—”

“You’re not the sidekick—”

“I know,” you huff, nudging him gently with your arm, “But, I wanna help. Do some good.”

“You do enough good,” he mutters, “You’re a good person.”

Your words fail you at that — and your mouth parts but nothing comes out. Bucky watches with an expression as solid as rock as you blink and look away. His hand, the one of flesh and bone, finds your wrist as you tighten your grip on your mug.

The touch, though far too tender for you to handle, feels like fire.

Like a slap in the face, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky is.

You slap that thought back, trading volleys, and remain quiet.

His tone is stern. “I mean it.”

“Well,” you finally muster, tone dipping sardonically into a cruel peel of humor, “Just wait until you see me in my natural habitat. Maybe the tequila shots will make you second guess that.”

“I didn’t know we were going out drinking,” he chirps as he raises an eyebrow, “Am I going to need to get you a leash?”

“We’re gonna have to try and blend in as best we can. People are going to know me — if they try to pin me with the GRC or the feds, we aren’t going to get anything on Innessa. They probably won’t even let me in the building if they suspect something’s up, after all not everything that goes down in Glass Cannon is kosher.”

“This is already sounding like a bad idea,” Bucky mumbles as he crosses his arms, “I’m stating that for the record, by the way.”

“Well, I think standing around and working ourselves up about this is even worse of an idea,” you chirp back, moving towards the door to muscle on your shoes, “So I say we feed ourselves and don’t worry about this until Thursday night.”

“Thursday.”

You nod.

All of a sudden, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Today is Sunday.”

You freeze, hand on the doorframe. You shoot him a wide-eyed look at the sudden flare of panic that’s shot up through him. “Yea, Bucky, today is Sunday.”

“Shit.”

“What?” you nearly cry as he disappears into the bedroom once more. You hear his closet open, then a clatter as he grabs something like keys — you nearly run directly into his chest when he strides back into the kitchen. He’s shouldered on his usual leather jacket, and in his hands is another.

He’s got keys in his hand.

“C’mon.”

He shoves the jacket into your arms and you frown.

“What the hell?” you cry, doubling back to snag your phone and bag as Bucky moves to the door, “What is this?”

“Put it on,” he says, holding open the door for you as you follow him into the apartment hallway.

You raise a brow and stand there as he locks the door.

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face as he widens his strides to the stairwell across the hall; before you know it, you’re desperately trying to keep up as he bounces down the steps — light on his feet like the boxer he is — towards the lower level of the apartment complex, “We’re late.”

You groan, trying to shrug on the jacket that smells like Bucky as you follow — a smell you’d come to know as clean laundry and sandalwood. Must be something for his hair. He never wore cologne, that much was apparent. The jacket is big on you, especially on the shoulders. You were swimming in it, trying not to trip as he held the door open to the garage.

Suddenly, the air is cooler. Immediately you wonder how much his rent is if he had access to a ground level garage. Call it NYC instinct.

“Bucky,” you nearly whine, throwing your head back, “Where are we going?”

Before you get a reply, you run straight into his back. Bucky grunts, moving to grab both of your hands and push you to the front of him.

Sitting in the spot is a motorcycle.

It’s a jet black Harley.

Bucky is handing you the helmet on the back seat as your mouth moves in disbelief. “No way— no, I’m not getting on that thing. I’d rather sell my kidneys. Stop, stop — ow, Bucky — you haven’t even said where we’re going!”

He’s muscling the helmet onto your head and through the flash of the visor you can see a real smile, the sort born out of his never-ending amusement towards your fickle sense of humor. His fingers are nimble against your chin. He takes the time to strap it on, adjust it, and give it a gentle tug. Bucky taps the matte black helmet twice, then flicks the visor down.

“We’re going upstate.”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

It takes two hours to get to Elmwood Senior Living.

You spent the first forty-five minutes clinging to Bucky’s waist with your eyes closed — no fault of Bucky’s, really. It was different from riding in a car by miles, and you had your own qualms with driving. You couldn’t be in the passenger’s seat anymore. Not after the accident with Jaimie, when Mom disappeared. Being out of control made you itch; and it’s not until the fifty-minute mark that you ease up on the panic and remember who the man is that’s driving the bike.

You trust Bucky. You trust him with your life.

Once it’s open road, winding up towards the Northern part of the state, it gets easier.

Bucky can feel your grip around his waist loosen just a bit — and it’s enough reassurance that he stops looking back in the mirror every fifteen seconds. It’s enough permission to open up on the throttle, and the bike roars alive. Your immediate reaction is a gobsmacked yelp, the sort that’s pulled from a jolt of shock, but then comes the laugh.

Bucky’s own quiet chuckle rumbles against your chest. You hold on tighter, but this time with open palms against the thrum of his ribs.

Halfway through the trip, he pulls into a McDonald’s.

You drop your ass onto the parking lot’s curb as he leans against the bike and houses a burger. You laugh, eyeing him candidly as you take a large bite from your own lunch. Bucky is a mess with it — cursing quietly when he ends up getting ketchup on his jacket.

“Shit.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “Did you even taste that thing?”

“Barely,” he clears his throat and starts picking at his fries, “These things taste different now. First time I ever had McDonald’s was right before bootcamp.”

“How much was it? Five cents?” you snort, leaning back and dropping a fry into your mouth.

Bucky watches with a half-smirk. “Fifteen, but nice try.”

He spends the next five minutes on his hand with a wet nap, trying hard to get the grease out of the delicate plates along his palm. You watch, as you knock back the rest of your soda, as his eyes crinkle tightly in frustration. His mouth is pulled tightly into a fine line. For the second time today, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky Barnes is — and how fucking stubborn he is, too.

“Want help?”

“No,” he mutters, trying to get a spot between his thumb and index finger, “I got it.”

“I have smaller fingers,” you sing-song, gathering up his trash and your trash and crossing the parking lot to the bin; upon returning, you waggle them in his face, “Good for hard to reach places.”

Bucky absolutely hates that can feel his blush hit the tips of his ears at the comment.

He’s glad you’re too preoccupied with his hand to notice. You’re watching, like you always do, with respectful awe. To you, this part of him is a bit like a treasure — you find it beautiful and intriguing and incredible. It’s clear in the way you watch the mechanisms turn and tighten that you aren’t frightened by it.

It unsettles Bucky every time.

Finally, once he’s finished under your watchful eyes, he leans to muscle that helmet back over your head. You groan, squinting tightly.

“C’mon,” he knocks your helmet with his knuckles, “We’re almost there.”

The rest of the ride is wide open space, farm land and mountainous peaks looming far ahead. It’s warm, and the sun is hot on your back. The wind is howling around you and it sends your jacket collar flapping against your neck. Your chin rests neatly on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the road ahead.

Elmwood Senior Living is tucked into the back of a suburb.

The two of you weave through a neighborhood or two, dancing under the shade of age old maple trees. They cast long, scattered shadows across the pavement as kids play on their lawns. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Over the hill, church bells ring. Sunday service has ended.

Bucky rolls into the parking lot, past the large sign with swirling lettering. Suddenly, things make more sense. Suddenly, you’re struck with a sinking feeling of grief. Nostalgia. Mourning. But, happiness.

There are folks sitting outside, basking in the sun, tethered to walkers.

Bucky’s wrists crank back weathered knuckles, and slowly the bike rumbles into an open spot. Extending his legs, Bucky balances the bike with ease. You take that as your cue to swing yourself off the back clumsily, hopping a bit. Bucky leans, kicks the stand down, and with significantly more grace than you, swings his leg over.

You’re shrugging his jacket off when he speaks.

“He’s going to be different than how you imagine him.”

You exhale slowly, draping the jacket over the bike’s seat. You peel the helmet off.

“I’ve sort of pieced that together.”

You can see the slight discomfort hanging in his posture. You reach and touch Bucky’s arm.

“Come on,” you nod to the entrance, covered by a shady overhang where someone is helping a family member out of their car, “We don’t wanna be late, huh?��

His eyes soften. Bucky nods.

You walk side-by-side into the lobby of Elmwood Senior Living and it’s like time slows down. It halts in a warm, sunshine colored still — full of chatter, full of humanity, full of wisdom. The room is framed by big windows, by plants, by a man in a U.S. Navy ball cap. He’s stationed by the door, watching the comings and goings. The main desk, where a young woman watches, sits in the corner. You follow Bucky with a content little look. He notices.

He stands a little closer at the main desk. The girl, who looks like she’s incredibly out of place with her blue hair and piercings, is younger than you thought. Highschool, maybe. She offers Bucky an excited smile.

“Took you long enough,” she chirps, moving to sort through a bin to her side with key fobs.

Your brows raise. You spy calculus homework on the desk.

Bucky snorts. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He notices the same problem set you so, and purposely leans over the desk. Suddenly, you’re seeing flashes of a more boyish version of Bucky — one that reminds you of a man with siblings. Bucky taps the paper, jutting a chin to the girl as she tries to swat his attention away.

“How’d you do on that test?”

“I got a 96,” she chirps pridefully, laughing, “Thanks for the help, nerd.”

You’re watching the entire exchange with a smile, backing up a bit to toss a curious glance over your shoulder. There’s a dining room through open doors — and looks like lunch is just wrapping up. Folks are moving around, back to their rooms or upstairs where you can hear the beginnings of a seated aerobics class begin.

Bucky nudges you with his hand.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he says and waves the key she’d handed over.

The girl with the blue hair scoffs. “Say hi to grandpa for me, Bucket.”

You laugh out loud as Bucky quickly flips her off. She’s quick to do the same.

You follow him around the corner, grinning ear to ear. He spares you a sheepish look, then rolls his eyes.

“What was that?”

“She’s a good kid,” he offers, eyeing the key with the grey little fob attached, “Reminds me of my sister.”

Your face softens. “Sister?”

“Her name was Sarah, too,” he says quietly, boots landing softly on the blue carpet. He’s navigating the residential wing like he’s done it a million times. There are rooms with flowers outside, with holiday garb, with little photos and keepsakes. Each room holds a lifetime of personality — the sound of Jeopardy lulls along in the background.

You hum. Bucky sighs.

He meanders down a long hallway where a different door is — this one heavy and locked by the little keypad. Bucky raises the key fob to the device and the door buzzes.

This side of Elmwood is quieter.

Down the hall, Timmy Dorsey and Sinatra play quietly over someone’s record player.

There aren’t as many folks in the hall in this wing, but doors are open and nurses flit about. Around the corner, there’s a loud conversation going on about lunch — and you watch as Bucky weaves towards the nursing station. It’s a room overlooking the common area with windows. Inside are three women.

One of them immediately jumps when she sees Bucky.

“Oh, good! I was meaning to talk to you—”

“Everything alright?”

“About the same,” she breathes as she stands, moving to grab at a Bucky’s arm with a sense of motherliness that makes you smile, “But, meals have been a bit difficult lately.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, rubbing his chin, “He just doesn’t wanna eat?”

“He thinks Peggy is coming home,” the woman whispers with a pained smile as she begins to lead you both down the hall, “He thinks your grandmother made dinner for him.”

“Right,” Bucky nods, “Doesn’t wanna ruin his appetite.”

“Exactly.”

You take note of the conversation, muddling through your own confusion. You’re quiet, though. This isn’t really your conversation to have. Bucky seems to be relaxed more — even humming slightly to a song that plays across the hall from the room the nurse is knocking on.

“Mr. Carter?” she calls gently, “Your grandson is here to see you, and his…”

She looks expectantly at you. You bawk.

“Friend.”

“Right,” she smiles and pushes open the door.

It’s like a little slice of home.

Sofas, chairs, photos on the walls. There’s a record player in the corner, a television, a coffee table stacked with books on the second world war. There’s a dresser covered in baubles and warm light coming in from the window overlooking the street. It reminds you of your grandparents’ sitting room — everything looks so lived in, so comfortable, so alive.

And then, below the light of the window, is a hospital bed.

In it is Steve Rogers.

Not the one you know — no, this one has lived a full life. This Steve Rogers has fallen in love, owned a home, settled down. This Steve Rogers has years of wisdom settled into his face, years of well-fought fights in his joints. His blonde hair has gone shock white, but his smile is all the same.

“Bucky.”

The way Steve says his name is like the man beside you holds the world.

To Bucky, he can hear a new weakness. A new exhaustion.

“Hi, punk.”

The nurse offers a little wave to you as Bucky ventures into the room, stripping his jacket off and moving to scope out the minifridge in the small kitchenette beside the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and you smile to her softly. Bucky rummages, poking his head up.

“You want a drink, Steve?” he asks, tone almost like he’s feeling out the lucidity of the man across the room, “There’s some of that lemonade I brought last week in here.”

“Sounds good,” he says slowly, “Please.”

You feel out of place — not unwelcome, but… it’s clear that Bucky has come and gone from here a thousand times now. He knows to get the glasses out, to get a straw, to turn down the record player on his way over. Doris Day’s voice lowers to a soft croon. You watch with heavy eyes.

“I brought someone, Steve,” Bucky says, “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh?” Steve asks with a slow look to the corner where you’re standing, “That musta broke your heart.”

Bucky snorts as he moves to swing the hospital bed’s tray over Steve’s lap. He places the lemonade down, then the other glass on the nightstand. He’s quick to move the armchair closer to the nightstand, and gestures for you to come over. Bucky’s hands guide you by the shoulders as he plops you into the chair.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Bucky says, “Reminds me of you.”

“No kidding,” Steve says slowly, offering a hand that shakes, “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You exchange your name with a shy look, shaking that hand with reverence and gentility. “It’s an honor, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please,” he mumbles, moving to slowly take a sip of his lemonade, “Steve is fine.”

Bucky moves to take up a post on the opposite side of Steve, in the sun. “You’re losin’ weight, y’know.”

That earns him a wave of the hand.

Bucky leans back and sips his lemonade. He waggles a finger and you watch the two begin to go back and forth.

“No, no,” he swallows, “No, you don’t get t’ shrug me off—”

“M’fine, Buck,” a sigh, “Really.”

“Mhm,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re startin’ to look like the Steve I knew before the serum.”

You lean back, hiding a quiet smirk behind your hand.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up an’ pester me,” he says with a tired look, “The only peace I get around here is when Peggy comes home.”

Your eyes jump to Bucky. He’s watching you.

“Peggy?” you ask gently, “Is that your wife?”

A proud smile washes over his face. “Still knocks me for a loop, too.”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, “Peggy won’t be coming around for a while. Remember?”

There’s a look that flashes across Steve’s face, then. A mixture of sadness, of confusion, of panic. It’s clouded with a furrow of his brow, hidden by a tilt of the head. He looks at Bucky, mouth pulled in a fine line.

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad.

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“S’alright,” Bucky taps his head, maintaining an air of nonchalance, “That’s why you got me.”

“And why you’ve got her, no doubt,” he turns to you with a winning smile and offers his hand again, “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, you shake it, and you introduce yourself once more. Your smile is patient and understanding. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Steve.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve smiles, tossing Bucky a look that borders on mischievous.

He sips his lemonade and clears his throat. “How is Sam?”

“You ask every time,” Bucky mutters, “And every time I have the same answer.”

“Sam?” you ask slowly.

“Wilson,” Bucky finishes, “Bird man.”

“You mean Falcon,” you correct, shooting him a stern look, “The Falcon. Are you ghosting The Falcon?”

“I don’t know what that even means, so maybe,” Bucky leans back and crosses his legs, “I’ve been busy.”

You roll your eyes. Steve saw. He smiles.

“I’m gettin’ why he keeps you around.”

Your face is smacked with a look of pure joy.

“C’mon on now,” Bucky cries, nearly indignantly, “No flirting—”

“M’ not flirting—”

“I know that look, Steve—”

Steve is laughing.

Bucky has a stern look in his eye. “You always do this—”

“I’m not doin’ a damn thing—”

“And you better keep it that way, old man,” Bucky shirks, voice splintering into a laugh in a way that you’ve never heard before, “I swear, this is how it always goes.”

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, huh, Buck?” you ask gently, leaning your cheek into your hand.

Steve laughs loudly at that.

Bucky spares you a smile — the sort that’s drenched in good humor and sunlight. It makes your lungs flutter, and you ignore the buzz in your fingers at the sight. You hide your laugh into your cup of lemonade, resigning to be a quiet counterpart in the conversation.

The two of them go on to chat about small things, then chat about old things. From the Commandos, to HYDRA, to amends, to therapy, to Peggy, to the itch the starch of their old dress uniforms used to bring. It takes a bit, a few redirections on the way, but it’s clear by the end why Steve Rogers is in Elmwood’s memory unit.

It makes your heart ache.

And if a super soldier is bed-ridden…

The two of you say goodbye around three in the afternoon after Bucky helps Steve shave.

The walk back to the bike is quiet.

Bucky speaks first.

“He’s dying.”

You chew your lip, eyes on the pavement. You match his slow stride, bumping your elbow with his as you walk. It’s still warm, and the clouds hang high in the sky. When you look up, Bucky’s watching you. You sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally muster, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing the jacket from the seat and holding it up, “He’s lived a long life.”

You let Bucky hold out the arm for you, and you press your hand through the sleeve. He helps the other side on, and you zip it up to your chin. When you turn around to face him, there are tears in your eyes.

They snuck up on you. You hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s face fell, until the first one fell along the weathered leather of the jacket. You blink, raising your brows as you swipe them away, and offer an apologetic look.

“I’m happy,” you say, “Y’know. He has you. But, he’s a man out of time. Even now. That makes me sad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He’s leaned up against the bike as you turn and watch Elmwood from the back of the parking lot. There’s a big part of you that feels heavy with guilt — and though Steve was in good spirits when you left, you can’t help but ache to provide him with more company. It’s clear that seeing Bucky means a lot to him, and that in turn it means a lot to the man beside you.

“Come on,” Bucky says then, “Let’s go home.”

You nod, let him muscle that helmet onto your head one more time, and hold on a little tighter back to the city.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

You don’t see Bucky until Tuesday.

In all honesty, it feels weird to not hear from him for two days. At the very least, you expected some sort of phone call — but you remind yourself that you’ve been okay alone for a long time. There’s no need to throw all your work on being comfortable by yourself out the window for Bucky Barnes.

It’s tempting, though. God, it’s really tempting.

You hate the ache in your chest when you finally see him lumbering towards the cafe counter before your appointments. You hate this new feeling — so you shove it down and ignore the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you your latte.

He is ignoring it, too. He’s been ignoring it.

No use in thinking about it though.

“You got plans later?” you ask him in the elevator after your appointment, tilting your head, “Apparently there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon tonight on FX.”

Bucky stiffens — and immediately he can feel the hot sting of anxious regret flood his cheeks. He clears his throat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and toes the ground. You watch with a confused look. Then he speaks tightly.

“...I’ve got a date.”

You could have caught flies the way your jaw fell open.

“Oh. Oh!”

You blink, readjust your expression, and swallow down a sharp stab of rejection.

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s… I wasn’t going to but, Dr. Raynor—”

“No, no,” you wave your hands and shake your head and try to seem genuine, “No, I’m happy for you. Is this one of those Christian Minglers?”

Bucky groans. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” you say, “Okay! Just, uh, be careful. Y’know? And call if you need anything.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky walks side by side with you through the well-lit lobby. He holds the door open for you, and you pass through with a pained look at the ground. He lingers, though, rubbing the back of his neck as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Thursday,” he says, “I’ll stop by.”

“Yea,” you say, waving your hand, “Whenever.”

But, that doesn’t end up happening.

No, Bucky Barnes shows up at your apartment doorstep at 10pm.

He’s clutching takeout and a six pack of beer and wearing a horrified expression that screams of guilt and exhaustion. No, Bucky buzzes the door to your apartment and basically croaks that he’s here — he’s asking if the marathon is still on while you buzz him up.

“Third floor,” you say into the buzzer with a smile, “Come on in, old man.”

When you open the door, you have to laugh — because his hair is a mess and there’s still a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Whereas jealousy threatens to flare, his incredibly regretful expression tamps it down. You cock a hip, eye him up and down, and jut your chin out.

“Get laid?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he didn’t break something.

He pushes past you, moving to drop the beer on the counter and place the takeout gently down by the basket of fruit.

“I’m here for the cat,” he grumbles, “Not your witty commentary, sweetheart.”

You’re moving quietly to the sink and gathering a paper towel with a smirk as Bucky looks around, admiring the decor and aliveness of your apartment. When you turn around, he’s already pried a beer from the pack and popped the top off with his vibranium palm.

He winces when you reach up to swipe the coral lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

Then Bucky settles, letting you clean off the mess.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Right. Was it at least fun?”

“She had fun,” he mutters into his first sip, “It was a lotta tongue for my first night out in nearly a century, though.”

You wince. He nods with a sardonic smile that tells you everything about how the date went down — and you’re relieved. “So, I take it you're not calling her in the morning?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Nope. No, and I’ve decided no more dates. That was enough for me.”

You wince and pluck a beer from the pack. Wordlessly, Bucky gestures for you to hand it over. In one smooth motion, he twists the cap off with his hand.

“That bad?” you ask, eyeing him critically.

“I decided halfway through,” he says as he moves to take the takeout from its bag, “I’d rather be watching Lord of the Rings with you.”

That stops you into silence. It’s like someone’s taken your own words and gagged you with them — and you’re left floundering for breath you never even realize you lost. You know he means it. You know it because he won’t look at you, because that sort of confession isn’t easy for people like you two. So you take those words and you glue them in a lonely locket and keep them close to your heart.

Poke’s entrance saves you a mouthful of broken words — he comes in, trots up to Bucky, and hollers.

Bucky laughs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he mutters, eyeing the cat that’s eagerly rubbing himself along Bucky’s leg.

You wipe your face, sip your beer, and move to the pantry across from the kitchen island. You come back out with a bag of salmon treats — the good ones — and offer Bucky the bag. He takes it, eyes still on the calico, and crinkles it a little.

You lean against the counter and watch Bucky kneel.

“If you keep it up long enough he might even let you hold him.”

He lights up at that.

You laugh.

You move to grab plates and forks and knives and groan when you open up the first box to see Pad Thai — you make a mental note to properly thank Bucky for this. You meager dinner of reheated pasta really hadn’t hit the spot. This will, though. You can tell from the smell alone.

By your knees, Poke chirps.

“He’s cute.”

“I never took you for a cat guy.”

Bucky snorts.

You make a plate and flick his head as you walk by. “You’re missing the start of The Two Towers.”

“I’m going to be confused, aren’t I?” he asks as he stands and begins making himself a plate. He watches as you settle onto the couch and sip your beer, “I was too busy being turned into a cyborg to read the books.”

You laugh out loud. It shocks you.

“Was that a joke? Did Bucky Barnes just make a joke?”

He’s smirking. He rounds the counter with his food and settles next to you. Poke is following him, eager to curl up next to his new friend.

“I can be funny.”

“Funny lookin’.”

He elbows you on purpose. You snort into your beer.

There’s a comfortable moment of quiet between you, and you clear your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “No problem.”

More quiet, and he’s still watching you. Then, he asks what’s been on his mind for the last three days.

“You got a plan for Thursday?”

“I’ve got anxiety, Buck,” you exhale, swigging your beer and turning the television up, “I always have a plan.”

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #marvel imagine #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes/reader #bucky/reader

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myafterlifeisbetterthenyours · 3 years ago

Text

Welcome, Father...

"Tell us, demon scum." The male agent grabbed the light from the female agent, shoving it in his face, "Who do you work for? Satan?"

"How did you get to our world from the afterlife?"

"Why are youse killing humans?"

"When did you show up here?"

The damned agents finally stoped passing the lights about, giving him a moment to adjust to the situation.

"Okay, I'm gonna stop you right there, bitch." He snapped at the humans, "First of all, we just woke up from a very nasty shock and I'm still feeling fuckin' woozy, so I'm gonna request you fetch us some coffee before we get into this. I mean, everyone gets coffees in shitty movies with scenes like this, am I right? I want something iced, bitch." Looking over his shoulder, he asked his employee, "Mox?"

Raising his nose, Moxxie began, "I'll have a Neopolitan cappuccino, more cappu than cino, make sure it's got no more than four ounces of milk, the beans won't have the right texture otherwise, and make sure they spell my name correctly on the cup they always put "Foxy" or "Roxy", I hate that."

"If you can't handle that, I'll have a Venti traditional Misto. Please use soy milk with two blond shots Affogato and Ristretto. I'd also love three vanilla pumps at the very bottom. Then, add the coffee after, then-"

"Enough!" The male agent snapped, "We aren't getting youse coffee!"

"Wow, I was getting massive douche chills just there, Mox." He told him proudly, "Congrats!"

"If we have to, we are willing to resort to torture methods to get answers out of you nasty hell beasts!" The female agent failed to sound threatening.

"When you say "tortured", do you mean physical or psychological?" Moxxie asked in his typical know-it-all tone, "Physical seems counterproductive; we would likely tell you anything if it meant an end to the pain, and you have no way of knowing what was true." He spouted at the humans.

"Or we might like it too much." He but in, "And then you got a whole new thing to deal with."

The male agent leaned down, raising a bore "What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, you're stupid, huh? I can work with stupid. Daddy Likey Dummy!" Blitzø taunted the agent.

"Good one sir, Daddy likey-" Moxxie sputtered, squirming in his chair.

"You better stop laughin' at us." The female agent threatened.

"Yeah! You're the ones at our mercy!" The male agent yelled at him, grabbing his collar

"It's hard to resist, I'm really sorry. I mean, considering your approach thus far, you've had us tied up here for what, hours?" Mox cut in, "And you haven’t even had us confirm what exactly we are!" Moxxie mocked the agents like the nerd he was.

"What are you?" The female agent asked, a curious tone coming to the females voice.

"I'm a Virgo." Moxxie told her, smugness dripping from his voice.

Both Imps burst into laughter, the agents only getting more frustrated.

Just as the male agent was gonna snap at them, the door to the room suddenly swung open.

An unnatural amount 9f light poured into the room, blinding them all for a brief moment. Once there eyes adjust, they found a silhouette standing in the doorway.

They were dressed in black, looking up a distinct shine came from his eyes, the figure wearing glasses.

Walking into the room, the figure spoke, "The question isn't what they are? The question is why there here?" He spoke cryptically.

Stepping closer the male agent came to meet the stranger halfway, "Who da Hell ah' you and how'd you get in here?" The male agent demanded.

Raising his gaze the stranger wore a smile.

The agent noticeably reacted. Stumbling back "F-f-f-father Cain... W-what are you's doin here?" He sputtered.

This 'father' just smile at him, "My associates informed me you acquired two new specimens." He looked at him, "I've come to process them." He spoke menacingly.

Father cain looked over the agents shoulder, gazing at him and Moxxie. "Excellent job My child. I always knew my faith was well placed." The father told the agent, patting his shoulder.

The agent seemed taken aback, "Th-thank you Sir." He spoke, a lone tear sliding down his cheek.

"Father Cain?" The female agent asked, walking up to 'father' Cain. "Last I heard you were down at some beach on Spring break."

Smiling at the pair, father cain raised a finger, "Ive no time for such hedonistic pleasures. Not while the Lords work is to be done" He said happily.

"Now" He began cheerfully "I need a table if I am to do my work." He spoke firmly, raising a medium sized doctors bag, that seemed to appear from nowhere.

The male agent snapped to attention, quickly running about before rushing into the back room.

Walking forwards, Father Cain removed his glasses, staring down at him. "My, my, my, they certainly did a good job. Quite a pair of specimens you have here." He spoke to himself.

Raising a brow, Blitzø wore a little grin. "Oh yeah? You should see my junk, now thats a specimen." He spoke in his usual cocky tone.

'Father' Cain just smiled, slowly walking around to Moxxie inspecting him as well. "And unharmed, very impressive." The 'Father' told the female agent.

A moment later, the male agent returned, awkwardly dragging in a large wooden table. Dropping it down, he gave a few deep puffs, "There ya go 'Fatha', will this do?"

'Father' Cain smiled told him, gratefully telling him "That will do perfectly, thank you my child."

Walking over, the 'Father' placed his bag down before opening it and pulling out a myriad of odd and strange objects.

There was a series of shiny items and tools. Although a small wooden case caught his attention, the Imp couldn't help but think it didn't belong.

"Hey, uh, you guys seem pretty chummy and we'd hate to be a third wheel, so we'd be happy to leave you to it." He cut in smugly, hoping to get a rise from one of them.

And that he did, the male agent trying to snap at him, only to be tempered by this 'Father' Cain

Calming down, the male agent asked, "What did you mean, when you came in Sit. That it's not "What they are, it's why there here?'"

Smiling, Father Cain patted his shoulder, "I'm glad you caught that, I always knew you were sharp."

He smoke warmly, "I said that because, simply put. I know what they are. They are Imps." He said it simply.

That actually surprised him, even Moxxie reacted, releasing the slightest gasp.

Looking over the father just had a eerie smile, clearly happy with there reaction.

Both agents looked confused, "Imps?" They asked each other.

The father released a deep sigh, "Yes, Imps. Imps are the very lowest of the low in hell, as well as the lowest of the Hellbornes, or Hellspawn, I can never seem to remember which is the proper term."

Walking over, Father Cain placed a finger under his chin, raising his head to meet his gaze. "Your responsible for the death of a two hundred and sixty three humans." He told him coldly.

"Yeah, but I wanna know is why?" The female agent asked, "If they were just killing humans for shits and giggles, why not just kill wherever and whenever?" She asked.

Nodding his head, "Because..." Father Cain stood up, "They do serve a higher demon, but not Satan."

Standing up, the 'Father' walked to his bag, pulling a yellow folder out. "They've killed hundreds, and the only thing that connects them...? Death."

There was another pause, before he spoke again, "But not there deaths. Each person they've killed has had someone directly related to there lives die in the past decade."

Walking over to the Imps, the 'Father' showed them a series of pictures. Blitzø recognised them... they were targets they'd killed.

"There not killing them for a demon lord, there killing them for other human souls. I imagine with a the ability to travel to the human world, you've turned revenge into a buisness." He said simply, tossing the pictures to the side.

Crouching down, the 'Father' stared at him coldly before asking "Who's book did you use to get here, Demon?"

Blitzø stared back at him, the Imp doing his best to keep calm. But he could tell this human was clearly more dangerous than the other two idiot 'demon hunters'.

Standing up, 'Father' Cain told the other agents coldly, "Leave us. Remove any cameras. I dont want any sort of witness."

"What?" The female agent asked aghast, "We caught these 'Imps' there our score and we'll be interrogating them." She snapped at the 'Father', only for the the father to calmly stare at her.

Before he could speak, the male agent grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her out of the room he spoke hastily "P-please forgive her, Sir. She doesn't fully understand the importance of your work."

The female agent put a fight, but was quickly pulled out of the room, slamming it behind him.

Now with just the three of them, 'Father' Cain removed his glasses before placing them on the table.

Stretching his neck, he removed the white collar piece at the front of his shirt, placing it in his coat pocket.

"Now" he began coldly "shall we begin the fun?"

Turning around, Blitzø decided now was a good time to speak up. "Fun, aye? What kinda fun we talkin. Shots, blow, maybe a good old fashioned threesome?" He asked, hoping to get under this 'Father' Cain's skin.

He was surprised, however, when the 'Father' just laughed, glancing over his shoulder at him.

"Your tricks won't work on me demon. I'm used to your tricks by now." He spoke happily, grabbing a small gun like object. Placing that down, he inspected a series of bottles.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Blitzø spoke up. "You clearly know more us then those dumbass agent dickwads did, so... what's your game?" He asked, trying to be serious.

The human stopped for a moment, looking over his shoulder, he spoke up, "I know much about you. For instance, your the other Imps boss, hence he calls you Sir." He spoke coyly, still inspecting the myriad of items he'd brought.

"I also know you've killed people on three different continants, although I wonder how many you came up to kill specifically and how many were collateral." He spoke again.

Turning around he held a small bottle, walking forwards he leaned over Blitzø "I also know you can only get to the living world if your a succubus, a demon lord, or... you have a Grimoire."

Blitzø chuckled, "What is that some kinda fish?" He asked, trying to play dumb.

The 'Father' chuckled, shaking his head, "Besides how do you know I'm not a succubus, I can hold my own in the sack." He spoke smugly.

The 'Father' stared at him, an eerie smile crossing his lips.

"You want to know how i know what you are?" He asked coldly, cold eyes sending a shiver down his spine and not in the good way.

Before he could ask what I was, the father reach forwards, ripping a hole in his pants leg. "What the fuck?!" He yelled at him, "These are my good pants!"

Not minding him, the 'Father' removed a second bottle. "This" He showed him a small blue bottle, "Is poisen to Succubus." He said simply, opening the bottle and revealing an eye dropper, dropping two little droplets on his leg.

Nothing happened, the cool liquid sliding down and observing into his pant leg. Putting the bottle away He showed the original brown bottle, "This... is for Imps." He said simply.

Opening the bottle, it revealed another eye drop, holding it over his thigh, he dropped a single drop on his leg.

This time his whole body reacted, he pulled against his bindings as he released a blood curdling screech.

It felt like someone was jamming a molten hot poker into his thigh. It went on for minutes, the Imp whining in pain. "What the fuck do you want you sick fuck?!" Blitzø yelled at him.

A small smile crossed the 'Father's' lips before he stood up and told him "I want to show you something."

Walking over to the table, he grabbed that wooden case before bringing it over to the Imps.

Crouching down besides the both of them, he told the both of them "These are my most prized possessions." He spoke warmly, running his hand across the wooden case.

"What'cha got there? Ya dildo collection?" He tried to sound smug, though the Imp was still writhing in pain.

He heard moxxie tried to laugh, but it died in his throat, the smaller Imp still terrified by his boss's earlier reaction.

Opening the case, he revealed several colourful arrow heads, each one varying in size, shape and colour.

It took a long time, the imp looking over the arrow heads before he realised, 'Those aren't arrow heads... there demon tails.'

"Fuck..." Blitzø gasped, he heard Moxxie sputter out a similar cuss, just as scared behind him.

The 'Father' on the other hand, seemed quite proud, gently trailing his fingers across the tail heads.

"These are my life's work" He spoke calmly, "I've dedicated my life to hunting demons like you." He trailed his fingers across the tails, "Most of these are from Succubus. They can come and go from my world to yours the easiest, so most of the demons we find are Succubus."

He pointed to two crimson tail tips, "But these two... these two are special."

Leaning in, he spoke gently "These two... are from Imps." The revelation seemed to bring bile into the back of Blitzøs throat.

"Jesus..." moxxie said shakily, turning his head and throwing up.

Blitzø took a deep breath, doing his best not to throw up. Looking back at the human he found him holding up a tail head.

"This one" he told him, twirling it between his fingers, "I got at a little beach city. The city getting my attention after a giant demonic fish had popped up. Sound familiar." He asked with a smirk.

"Unfortunately most of them had used there demonic charm to escaped the police before I arrived... key word being, 'most'." He told him, turning his attention back on the tail head.

"I got this one from a succubus. She hid herself as a chubby little black woman. She played dumb, just like you, and much like you she was cocky and ignorant." Placing the tail tip into the container, he said coldly, "But now..."

He left the question open, clearly trying get in there heads. The problem being... it was working.

Standing up the human didn't speak for several long moments, before he placed the case on Blitzøs lap, gently telling him "Hold this"

Blitzø's whole body froze up, a deep sickness growing in his stomach as he felt the cool wooden case on his lap.

The human walked over to the mirror Blitzø only just noticed. The human stared at it for a long moment, the silence in the room becoming palpable.

Until the silence was dashed when the 'Father' smashed his arm through the mirror, before throwing his body back smashing the male agent through the mirror and slamming him into the wall.

Looking at his slumped form, 'Father Cain turned back to the now broken mirror, finding the terrified female agent standing there.

Releasing a deep sigh, the 'father' began climbing in through the now broken double sided mirror.

"It was your doing, wasn't it?" He asked, "I said I needed no witnesses, but you always did hold him back. What a waste of potential." The 'Father' told her, before grabbing her and dragging her through the window.

Bringing her to her knees, he grasped the sides of her head.

The woman desperately clawing at his arms. The female agent releasing a desperate cry for mercy as he began crushing her head.

Blood began trailing from her eyes and nose, crying out until her head splattered between his hands, sending a splatter of bone and brain matter across his face.

Dropping her now destroyed head, he realised it, the now sludge like head hit the ground with a wet splat.

Before the 'Father' flicked his hands, looked back at the Imps, "What the fuck are you?!" Blitzø yelled at him.

The human only smiled, walking over, he gently grabbed the wooden case before walking back over and placing it on the table.

Walking over to the now collapsed male agent, he placed his foot on the side of his head. "I... am alpha and Omega." He said coldly, staring him right in the eyes before crushing the other agents head beneath his foot.

Walking back to the table, he grabbed a red cloth, wiping his face before placing on his glasses he turned to the two Imps.

"Oh Satan... Oh, Satan please, please help me" Moxxie begged, clearly losing his shit. "Please just let me see Millie one last time, I don't want to die."

Before Blitzø could snap at his limp dick employee for showing weakness, the roof began to rumble, bit suddenly gave way, Millie falling through carrying a battle axe.

"MILLIE!!!" Moxxie practically cried, tears of joy beading in his eyes.

"MOX!" Millie cried back, rushing over and getting them out of ther bindings.

Just after that Loona broke through the door, Blitzø taking a moment to tell her how proud he was to see her in the field.

Now all free and together they turned to the 'Father', finding him still very much cool and collected, the sight sending a bone chilling shiver down his spine.

"Just in time" The human spoke, seemingly happy at the outcome "Its so good to see a family reunited."

"Now I imagine one of you have my Grimoire?" He asked inspecting his fingers. "Give it to me and I'll let you leave."

Now it was Blitzøs turn to chuckle, "Nah, I don't think so." He spoke cockily, reaching into his emergency pack for a gun.

The 'Father' just chuckled again, standing up straight he snapped his finger. And like it were choreographed, dozens of suit wearing humans burst into the room.

"Gentlemen!" He addressed them "These demonic scum have killed your commanders. And they shall do it again and again and again, until you send them back to hell." He told them, stepping into the back room.

The fight after that was one of the best Blitzø had ever had, although it would have been even better if he didn't have this injured leg.

Regardless, the whole thing was so bad ass and everyone was working together so well. He even got to see his Loony kick some ass.

Firing a missle, from his over sized launcher, he cleared what was left of the agents.

He'd though that was it, there weren't anybody left to stop them.

He was wrong.

The lights to switch to red, an alarm start blaring through the facility.

They all made for the door, only for a series of doors to slam in there face, locking them in the room.

His Loony tried desperately to read the book, but couldn't see anything in the crimson light that filled the room

It was then he heard a slow clapping, all of them turning to find the 'Father' giving them a condescending clap.

"Well done, Hellspawn, Well done. You've killed all the witnesses, depleted your ammunition and now I know you can't read the Grimoire in crimson light. Well done."

Standing before them, even outnumbered and unharmed, the 'Father' seemed to hold total control of the situation.

Before he could think of something any, all the air seemed to such out of the room, demonic whispers filling the room like shadows.

"You dare threaten my Impish little plaything~" the whispers spoke.

He knew this voice, but like his friends and family, he chose not to speak, too caught up in the moment.

Screens flew off the wall, avian footprints trailed across the floor. The bodies of the dead agents rose to there feet, eyes black as they began the intricate process of drawing some demonic symbol from there own blood.

Stepping back the 'Fther' looked about, before smiling, "Finally" He whispered, pulling out a flask and began chugging it.

Shadows seemed to slither like a million black snakes crawled across the floor, disappearing at the 'Fathers' feet.

There was a long pause before the human bent over and violently projectile vomited, throwing up what seemed like gallons of black liquid from his mouth.

The vomiting stopped, the human standing back up.

The back liquid slowly pulled itself to gathering, slowly morphing into a figure.

The black tar slowly formed into feathers, limbs and fingers, a set of crimson eyes appearing in the black goo.

The figure appeared to be Stolas. But this was not the elegant demon lord of hell.

This being was a wretched, wounded animal, covered in filth.

The 'Father' just wiped his mouth, that cold gaze returning to his eyes. Stepping forwards he grabbed Stolas by the filthy collar, staring him down.

The owl demon was a sputtering mess, coughing up black liquids as he tried to breathproperly.

The owl looked up at him.

And for the very first time in wjat was likely a millennia of existence, Stolas looked Terrified.

Not scared.

Terrified.

Grabbing at the arms of the human, the Prince of Hell sputtered out, "W-what are you?"

The human stopped, looking down at the owl, leaning down and whispered, "I am the beginning... and i am the end..."

The owl just stared up at him in horror, the humans hand coming to wrap around his throat, the demon feebly attempting to break free from his grasp.

There was a long moment where the only sound in the room was the prince's pitiful wheezing, frail little cries coming from the owl as the life was squeezed out of him.

The sounds were seemingly corked by a wet smack ringing out.

Blitzø had taken one of the agents weapons, a large knife and had impaled the 'Human' through the lower stomach.

There was a long moment of silence, before the 'human' slowly turned to look at him with that same cold gaze.

Without releasing Stolas, he pulled his arm back and smacked Blitzø, sending him sliding back to his friends.

Reaching down, he grabbed the knife, yanking it out of his back without hesitation.

Nothing came from his wound, and when pulling the knife out, no blood stained it's blade.

With knife in hand, he released the owl, letting his pathetic form hit the ground, the owl desperately gasping for breath.

Leaning down, you grasped Stolas' wrist, the owl releasing a pathetic little gasp of pain, followed by a frail little whimper as the 'Human' slid the blade across his wrist.

But what came next left them all shocked.

Bringing his wrist to his mouth, he pressed his mouth down before greedily suckling the foul blood straight from his veins.

He drank down the demons fowl blood, not making a sound cept the muscles of his throat contracting to push the fowl liquid down his throat.

The demons black blood flowed down his throat. Every demon in the room just watched, to shocked to think and to fearful to do anything as you had your way with the Prince.

After a few minutes of the 'Father' drinking the demons blood, he finally released the demons wrist. The owl quickly clutching his wrist to his chest as he desperately clawing to get away from the 'human'.

The 'Father' stood there, panting as a demons black blood stained his lips.

When he finally opened his eyes, they held a Unholy glint to them.

Wiping his lips he walked forwards, calmly packing what few items had survived the fighting into his bag before Putting on his glasses and placing the small white band into his shirt collar.

Walking past the now cowering demon Prince, he leaned over and pressed one of the buttons on the dashboard, instantly the lights returned to normal.

Stepping before the group they awaited some sort of attack, or threat, what they got instead was a single phrase "Excuse me."

He said it so simply, each hellborne took a moment to make sure they'd heard correctly.

Each of them just stared for a moment before Millie spoke up, "What?"

The human raised a brow, lowering his glasses he asked again, this time his voice cold, threateningly cold, "Excuse me."

The demons awkwardly stepped to the side, giving him a clear path to walk.

Walking past them he gave them a slight nod, "Thank you."

The demons were all in shock, silently watching the 'human' walk away from them.

"That's it?" Blitzø asked before he could stop himself, quickly slamming his hands to his mouth.

The 'Father' stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder, he smiled, "Kill you later." He told them playfully, lowering his glasses and giving them a wink.

He walked away, the eerie sound of his shoes on cold tile floors permanently burned into there memory.

Hey Hey, I hope you enjoyed. I really wanted to try something a bit different. I had the idea for this in my head since episode 6 came out and I just really like the idea of an unknown entity showing up with either motive or intentions clear to anyone.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, I really wanna start writing more of my own original ideas, so expect more content in the future. Bye Bye.

#helluva boss headcanon #helluva boss #headcanon #helluva boss I.M.P #truth seekers #episode 6 truth seekers #helluva boss truth seekers #helluva boss original character #not really clear what im doing #just going with the flow #my own idea

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pascalpanic · 4 years ago

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Caffeine Rush: Chapter Three / Cappucino

Summary: Javier shows up to your coffee shop again, at an ungodly hour.

W/C: 3K

Warnings: food/eating, coffee, implied age gap (reader is about 25)

A/N: I don’t have anything to say I just hope you guys enjoy :)) OH JK YES I DO: I’ve decided that Caffeine Rush will come out on mondays or tuesdays, alternating every week!

previous chapter || next chapter || masterlist

Cappuccino: two-thirds frothed milk, one-third espresso. Light and airy, full of fluff. Has a stronger coffee flavor than a latte.

As you drive him back to the hotel, you smile over at him. He looks so gorgeous, his dark hair dampened from the snow, his lips soft and extra pink from being pressed to yours. “How long did you say you’re in town for?” You ask him.

“A month,” the man tells you with a nod. “There’s a whole policy with vacation time. Use it or lose it, basically. They told me I had to use it now, so I told them to give me a month. I really have about… three months saved up now,” he chuckles.

The thought makes you grin. Javier will be here for Christmas. He’ll be here for New Year’s- that is, if he’s staying. “And what are your plans for it?” You ask softly. You hope whatever they are, they won’t take him away from you.

Javier is eating the second red velvet cake in the passenger’s seat, and you giggle at the sight before turning back to the road. Crumbs gather on the top of his shirt and in his mustache, flecks of red in the warm brown.

He smiles at your laughter. “I have none. I have no work to do. I can’t go back to Colombia early- well, I could, but I won’t be working so it wouldn’t be worth much,” he sighs, thinking aloud. “I could go home and visit my father, but I couldn’t stay there for very long. My hometown is a place you only want to stay for two or three days, at most.”

Your eyes watch his face, that surprisingly soft skin and how it moves with his expressions. Your eyes are holding a question, even if you don’t ask it aloud. Javier can read it without your words as he turns to look at you. “I’ve heard D.C. is nice over the holidays,” you offer softly. It’s less of an offer and more of a silent question: please stay. I want you to stay.

Turning back to you, there’s cream cheese frosting in his mustache and an adorable smirk on his face. Just when you thought it was impossible for this man to be any more beautiful. “I think that sounds like a wonderful idea. Then, like I said earlier, I have time to properly romance you.”

You grin and stare at the road. “I don’t normally kiss on the first date. I don’t think it’ll be hard for you to romance me,” you tease. “I can be your personal tour guide to the city. I only work mornings, so we can do whatever we want all day and night. Which is good, because the Smithsonians are only open during the day, and I want to take you to all of them.”

You ramble when you’re excited. Javier can already tell, can see you slowly leaving that shell you’ve hidden yourself in through all of your time in D.C. Your eyes glimmer in excitement as you consider the things you can do, the places you can take him.

Javier smiles back. “You’ll have to show me everything. I’ve never been here for anything other than work.”

“Oh, trust me,” you laugh. “I know all the best parts of the city. You’ll never be bored with me around.”

Javier’s immediately certain that’s true.

You told Javier last night that you work from 5:00 to 10:30, and he told you he’d swing by for a coffee. What else did he have to do without you?

What you didn’t expect was for the door chime to jingle at precisely 5:34, and for the customer that enters to be none other than the newest head of the DEA’s investigations into the Cali Cartel.

Rushing around the counter, you laugh and throw your arms around him. “Hi, Javi,” you chuckle and bury your face into his neck. He wears a warm red flannel and dark blue jeans, boots beneath them and a thick black coat over it all. He smells like soap and aftershave.

“I’m starting to like the fact that you’re a hugger,” he laughs as he hugs you back, resting his head on top of yours.

You break away and brush off your apron. “When I said you should come visit me, I meant, like, at normal human functioning hours. Like, maybe 9 or something.”

Javier frowns a little as he looks at you. “This is when I normally get up. Later than normal, actually,” he shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. “You got a dark roast this morning?” He asks as he nods his head to the side, gesturing to the big vats of brewing coffee.

You smile at the question, chuckling a little. Of course he’s observant and remembers little details- it’s his literal job. “We do. Large redeye?” You ask, already heading behind the counter and back to the ceramic mugs.

The man tilts his head. “Actually… I think I changed my mind. Can I do another peppermint mocha?” he asks, a shy look on his face.

Looking up at him, you bite your lip at his expression. He’s so goddamn cute, really, even when he’s being ashamed for something stupid. “You don’t have to be shy about it,” you tease and nod. “There’s nothing less manly about you for ordering something sweet. In fact, most of the sweet drinks we make here are ordered by the business guys or Congressmen.”

Javier chuckles and leans forward on the counter on his elbows. “Oh, yeah?”

You nod and laugh at the memory of other customers. “Matthew, he works at the senators’ offices downtown, he’s a regular. He orders a caramel frappe with marshmallow and vanilla. Full shots of both.” As always, you happily chat as you make the recipe you know by heart.

Javier’s brow furrows. You’ve known the man maybe 24 hours, but you’re starting to get a good read on him. You can tell when he’s confused or worried or happy or stressed by the way his eyebrows position themselves. This one is a lighthearted confusion. “What’s a frappe?”

Your eyes glimmer with uncharacteristic excitement for so early in the morning. “Wait. So you’re telling me you’ve never had one?”

He shakes his head, pulling his leather jacket tighter around him. The shop is cold this early in the morning, before the body heat of customers and the steaming espresso machines warm the building. “No. What is it?” He asks again.

“It’s delicious, oh my god,” you grin. “It’s kind of like a coffee milkshake. It’s frozen and creamy, blended with ice and coffee. It’s my favorite in the summer, when hot drinks just feel too much.”

“So it’s light?” He asks, gratefully accepting his ceramic mug when you hand it over. It’s peaked with foamy white cream and pieces of candy canes. Javier thinks it reminds him of you. Soft, warm, sweet and indulgent. Energizing. Not like anything he’s ever had before, but he’s already addicted.

“Not really. Like I said, it’s really creamy. It’s like a milkshake, really. That’s the best way to describe it. Do you want me to make one and you can try some?” You offer as you stir the spare espresso shot with a little cream and sugar in a to-go cup for yourself. The warm sugary scent rises and you smile to yourself.

Javier shakes his head. “Not if it’s a cold drink. It’s too cold outside anyway. And in here. You do have heating in here, right?” He asks dryly as he sips the hot drink. You can see his broad shoulders soften, the tension rising into the air with the steam from his mocha.

You roll your eyes but shrug. “It’ll get hot in here later. I just appreciate that it’s cold now,” you chuckle and chug the espresso shot, tossing the paper cup into the garbage. “What can I get you for breakfast?” You ask as you nod to the pastry case further down the bar.

He shakes his head. “Don’t eat breakfast.”

You frown. “That’s going to have to change. You seem like the type who doesn’t take care of yourself, thinks he’s too good for it,” you tease and fold your arms on the countertop, leaning into it.

Javier scoffs. “I am not too good for breakfast,” he says, amused.

“Then eat.”

The mustached man rolls his eyes. “Fine. Maybe I don’t take very good care of myself, but I don’t need you to take care of me.”

That makes you frown. “Well, that’s too bad, because if you want to kiss me like we did last night, you’re going to have to let me take care of you, Javi.”

Javi. No one ever calls him that. He’s always Agent or Agente Peña, usually just Peña for the sake of convenience. Those who know him better call him Javier, people like Steve or Trujillo. True, he asked you to call him Javi, but the name is like a song from your lips, as soft as calling him baby. He absolutely fucking loves it. Can’t get enough of it.

You begin to babble on about the baker here and his skills, talking about the various treats beneath the glass case. There are muffins and scones, donuts and sweet breads, croissants and various puff-pastry delicacies. Javier is overwhelmed. He normally doesn’t eat many sweets, even though he loves them.

A cinnamon-sugar sprinkled pastry twist calls to him. He asks for one of those and insists that he pay for it, even as you wander away from the cash register to prove he can’t pay.

Javier stands at the bar as you make yourself your own hot drink, chatting as you stir the syrup with the espresso. God, you love that mustache, you think as you smile to yourself and look down. “So. How did the mustache come to be?” You ask him, smiling and tilting your head to the side in question.

Javier raises an eyebrow. “This?” He laughs, smoothing it down with his forefinger and thumb. It brushes out some sprinkles of cinnamon and sugar from his pastry and you bite your lip to hold back a laugh.

You both have to talk a bit louder as you begin steaming the milk for your cappuccino, but it hides your giggle as you say your next words: “Yes, the porn stache.”

“Hey,” he frowns and sips his drink, setting it back down and smiling again. “It was a thing with my father. When I turned 30, he told me I was a real man now, and real men wear mustaches. He always had one, so I said okay. He shaved it for me and taught me the right way to do it and everything. I liked the way it looked, and it stuck, I guess,” he shrugs and chuckles.

“Really? Because that thing looks straight out of 1975, but I don’t think you’re old enough for it to be that old.” You giggle. The mustache is very retro, certainly behind the times and the fashion of ‘93. “You can’t possibly be… what would that make you from ‘75… 45?”

Javier shrugs. “Well, you’re not far off. I’m 40.”

Your brow furrows. You certainly hadn’t expected that. He looks so young, really. 40 wasn’t even a thought in your mind- maybe a stressed-out 30. “Really?” You ask, though you doubt he’d lie and make himself seem older. He should probably know that you’re around the proper age you are, seeing as you’ve told him about just finishing grad school.

He frowns too. “Is that a problem?” He asks hurriedly, standing up straight from his hunched position, where he leaned over the counter to be closer to you.

“No, no,” you shake your head, and his body relaxes. “Of course not,” you smile and put your hand over his. “You just look really young for 40.”

Javier shakes his head, smiling a little at the compliment. He doesn’t get many of those, the ones where people tell him he looks young or he’s cute or any non-sexual compliments in general. “No I don’t. You’re just being cute.”

“No!” You laugh happily. “You saw my face. You’re a special agent of the D-E-A,” you say, drawing out the letters. “Head of the Calí Cartel investigations. You can read me like a damn book, Javi,” you smile at him. “Tell me, do I look like I’m lying?”

Javier shakes his head, the smile growing wider and his cheeks turning a slightly warmer shade. These kind of honest, pure and uncomplicated compliments make him almost embarrassed. “Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, brushing it off.

You’re absolutely beaming by now. “You’re not used to this, are you?” You tease as you scoop the foam from the milk pitcher into your ceramic mug, with chocolate and almond syrup in the bottom already. Mandy’s in the back stocking something, and no one else is in the shop yet. With this privacy, you lean across the counter, and Javier matches your position.

His face is painfully close to yours. You can feel his coffee breath, and you giggle softly. “Hey. Javi.”

“Yeah?” He asks teasingly.

“I like you a lot.”

Javier laughs genuinely, kissing you softly for a moment before breaking away and standing up straight again. “I like you too, abejita,” he says and finishes off his peppermint mocha.

“What does that mean?” You ask him. You’re nearly fluent in Spanish, from having studied it for years, but the word is unfamiliar.

“Little bee,” he chuckles. “You’re fluttering around this coffee shop like you’re on an adrenaline rush and it’s 5:30 in the goddamn morning.”

Little bee. It makes your heart race in your chest like a bee’s wings, a million beats per second. Goddamnit, this Javier knows what he’s doing, you think to yourself. He must be doing this for the sole purpose of stealing your heart; why else would he be this fucking sweet and sexy and flirtatious?

“It’s the caffeine rush,” you shake your head and wave a hand dismissively. You’ve already chugged a few shots of espresso, and your chocolate-almond cappuccino is about halfway gone now. Either way, Javier makes your resting heart rate double just from looking your way.

“Sure,” he teases and raises an eyebrow. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom. Be right back.” He sticks his hands in the pockets of his heavy wool coat as he heads to the restrooms, near the front of the store.

You take his mug back and Mandy wanders out from the back. “Wow. Who’s got you so chatty?” She asks out of genuine curiosity. She didn’t see Javier come in or go to the bathroom.

You’d talked with Mandy while you prepared the store, filling her in on all of the details of last night’s date with Javier. “It’s, uh, Javi, actually,” you laugh softly as you pull more espresso shots to make him another peppermint mocha.

“You’re kidding,” the woman squeals, her curls flipping over her shoulder as she tosses them back. “Why is he here so early?” She asks in confusion, making herself a drink on the machine next to you.

Your foot taps out a quick rhythm against the tile floor beneath you, the energy already flowing through your body. “Beats me. He says he wakes up this early normally. I don’t know if I believe it, but…” you shrug and stir the shots into the peppermint syrup, scooping chocolate chips into a steaming pitcher with milk and putting it under the steaming wand.

“He’s in the DEA, isn’t he?” She asks. “Maybe they start work really early in the morning. I’ve heard they work really long hours.”

“Well, he did say he works a lot,” you nod. “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. He’s here now and he’ll get to see me cry my way through the morning rush,” you say sarcastically.

Mandy nudges your shoulder. “Says the most competent barista who works here,” she scoffs. “You have everyone out the door in under three minutes. That’s no easy feat.”

“Okay,” you roll your eyes and pour the chocolate milk into the syrup and espresso, stirring it with a long, twisted spoon. “I doubt that, but thank you.” You swirl a perfect peak of whipped cream on the top, then sprinkle the candy cane pieces on.

“I think she’s right,” you hear Javier’s voice from the other side of the counter.

“Stalker,” you tease and put his mug in front of him.

“Am not. Just think you’re good at what you do.”

“I made you a refill,” you say, ignoring his compliment. “Oh, Javier, this is Mandy. You might remember her from yesterday. Mandy, this is Javier.”

She nods and shakes the hand that Javier offers. “Nice to meet you- well, again,” she says with a bright smile. “You got the prettiest girl here.”

“Mandy,” you roll your eyes. She just laughs as she makes her way to the back of the store again.

Javier watches her then turns back to you with a smile. “I think she was right on both of those,” he comments with a smile on his face.

“Go sit down, stop flirting with me, and drink your damn coffee, Javi,” you teasingly scold him with a smile, turning away to go wash the steaming pitcher and spoon you used to make his drink.

Another customer walks in the shop. You can tell from the jingle of the bells on the door. With that, Javier finds a table in the lobby and sits at it, reading the daily newspaper and sipping his peppermint mocha. He’s starting to see why you’re so addicted to these. To him, they taste like you. -

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @yooforia @oceanablue @sara-alonso @pedrosmustache @feelingmadclever @hnt-escape @radiowallet @obsessivelysearching @sugarontherims @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @linnie0119 @1800-fight-me @autumnleaves1991-blog @toilet-keeper @evelynseventyr @metalarmsandmanbuns @shannababyy @sambucky21 @princess76179 @starless-eyes-remain

#javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña x you #javi peña #javi peña x reader #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #narcos fanfic #narcos fanfiction #narcos #caffeine rush

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hanawrites404 · 3 years ago

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Journey

@oc-growth-and-development

(trigger warning : smoking, mention of death)

Another day, another restorative morning, as if nothing else can motivate me enough to finally cut my laze and start the new day already.

I got off my bed and my eyes instinctively gazed out the window beside me at the wall. As usual, there wasn't much outside, just the same trees and lawns you would find in any other neighbourhood, yet I never seem to get tired of looking at them over and over every time I wake up. It was like a part of my everyday morning ritual which I definitely shouldn't miss, and honestly, I was fine with it. I was not the type of person to actively look for spices in my life after all, and even if I start to crave for it someday, I just wait for it to come to me.

Otherwise, everything just gotta be restful, that's all I want, to be honest.

The water was pleasantly chill to bathe in, too, and so was the dawn's sea breeze swishing through the balcony as soon as the curtains were tucked out and the windows were pulled open. If anything warm right now, it was the brisk sun and the brimming cup of steaming café au lait thawing my bare arms and fingers as I stepped out to lean onto the grill of my terrace. My feet were bare as well, touching the cool tiles beneath them as I felt the tingling sensation through my nerves.

I was still in my pyjamas, my hair up in a bun and it was still seven. Other than some elder citizens walking outside to get the minty air rushing and stray cats and dogs yawning and stretching, the scene in front of me was almost deserted.

It all felt quiet, but it wasn't prickly. The birds were still tweeting, the bulk of leaves rustled in a shimmer, and I could even hear my sigh as I blew the hot vapour from my cup, my lips slowly savouring the coffee bit by bit. It was very peaceful, I liked it.

But unfortunately, it wasn't real.

"미스......미스.....일어나 미스!"

I jolted up from the unfamiliar voice presumably calling out for me. So it was all a dream? I wasn't enjoying a utopian morning at my balcony back in Miami?? But it all felt so real....from the taste of coffee to the warmth I felt of the drink. So it was all my imagination? Wow huh....looks like the power of my mind is going to be a mystery to me for a while. I never knew that my brain could fool me into believing that I was relaxing at my home, and not dozing off in a Korean tourist bus.

"Ugghmm...Huh?" Still groggy from my sleep, I blinked twice before looking outside the window of the bus. By the look of it, I think we had come to the final stop. Before letting out anything else from my mouth, I silently turned my gaze onto the one who broke my slumber, namely the bus conductor.

He is looking right at me. Come on, say something....!!

"U-Ummm...." I stumbled, my index slowly moving to point at the complex the bus had stopped near at.

"역???" I cringed as I tried to pronounce the exotic word. Fuck. I didn't expect my voice to crack right in front of the bus conductor. And before anyone raises a question, no. I don't know Korean. I just happened to memorize only the important words I might need to communicate during my journey to Korea. But while I was still at home I felt pretty confident in myself, what happened to me now? It wasn't unusual of me, I am a human after all and I get nervous at times too. Yet it was.... surprising.

Hmm...it must be the anxiety of being in an alien country where everything is different from what I am aware of and what I have experienced so far. Different ambience, different language, and different people. Very strange and foreign, to be frank. But fresh and young, like a bite of a ripe green apple.

Nevertheless, the conductor just laughed at me and patted my shoulder very strongly. Ouch but Woah, now I could see why he was hired as the conductor. Strong arms, sharp eyes, along with a charm of his own to make people at ease. Even to a 'lost' newcomer like me.

"Yes yes! 역! Correct! Wanna come out??" With a grin twinkling on his bright face, he stepped away to let me through. I felt more relaxed than before as soon as I heard English from him, and it was pretty fluent too.

A small relieved smile broke on my lips too as I grab hold of my guitar case and my backpack and get up. My legs had gotten a bit numb inside my boots from not moving them much throughout the ride, and my jacket was almost off my shoulders.

"감사합니다" I quickly muttered before adjusting everything on me and stepping out of the bus. I didn't want to stammer again and, even if I wasn't in a hurry, I still wanted to make sure I reach where I was called to at an early hand.

"Have a safe journey!" The conductor waved at me, and I gladly turned around to return the gesture before entering the lobby. After I had made it inside, I left my belongings at a convenient place and went to the bathroom to fix my face and clothes.

I had been travelling for almost twenty hours; An eighteen-hour flight and a two-hour bus. It was back-to-back, and hardly I had the time to refresh myself properly and smoke a bit, but now was my chance to do so before I carry on to reach my destination.

With the help of the large mirror on the wall, I first removed my contact lenses and then washed my face and combed my hair. It had grown pretty long. But I wasn't planning on cutting them any sooner. I also dusted my jacket and jeans off and straightened my t-shirt inside.

After I was sure everything had been set, I put my lenses back on and vaguely looked around the room, and finding no one except me, I quickly stand near the ventilator above me and light my cigarette. What I was doing right now poses a threat to my health and is illegal, but this was a guilty pleasure of mine. I admit it shamelessly because why not. I have nothing to lose. We all are gonna die one day, so it's better we make the most of our lives and I was just doing that. Nothing more, nothing less.

Just because I said I don't seek adventure vigorously, does not mean I don't have any thrill in my life at all. I do have it. Everyone has it. You just gotta make it interesting in your way, and that's how you gotta roll, champ.

Anyways, after a couple of puffs, I got disposed of the cigar and shooed off the smoke around me. It was only after everything seemed clear that I washed my life hands and dried them, then left the restroom and grabbed my luggage back before I started to stride again, to the reception counter.

After all the formalities were taken care of, I finally breathed the outside air of Korean afternoon. The sun was luminous and overhead, but the heat wasn't as severe as back in Miami. The number of clouds here are much more than there, or was it just for this particular day? I had no idea.

I am not a tourist here. I came here for a business trip, you can say. A man from here, a freelancing musical artist, had personally requested and invited me for a musical collaboration. The deal itself sounded quite intriguing, also with the fact that I'm half-Korean thanks to my father's lineage, yet ironically I have neither ever seen Korea with my own eyes nor I have witnessed its culture. Until today, that is.

So here I am now, strolling in the middle of the bustling city surrounded by college students touring around, laughing and talking with their classmates and munching on unique dishes and snacks I had never seen before. And while I was busy observing them, someone bumped into me, breaking my contact.

"Oh! 실례합니다!" It was a young blond guy, wearing a light blue hoodie with a couple of smiley badges pinned to his chest. He quickly bowed after apologizing and for briefly taking a glance at my face, hastily trots in the opposite direction. I eyed him, judging by his clothes and the books he was carrying in his arms, he looked like a college student. Hmm...no wonder why he was in a hurry. He must be late to class or something.

But anyway, I continued walking. That musical man had told me to wait near the back alley of a coffee shop that was close to the station. Hmm, that would be easy to locate. The coffee shop was right in front of me! Hah, how easy.

And so, without wasting any time, I ambled towards the cafè. It was a cute little shop, in my opinion. The smell of roasted coffee beans and bubbling creamy milk was evident in the atmosphere, and the colour scheme of the shop had pallettes of vanilla and caramel. It was like I had entered not a shop but inside a nestling coffee cup! Pretty cool, especially for someone who loves coffee like me.

Also, a bunch of customers were inside too. This place was not lonely at all. Some couples were on a date, singles who just want peace of mind with a complimentary cup of coffee, and business workers too! To be honest, I liked one of the employee's suits too. It was of a short brunette woman with glasses. She was kind of cute too. And by how she was still typing away rapidly on her phone even while on her break, tells how much of a busy woman she must be. Damn, God forbid that I ever be this much busy in my career.

Working even at breaks. Scary, in my opinion.

Needless to say, that wasn't why I was here for. The city was new to me so naturally, I would be curious, but business comes first in such a case. And in this case, it's my case. So bringing myself back to schedule, I leave to the back alley, waiting for that man so we could finally meet after talking through emails and phone calls.

But......what was that man's name again?

Ah....Zen.....

Hmm, weird name. But as someone who prefers to be called CJ than Catherine Joseph, I am no one to say so. Or even judge so.

Zen......I wonder what kind of person he would be in flesh. Same friendly and confident as the impression of him in my mind? Or just some different personality I never saw coming? Well, only time will tell that. But right now, we wait.

#catjose #mystic messenger oc #mystic messenger cmc #mystic messenger mc #mysme cmc #mysme oc #mysme mc #mysme #mystic messenger #cmc #oc-tober

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starkerforlife6969 · 5 years ago

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Single Dad Baker Peter x Lawyer Tony

There was a misconception about divorce lawyers when Tony was at law school.

His classmates at Harvard sneered at him whenever he took it as an elect, semester after semester. They thought that the money was in corporate, that the prestige was in finance, that the fame was in criminal.

Family law, they sniffed, was for silly little things.

Tony hadn’t given them any credit then, and he doesn’t give them any credit now.

Ask anyone. He’s the most renowned divorce lawyer in the country. He’s one of the wealthiest men in the state. He’s on more retainers than plastic on teenager’s teeth. Rich heiresses and paranoid old men, wealthy immigrants and not-so-idealistic trust-fund students know better than to enter into the law-binding contract that is marriage without Tony Stark ready and waiting in the wings to come and save them some day from utter devastation.

Sure, Tony doesn’t believe in love, how can he? With everything he’s seen? But he does believe in loss. He’s seen wholesome people lose their homes, seen kids torn apart by separation, seen ruthless, vindictive jerks - men and women- tear their partner to shreds for reign over the holiday home. For custody. For triumph.

Tony wears his tailored suits, and lives in his penthouse apartment looking over the city, he drinks expensive coffee and he sleeps on a thousand-thread cotton sheets, but he knows that the only thing a partner is good for, is one night.

Repeats? No thank you. But here’s his card. One day, when you make the mistake of falling in love (a temporary state) and divorce arrives (inevitable. Horrible) he’ll show up on his steed (a Bentley) and his sword and shield (a fountain pen and a stack of papers) and he’ll win.

Oh he’s saved tech-tycoons 50% of their business. They’ve repaid him with a few percent here and there, stakes and shares in stocks and bonds, and he has more money than he knows what to do with.

You’d have to be out of your mind to think he’d ever kiss someone on the lips and put a diamond on their finger, just to see them take half of it away in a few meagre years.

No thank you.

* Tony comes back to New York after a month long holiday in India (what do you mean he networked and picked up a few new clients? Royalty looks ever so good on the old resumé, not that he’s needed one to get a job for a long, long time), there’s a new bakery around the corner from his penthouse.

He squints at it, trying to decide whether or not he’ll venture in tomorrow morning.

It’s called The Parker Place. It’s painted a sweet lavender, and there’s a chalkboard sign outside that says: We serve hot drinks too! with a smiley face and a heart. It’s nice and neat and-

“That’s been there for the better part of a year, dipshit. Nice tan.”

Oh. Maybe he should spend a little more time exploring his city. Tony turns with a smile. “Nat. You’re looking well.”

She is, but then again, she always does. Her hair’s pinned up today, and her pencil skirt and blazer are some sort of silky material that he wants to reach out and touch. But her stilettos are weapons, and he still has a bruise on his calf from when tried something. “I’m sure.” She rolls her eyes, “taking on your workload for a month didn’t have any impact on me at all. Not like I have my own case load.”

He hums around his smile, and nods at the bakery. “Any good? They serve coffee?”

“Pretty good,” she says noncommittally. “Though, I rate according to convenience and this is a little out of my way…”

“Why are you here? Not that I don’t appreciate the welcome party.”

She doesn’t give anything away- she has a brilliant poker face, like everyone in this game- but he’s known her for too long now. Over pizza and late nights studying for finals and Mock Trials with hang overs- “Rumlow called. Wants to hire you.”

Tony blinks in surprise. “I’m Kate’s retainer, she hired me years ago.”

“Rumlow’s offering triple. Fury wants you to switch.”

Tony scoffs at that. “I’m Kate’s. Besides, I can’t drop her without-“

“Fury can get you cause, Tony. Kate’s been taking Class B-“

“She has to,” Tony snaps, “married to that thing. Fury’s not my boss, Nat.”

The red-head looks bemused. “Technically-“

“I’m not dropping Kate. I want to put Rumlow in the ground. it’s about time they get divorced, he’s a fuckin’-“

“I know.” Nat cuts him off, softer. She shakes her head a little. “You’re a real softie, you know that?”

He bristles a little in offence. “I’m a shark.”

“Every other time you follow the money, but when you see a good person you go all warm-hearted and soft.”

Tony flips her the bird and heads into the lobby. He can feel the weight of her stare on the back of his neck and decides to be especially vicious when it comes to destroying Rumlow. He wants blood. He’s a shark, not a softie.

The sight that greets him when he steps into The Parker Place on Monday morning is so fucking cute he nearly melts on the spot.

And then he catches himself, and he scowls and puts on his air of casual, charming, charismatic. His default setting.

Besides, it’s not that cute. It’s just a very handsome man with fucking fluffy Disney curls and big eyes at the counter, covered in flour, with a young girl- just as covered- with the same brown hair and adorable laugh, and they’re mixing a bowl of what smells like heaven.

It’s not cute. Not even when the man reaches over to smear chocolate on the little girl’s nose and she tries in vain to lick it off.

Not cute at all.

Instead, he busies himself with looking around the place. It’s nice. Airy and inviting. There are shelves of cupcake decorations and cake stands on one side, freshly made loaves of bread on the other. Behind fancy glass cases are doughnuts bursting with cream and an assortment of toffee pastries.

It smells phenomenal. There are sheets of freshly rolled dough on baking sheets ready to be slotted into the many ovens behind the counter. For now, though, the ovens billow out the delicious scent of vanilla and sugar.

There’s muffins, croissants and cake all lit up in display perches, chocolate sprinkles, vanilla sponges and sugar dusted cream-filled puffs. The small, silver bell above the door gives way to the sound and scent of happiness, sugar, and home-spun food.

Tony doesn’t even know where to look.

He’s the only person in the shop this early, and he glances up at the chalkboard propped against the wall and reads the drinks options in handwritten cursive.

Caley Coffee! Tina Tea! Hannah Hot chocolate!

Tony’s not so sure those are brands.

“Oh! God! I’m so sorry!” Comes an effusive voice, and Tony is suddenly wondering whether it’s the little girl responsible for all those exclamation marks.

Still, he can’t help but smile through his shark facade when the beautiful young man wipes his hands against the front of his blue apron and hops up behind the counter. Is he here all alone? No way he’s able to manage this workload. “It’s fine,” he nods, feeling a little off his game. He wants to be suave. Wants to wink and do a little flirting, because this gorgeous slip of a thing would be divine for a night-

But the man’s daughter is still avidly mixing the huge purple bowl dotted with flowers, and Tony doesn’t feel right flirting in front of a kid. Not to mention, the man’s probably taken. There’s no wedding ring, but the man’s covered in four. He probably removed it.

Not that marriage is a huge obstacle, anyway. They always crumble.

But Tony’s not about to violate one. “I’ll have a-uh- a Caley Coffee.” He says as he steps up to the counter.

His breath catches for a second. The man, up close, is even more attractive than Tony first realised. He’s not attractive, he’s beautiful. It’s a sort of beauty Tony’s never seen before, outside of twilight era, Hollywood movies. Fading starlets, a type of beauty he thought might have died out a long time ago, along with the black-and-white pictures his mom used to watch.

His eyes are honey, and his lips: strawberry. There’s a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, and his skin is like smooth cream.

He’s positively edible.

“Oh yeah,” the man blushes- fuck. That blush. Tony watches it hungrily. “Sorry about that, Hannah names all the drinks because she says everyone deserves a name.”

Tony can’t help but crack a smile. “Sounds like a smart girl.”

Hannah looks up from her bowl and beams. “I am a smart girl!”

“You’re just smart,” the man chuckles, effortlessly making the coffee without even having to look as he adds milk and sugar and creamer- all things Tony hasn’t asked for, but he’s not about to stop the man now. “Girl or not, you know that, baby.”

“Yeah, I know,” she nods, “I’m smart!”

Tony could watch them all day.

“So, are you new around here?” The man asks, handing Tony his coffee and ringing it up. It’s cheaper than Tony thought, so he pulls out a few extra bills to put into the tip jar.

Tania the tip jar, according to the label.

“No, no, I’ve been away. I live just around the corner.”

“Must do something fancy,” the man teases, taking the money. “Suit like that.”

Tony tries not to preen. “Lawyer.”

“Oh god, Hannah-Montana,” the man whispers, aghast, and the brunette’s head snaps up immediately, already giggling at her father’s antics. “An actual shark has walked in here and you didn’t warn me!”

“A shark!” She squeals, looking at Tony with enormous honey eyes, “you’re a lawyer! Lawyers are sharks in snappy suits, and they snap snap snap and give law suits!”

Tony’s cheeks ache a little, from how hard he’s smiling.

“You’d be amazed at the sorts of things they have in story books now,” the man teases apologetically. “I hope you have a good day, Sir!”

He can’t help it. It slips out. “Tony.”

The man goes that lovely pink again and nods shyly. “Peter Parker.”

* There are a few reasons Tony can’t get The Parker Place out of his head.

For one, that coffee was goddamn fantastic. Sweet and high quality roast, an exotic, but homey flavour- he’s craving more.

Second, Peter Parker.

Maybe even Hannah, a little.

He never thought being a shark could make a kid laugh, but hey…he hadn’t hated it.

It’s only the first in a series of blows today, but Rumlow buckles like a baby calf. Kate stares at Tony; tears of hope and gratitude in her eyes, and Tony ignores Natasha’s knowing look from the back of the court room, and wraps the woman up in a hug.

Divorce cases rarely see the inside of a courtroom when Tony’s working them. It’s normally huge meeting rooms in sleek offices, with glass tables and leather seats and gorgeous views.

It’s elegant, and sometimes there are vases full of honeysuckle on the table and it doesn’t look like a place where people sign their love away.

Tony knows better, of course.

* When he goes into The Parker Place on Tuesday morning, it’s to get some coffee. Definitely not to try and find out whether or not Peter’s attached.

When he steps inside, however, Peter and Hannah aren’t there. Instead is a friendly looking guy in a Hawaiian shirt with a huge grin. “How can I help you today, Sir?” He beams, and Tony wonders whether this bakery has some sort of magic power. Everyone here is obscenely happy.

There are a few other customers milling about, considering the different cakes in the case, and he orders his coffee, trying not to feel the sense of longing that permeates deep into his core.

The coffee’s still excellent though.

* Stane isn’t a great lawyer, but he gets under Tony’s skin. Rumlow did a smart thing hiring him.

As he heads home on Tuesday evening, a light drizzle hanging over New York, he’s surprised to see the lights in The Parker Place shining brightly; a radiant gold in the otherwise murky, lightless street.

He’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Inside, everything’s spick and span. The counters gleaming and wiped down, and Tony can see Peter fiddling with something on a baking tray.

Tony opens the door. The bell dings, and Peter looks up.

“Tony,” Peter sighs happily, “I hoped we’d make a repeat customer out of you! But it’s always hard to tell, you know? There are so many places just like this in New York.”

“Your coffee was amazing.” Tony manages, and it’s not as subtle as he’d have liked, but it makes Peter blush again.

“Thank you, please- um- sit, I’ll be with you in a second, I’m just trying to finish these scones before tomorrow.”

Tony sits on the pale blue wooden chair and feels all the stress of the day leave him. He watches as Peter squirts gooey filling into each puffed shell; watching as they fatten up happily, and he tries for the love of god, not to get an erection. He clears his throat, “so where’s Hannah?”

“In bed, thank goodness,” Peter laughs, and Tony takes him in- there’s a few dark circles under his eyes, his hair’s a little frizzy and his sleeves are starting to come down. It’s the end of a long day. He gestures to the ceiling, “and I’ll be able to hear if she gets out of bed. Thin floors.”

Tony glances up in surprise. “I didn’t realise you lived- above.”

“It’s a nice little apartment,” Peter nods, dusting the scones with flour or sugar. “It was a big risk moving here- I had to sell the house, but…” he nods, a content smile on his face. “It was the right thing to do. We’re- we’re doing okay.”

Tony wants so much he aches. “Hannah’s mom…”

“Oh no, it’s-“ Peter huffs out a small, sad laugh, “it’s complicated.”

Tony wants to brush the sadness away. Wants to feel Peter’s cheek under his palm. “I’m a smart guy,” he offers.

“Well my- my parents died when I was really young, I don’t even- remember them, but my Aunt took me in. She raised me, and then a few years ago, she…she fell in love. They had Hannah, but-“ Peter turns, sliding the tray into the fridge and hiding his face. “They passed away, and- now Hannah’s mine.”

The sense of loss hangs heavy in the air, and when Peter turns around- he’s smiling again, like everything’s okay.

“We’re happy,” Peter whispers, “it was- hard, but we’re…” he gestures to the shop and the pastries and the smiley faces drawn on the chalkboard. “She’s my little girl, and we’re gonna be okay.”

Screw one night, Tony thinks, speechless. What about the rest of our lives?

* “Well what are you doing, little miss?” Tony grins, sitting opposite Hannah as she scrunches her face up over homework.

She looks up at him, eager for the distraction. “Daddy said if I finished all my homework, I could have a peanut butter cupcake.” She pouts, looking down at her work. “But this is hard. Mr Lo made it look easy, but it’s not.”

Tony clucks sympathetically, before looking over her little work sheet. He shakes his head fondly. “You are damn smart, sweetheart. Every single one you’ve answered is right.”

She perks up at that, looking down at her work with surprise and renewed enthusiasm. “Really?”

“Ya huh.”

She races through the last few, and bar one silly mistake, finishes it all. She scampers off into the kitchen, and returns triumphant, with a peanut butter cupcake in one hand, and a mini pancake in the other.

Tony takes the pancake eagerly and they both chew in contented silence for a moments. “You always such a nerd?” He asks conversationally, and she giggles.

“Daddy says we’re equals pequels.”

Tony hums thoughtfully around his delicious mouthful. “How’s that?”

Hannah licks all the icing off her cupcake. “It means- if I don’t do homework, daddy can put me on the naughty step. And if daddy says a bad word, I can put him on the naughty step. We’re a demo-cacy. And and, if daddy knows more, I should listen to him as much as I can, like with boring stuff like-“ she looks a little sulky, “playing with fire, but if I know more- daddy tries to listen to me! Like, on how pirates speak, or or what flavours taste best in a cheesecake!”

Tony chuckles. “That’s quite a modern take on parenting. I approve.”

He looks up when the last rush of customers leaves, and finally Peter’s free. He’s covered in edible glitter and a light sheen of sweat, and there are a few diced rose petals still on his fingertips as he comes over and ruffles Hannah’s hair. “Hannah-Banana, eating that peanut butter cupcake, I can only assume…?”

“All finished, daddy-doughnut!” She chirps, and Peter kisses her with sticky lips.

Then he looks at Tony, a little shyer, a little braver. “I’m closing up soon, Tony, maybe…you could come up? For tea? And danishes?”

* “I’ve put on at least five pounds since meeting you.” Tony grumbles, squinting at himself in the mirror, even as he takes a huge bite of one of Peter’s raspberry cream danishes. The flavour bursts across his tongue, and Peter laughs, coming around with a tray of tea.

“You’re as dashing as ever, Tony, and I think you know it.” He teases, as the two of them sit down.

Tony watches Peter take a long, deep sip, the smell of jasmine tea in the air, and he wants.

“I don’t…” Tony croaks, when Peter meets his eyes, and everything is there; exposed, between them. “Love is…”

“Very real,” Peter promises, gesturing to Hannah’s bedroom.

Tony sighs. “That’s a different kind of love, Peter. That loves never goes away. Romantic love…it fades. Always.”

“Okay,” Peter murmurs, his honey eyes sad, “I wouldn’t know anyway, right? I’ve never had it.”

“Me neither,” Tony whispers.

On a sunny Saturday morning, Tony pinches his nose and looks through the annulment contract, Peter’s slicing peaches, and Hannah’s playing with a complex looking forest set.

“Have some eclairs, Tony,” Peter urges sweetly, setting down a heaped tray. “You worry too much, you’ll win like you do every other time.”

“I don’t know,” Tony sighs, reaching for the chocolate coated deliciousness. “Both of them are vicious- they’re tearing each other apart.”

Peter brings over another plate- this time, topped with gooey, chocolate chip cookies. Hannah comes racing over to grab three. “I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be solved with a bit of sugar and some maple syrup.”

Tony feels reluctantly fond. “Peter, property division is a little more refined than that.”

But of course, as he chews, he wonders.

* Susan and David pause when they walk into the meeting room in the sleek office building among the New York sky rises.

Tony grins winningly. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says as he beckons them in, “it was a colleague’s birthday and there were left over cookies.”

“It’s not- a problem.” Susan chokes, as the two of them enter the room. She sits down stiffly, eyes on the heaped stack. The room smells of melted chocolate. “We actually-“ she gestures to David awkwardly, “we met in a cooking class.”

David nods, looking anywhere but Susan. “First week was desserts.”

Susan stares at her nails. “I burnt mine so badly, but David, he…”

“Swapped ‘em. She was so worried the teacher wouldn’t like her, like we were kids.” His laugh is wet.

The two people in this room are human. The ones who were in here last week, fighting for custody over the house and the dog and the garden shed tools- those were animals. Tony gestures for them to sit, and as soon as they do, David bursts into tears.

“Have the fucking house,” he whispers, so quiet Tony almost doesn’t hear it.

Susan wipes her black, mascara-coloured tears. “He’s your dog.”

“Daddy told you,” Hannah laughs, decorating her cupcake with blueberries. Tony hoists her into his arms and tickles her till she cries mercy.

Peter comes out of the kitchen, covered in custard and bread crumbs, and Tony crosses the bakery floor-

And kisses him.

* Peter’s skin tastes like sugar- it never fades, but Tony’s always had a bit of a sweet tooth.

They fit together, slot in a way Tony never expected.

He loves Hannah fiercely, is overwhelmingly protective, and understands his work a little better now. Love is strong, but it’s balanced on life and circumstance, which is weak and flimsy. Sometimes love falls and cracks.

“I love you,” Tony whispers, as he and Peter snuggle in bed. They’re in Tony’s apartment- they’ve just christened his kitchen- baking wise, and Hannah is fast asleep in one of the guest rooms.

Tony’s childproofed the shit out of this place. He can feel Peter’s smile curve along his shoulder, “love you too,” he says, muffled.

But Tony means it more than that.

So, the next day he comes in, and hands Peter the annulment.

Peter looks down at his hands- covered in clumps of dough- “as romantic as legal documents are, handsome, I’m-“

“I’ve signed it already.” Tony breathes, “if we ever divorced- you’d get half my money- I’d be entitled to nothing. I wouldn’t take anything from you. It’s all yours.”

Peter blinks. “Tony, we haven’t even-“

“We will,” Tony blurts, feeling unhinged and desperate, “I’ll end up baking you some disgusting cupcake, but you’ll eat it because you’re too lovely to decline, and then you’ll find the ring I put into it, and we’ll get married and then life will fuck us, Petey, and then we’ll divorce and-“

“Oh Tony, Tony,” Peter cries, rushing around the counter to gather the older man into his arms. He gets raw dough all over Tony, but Tony doesn’t care. Just leans into Peter’s embrace as the younger man peppers his face with kisses. “You’re such a romantic skeptic, I can’t deal with you. I love you, and I will love that proposal, you glorious man.”

Tony gazes down at him, tears in his eyes, “but what happens when-“

“When life tries to fuck us?” Peter whispers, twining their fingers together, and he smiles. “We’ll fuck it right back. I promise.”

From anyone else, Tony wouldn’t believe it.

Right here, he does.

* “Bet you never thought you’d see the day, huh?” Tony mutters, adjusting his bowtie.

Hannah’s in a frilly white dress, tossing rose petals into the air.

“Actually,” Nat grins, fixing his bowtie for him, “I saw it coming a mile away.”

* He loses his fear somewhere along the way.

Between school runs and tantrums, between the highs and lows of Peter’s business as customers come and go. He loses his fear somewhere along their cotton anniversary. Somewhere around Peter burning casserole for his special birthday surprise dinner and the fantastic make up sex on Egyptian threads.

He loses his fear even when faced with the never-ending line of couples wanting to hire him. For the gold diggers and the sunset clauses and the genuine destructions of love.

He loses his fear because he comes home every night to Peter. To Hannah.

Peter crawls onto his lap in the middle of Aladdin and stretches out against him like a cat. “Let’s go on holiday,” he says around a yawn, “I always wanted to go to France.”

“I’ve gone a few times,” Tony hums, carding his fingers through Peter’s hair, “I’ll take us. You like the sound of that, Hannah?”

She gives him a thumbs up, eyes on the movie.

He’s gonna see her grow up, Tony realises. He’s going to drive her to college with Peter, sit at her High School graduation and cheer embarrassingly loudly.

He’s going to go grey and Peter will find him even sexier than he already does. Peter’s going to get better and better and better at baking.

Tony’s going to spend the rest of his life this happy. This in love.

The truth hits him, and the fear leaves. It evaporates.

He’s home.

“You love me,” he breathes, alight with certainty, and Peter snorts.

“Only a lot.”

“I will never divorce you.” He vows, speaking of a future certainty that he always warns his clients against. Breaking every rule he’s ever known. He was trembling at their wedding- even though he loved Peter with everything, he was still so scared of the transience of their love-

Now he knows.

“Good, good,” Peter says around another yawn, “I’ll never divorce you either. You’re my Tony.”

His Tony.

It’s all he ever wants to be.

Hannah notices the cuddling and leaps onto the couch with them, and Tony holds them close and is content.

#starker #fluff #peter x tony #lawyer tony #baker peter #single dad peter #getting together #flirting #tony stark is bad at feelings #precious peter parker #tony stark has a heart #protective tony #nicknames #lots of warm cookies and feelings #divorce lawyer tony #happy ending

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24hour-blues · 4 years ago

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all the ones you haven't answered yet? i'm sorry you're sad💙

thank you, that's very sweet. i hope you're doing alright 💛

1. when you have cereal, do you have more milk than cereal or more cereal than milk? - more milk. i always end up putting too much.

2. do you like the feeling of cold air on your cheeks on a wintery day? - yes

3. what random objects do you use to bookmark your books? - library receipts, post-its, junk mail, pencils

5. are you self-conscious of your smile? - i think it’s one of the few things i’m not self-conscious about, actually. i like my smile.

8. what artistic medium do you use to express your feelings? - writing, often poetry but sometimes prose. i like creating playlists, too, and singing.

9. do you like singing/humming to yourself? - yeah, i sing to myself all the time. whatever song i have stuck in my head at the moment.

10. do you sleep on your back, side, or stomach? - side, but very occasionally my stomach.

12. what’s your favorite planet? - jupiter

14. if you were to live with your best friend in an old flat in a big city, what would it look like? - lots of pillows and blankets of all types. succulents and cacti on the windowsills. wooden utensils and dark cabinets in the kitchen. a breakfast bar with stools that don’t match. rugs with funky patterns. a big, soft couch in a bright color that you can sink into. a small balcony with fold-out chairs. rows of mugs and barely any plates. the bathroom crowded with makeup and skin products, writing on the mirror in blue marker. beds never made. a guitar in the corner of the sitting room.

15. go google a weird space fact and tell us what it is! - there are more trees on earth than stars in the milky way

16. what’s your favorite pasta dish? - angel hair pasta with puttanesca sauce

18. tell us about something dumb/funny you did that has since gone down in history between you and your friends and is always brought up. - i can’t think of anything...

19. do you keep a journal? what do you write/draw/ in it? - everything. sometimes it’s big things, sometimes small. my fears and what i’m in love with. regrets. shame. hope.

20. what’s your favorite eye color? - grey

21. talk about your favorite bag, the one that’s been to hell and back with you and that you love to pieces. - idk if it’s really my favorite, but my current backpack took me all through college and it’s good for storing stuff or using as an overnight bag. it’s from timberland and is a nice earthy brown with a flap over the top. lots of pockets.

22. are you a morning person? - i can be

23. what’s your favorite thing to do on lazy days where you have 0 obligations? - make breakfast and tea. read or watch a movie that makes me rethink everything

25. what’s the weirdest place you’ve ever broken into? - a school, i think?

26. what are the shoes you’ve had for forever and wear with every single outfit? - i haven’t had them forever, but i wear my doc martens with everything. i used to wear plain white keds with everything.

27. what’s your favorite bubblegum flavor? - winter green

28. sunrise or sunset? - sunrise

30. think of it: have you ever been truly scared? - yes

31. what is your opinion of socks? do you like wearing weird socks? do you sleep with socks? do you confine yourself to white sock hell? really, just talk about socks. - i like soft, fluffy socks and ones with fun patterns. i love hiking socks. i don’t wear them to sleep tho.

32. tell us a story of something that happened to you after 3AM when you were with friends. - i went to a waffle house at 5am with a friend and some friends of hers i’d just met on her birthday. we were all really drunk, the food took forever, and it tasted awful, but we were happy and laughing.

33. what’s your fave pastry? - probably a cinnamon roll

35. do you like stationary and pretty pens and so on? do you use them often? - i like a good calligraphy pen and new notebooks. i don’t use them often; i feel like i don’t have anything important enough to write.

37. do you like keeping your room messy or clean? - it’s usually clean unless i’m not feeling well. sometimes i get disorganized.

38. tell us about your pet peeves! - overlapping conversations. people interrupting others. loud mouth noises, like chewing or licking. people criticizing my driving. nitpicky comments on my clothes or how i look. being talked about.

39. what color do you wear the most? - black, probably.

41. what’s the last book you remember really, really loving? - how it feels to float by helena fox

42. do you have a favorite coffee shop? describe it! - nope

43. who was the last person you gazed at the stars with? - i’m not sure

44. when was the last time you remember feeling completely serene and at peace with everything? - i can’t remember

45. do you trust your instincts a lot? - not really

46. tell us the worst pun you can think of. - i can’t remember it but something about pigeons and being coo-l

47. what food do you think should be banned from the universe? - bacon. i just wanna make people angry.

48. what was your biggest fear as a kid? is it the same today? - my dad told me a story once, about when i was a kid. he said that he and i were walking together near the lake in the neighborhood across from mine. i was holding his hand, and i said to him that this was the happiest time in my life because i wouldn't be the same when i grew out of being a child. i think i have the same fear now--that i'll never be that happy again.

49 do you like buying CDs and records? what was the last one you bought?

- i like records but i only have one. it's an album by ccr. i really like them

50. what’s an odd thing you collect?

- beer bottle caps

52. what are your favorite memes of the year so far?

- maybe those "girl..." text posts that just say stupid shit

53. have you ever watched the rocky horror picture show? heathers? beetlejuice? pulp fiction? what do you think of them?

- watched them all but pulp fiction. i don't really remember heathers at all

55. what’s the most dramatic thing you’ve ever done to prove a point?

- lets not talk about that

57. go listen to bohemian rhapsody. how did it make you feel? did you dramatically reenact the lyrics?

- not in the mood sorry

58. who’s the wine mom and who’s the vodka aunt in your group of friends? why? - bri is wine mom. quincy and i are vodka aunt.

60. do you like poetry? what are some of your faves?

- yes but i rarely remember favorites. i read so much and feel it then forget all the words

61. what’s the stupidest gift you’ve ever given? the stupidest one you’ve ever received?

- someone gave me a rock once. i get too nervous to give stupid gifts

62. do you drink juice in the morning? which kind?

- orange or cranberry

63. are you fussy about your books and music? do you keep them meticulously organized or kinda leave them be?

- i'm more fussy about music than books, but i do like my books organized. i like them worn in and well-read tho, not in perfect shape.

64. what color is the sky where you are right now?

- a fuzzy, light blue-grey. it's snowing

65. is there anyone you haven’t seen in a long time who you’d love to hang out with?

- a few

66. what would your ideal flower crown look like?

- lots of green leaves in all different shapes and sizes. tiny white and blue flowers.

67. how do gloomy days where the sky is dark and the world is misty make you feel?

- isolated and insignificant. safe

68. what’s winter like where you live?

- cold, grey, snowy.

69. what are your favorite board games?

- idk if i really too many board games. maybe cranium. i like puzzles more

71. what’s your favorite kind of tea?

- honey vanilla chamomile

72. are you a person who needs to note everything down or else you’ll forget it?

- yea and even then i forget.

73. what are some of your worst habits?

- i give up too easily

74. describe a good friend of yours without using their name or gendered pronouns.

- excitable. emotional. so very smart. creative as all hell. self-conscious where they shouldn't be. never runs out of words in the best way. loves to share.

75. tell us about your pets!

- my dog shiver is turning into a little old man, but he still acts like a puppy. he likes attention and whines to communicate. he'll greet you at the door and put his front paws on your thighs to say hi. follows you all around the house. loves to cuddle.

- my pigeon spirit is young and vocal. she coos for attention. when i go to sleep, she grunts every time i move to ask where i am and if i'm okay. i take showers with her and sit on the tile; she puffs up right into my side and sticks her wings out for me to splash water on her. she likes to be close to me to get neck scritches and push her head into my neck and preen every bit of me she can.

76. is there anything you should be doing right now but aren’t?

- a lot probably

77. pink or yellow lemonade?

- limeade

78. are you in the minion hateclub or fanclub?

- i dunno they're cute

80. what color are your bedroom walls? did you choose that color? if so, why?

- it's white wallpaper with pink roses along the top and ribbons of pink and green striped vertically. my mom chose it before i was born.

81. describe one of your friend’s eyes using the most abstract imagery you can think of.

- they sort of remind me of dark water where everything is reflected back in it--not just the sky but the trees and people walking--and they make you want to look closer because you know there's something in there, it's not just a reflection, like flat glass. but it's hidden until you dio your hand in the pictures broken.

82. are/were you good in school?

- pretty good

83. what’s some of your favorite album art?

- i don't look at albums

85. do you read comics? what are your faves?

- not really, but watchmen is one of my favorites.

86. do you like concept albums? which ones?

- dunno

88. are there any artistic movements you particularly enjoy?

- um. idrk. i like whatever monet was doing.

91. where do you plan on traveling this year?

- maybe michigan

92. are you a person who drowns their pasta in cheese or a person who barely sprinkles a pinch?

- i like cheese

93. what’s the hairstyle you wear the most?

- i just kind of. let it do whatever.

94. who was the last person you know to have a birthday?

- my uncle

95. what are your plans for this weekend?

- honestly have no clue

96. do you install your computer updates really quickly or do you procrastinate on them a lot?

- put them off until windows tells me it's restarting the computer in five minutes

97: myer briggs type, zodiac sign, and hogwarts house?

- mb

98. when’s the last time you went hiking? did you enjoy it?

- in college with jacob, although i wouldn't really call it joking. we just walked through a state park. it was beautiful.

100. if you were presented with two buttons, one that allows you to go 5 years into the past, the other 5 years into the future, which one would you press? why?

- idk. i feel like i'd make the same mistakes if i went back, but the future scares me.

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tsauergrass · 5 years ago

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Light as a Feather (and it went just like this)

I am late, I am soooo late...but in honor of Draco’s birthday here is some fluff, because boy deserves some fluff 💗 Thank you @rockmarina for the last little tweak! Title taken from 2002 by Anne-Marie, a great song for summer

TW: Light banter about taking advantages towards the end, Implied eating disorder

Harry Birthday Draco 🎂

***

It’s already late into the night when Harry feels a gentle, dull hit on his shoulders. The lights in the living room are still on, the windows ajar; the midnight breeze, warm with the scent of jasmine, wafts into the room. For a fleeting second Harry is reminded of his mother. The left-over lasagna sits on the kitchen counter, lukewarm.

Draco has fallen asleep.

Harry’s breath hitches. Draco’s hair tickles his chin. This close, he can count every soft strand of platinum, can see where it’s ruffled, can smell—dear Merlin—Draco’s shampoo. Peaches and Vanilla Milk with Orange Blossoms. Pretentious git, Harry’s seen the bottle in the shower, but now, now all he can think of is the milky scent of peaches and orange blossoms, sweet and overwhelming.

Oh dear Merlin.

It’s alright. It’s nothing, friends fall asleep platonically on each other’s shoulders all the time. Not to mention they’re more than friends—they’re flat mates. He just needs to breathe very, very slowly so his shoulders don’t heave. Can’t wake Draco up or else the git will lock him out of his own flat. Try not to buckle his bones. Try not to feel them moving in his body like mismatched blocks protruding. Try to stop his fingers from trembling and dropping the book and BAMM and wake Draco up—

Draco sighs softly and snuggles closer.

Harry stifles a yelp. Draco’s head fits into the crook of his neck seamlessly, and something soft wells in Harry’s chest. He holds it back the way he’s held it back for the past three months and, carefully, smuggles his arms underneath Draco’s body. A gentle lift, and Draco is in Harry’s arms.

Oh. Oh no. Bad idea, really bad idea. Harry’s face heats. Draco’s face buried into his chest, where his heart beats so obnoxiously he can feel it against his rib cage like a wild animal; Draco’s body, warm and lithe and surprisingly light, pressed close against his. Harry frowns at the lasagna on the kitchen counter. He’ll need to make sure Draco eats, again.

Draco snuggles. Harry’s breath stops.

He quickly adjusts his arms to hold Draco tighter—tries not to think too much in the process—and heads to the stairs. Carefully lifts one leg to the first one, then the other. Levitates himself onto the level. Pauses to make sure it’s not too bumpy…then the next. And the next. His hands become slippery with sweat, his arms numb with the grip. Peaches and milk and blossoms suffuses the sweltering air in the tiny space between the stairs, suffuses his nose, and it’s all he can think of, burying his nose into Draco’s hair and inhale, filling his lungs with the scent until it brims his memories, until the rest of the world fades and this is the only thing left, Draco’s sweet shampoo and soft blond hair—

Draco nuzzles his nose against Harry’s collarbone.

Harry inhales sharply, face burning, and quickens his pace as much as he can without making it violently rocky. Yet Draco wouldn’t move, and the tip of his nose grazes Harry’s neck with every step of stairs, with every soft breath, every exhale like a deliberate accident…

Harry is sweating and out of breath when he finally reaches the second floor. Draco’s bedroom is at the end of the corridor. Harry pushes the door open with his back and mutters a spell to pull back the bed covers. Sets Draco down, and watches as Draco sinks into the soft mattress, buries his face into the pillow with a sigh.

Harry smiles. He pulls the covers back up and tucks Draco in. He doesn’t know much about Draco’s sleeping habits, but he has seen the covers kicked off in the middle of the night and bed sheets a tangled mess at Draco’s feet in the morning. He pauses, face inches away from Draco’s.

And he looks.

It’s not rare to see Draco’s face unguarded now—they have come a long way—but it’s not exactly often, either. Small, fleeting moments that Harry catches accidentally, like a fluttering butterfly—but now, now. Draco isn’t watching him. So he can look, as much as he longs to. Draco’s brows, smoothly stretched out. His eyelashes, a shade darker than his hair, think and long, fanned out. The freckles spread across the bridge of his nose like a constellation. His smooth cheeks, his sharp jaw, his lips, pink and soft.

Harry almost reaches out and traces his face. Draco’s eyelashes flutter, and Harry holds his breath. Draco shifts in the bed, and when he settles again, Harry lets out a sigh.

Draco blearily blinks his eyes open.

Harry freezes.

They stare at each other, Harry stiff like a stone and Draco muzzy. Finally Draco mutters, “Is this a dream?”

“Yeah,” Harry says rigidly. He pats Draco’s hair to be reliable. “Go back to sleep.”

Draco hums, wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and pulls Harry close. Harry yelps, and before he knows it he is pressed against Draco’s body. The duvets are much softer than his, and Draco smells like freshly-showered skin, warm and welcoming.

“Stay,” Draco mumbled.

Harry’s breath comes out of him in short puffs. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Draco.”

Draco hums again and does nothing.

Harry’s arms start to tremble from trying to hold himself up. His lips almost graze Draco’s cheek. “Draco,” he warns, though it comes out trembling, too.

“Mm, stay here.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“I mean it,” Draco mumbles. “I mean it.”

It hurts, hearing those words in Draco’s dreamy voice as if he actually means them. Hurts to decline Draco’s warm body pressed against his for the night and tomorrow morning, warm and tousled, the first thing he sees when he wakes up. Milky peaches and orange blossoms fill Harry’s head, his thoughts a jumbled mess.

“Draco,” Harry pleads.

Draco mumbles and lets Harry go. Harry straightens himself, takes a deep breath—and notices Draco shifting back so there is a tiny space at the edge of the bed.

Harry’s heart skips a beat. He watches uncertainly. He really shouldn’t, Draco isn’t exactly in his right mind—though they’re not doing anything, so he supposes…? Harry bites his lip. It is, um, a really tiny space though. Really tiny. He’ll probably get kicked off bed at three in the morning.

“Harry?” Draco half-opens his eyes and murmurs.

And he looks like he murmurs Harry’s name every morning, still half in his dreams, as if it’s instinctive for him to look for Harry, to want him—as if Draco wants him, even if he himself doesn’t know it just yet. Harry sucks in a breath and takes off his glasses and climbs into bed. Pulls the covers tight around him, his back to Draco and feet over the edge, heart beating violently.

Draco suddenly wraps his arm around Harry’s waist, and Harry freezes. Feels Draco’s chest pressed tight against his back, the warmth of his body radiating off underneath the covers. His breath ghosting at his nape, faint but steady. Almost like a tease.

Oh, fuck it, Harry thought, and covers Draco’s hand with his own. Draco’s slim fingers and bony hand under his, skin soft. Harry can’t help but caresses it with his thumb.

He spells the lights off and closes his eyes.

The first thing he sees is a pair of grey eyes.

Harry closes his eyes again. He is clearly dreaming.

“Morning,” a voice says, deep and familiar—and too close. Way too close. Last night’s memories flood back to Harry’s mind and he shoots his eyes open.

Draco’s face is half an inch close to his.

Harry, head still foggy, just looks at him. Draco’s grey eyes, every color clear in the morning light. Like silver. Like storms. Like…

“You didn’t brush your teeth,” Draco says.

Harry’s face burns.

Draco lets out a sigh that’s almost affectionate. “It’s not the first time anyway.”

“Hey,” Harry protests. “I do brush my teeth.”

“You think.” Draco stretches, and his hand hits the headboard with a dull thump. “I should kill you for going to bed with me without brushing your teeth.”

“Normal people would focus the other way around,” Harry mumbles.

Draco shrugs. His t-shirt hangs loosely around his shoulders, bare skin peeking out. “For a second I was mortified, but then I remembered.”

“You remember the whole thing?” Harry asks, scandalized. Horrified. “I thought you were asleep?”

“Well, the stairs were quite bumpy.” Draco smiles lopsidedly. “But I remember you tucking me into bed.”

The smile softens. Harry swallows.

“And anything else?”

“No,” Draco says, and closes his eyes. The smile lingers. “Oh, and I invited you to bed.”

Harry’s cheeks flame. “That does not sound right when you put it like that.”

“But aside from that, no.” Draco opens one eye to peek at Harry. “Did anything else happen?”

“Merlin, no!” Harry nearly jumps out of bed. “Who do you think I am? I didn’t take advantage of you!”

“But you’d want to?”

Harry swallows and thinks back to the stairs, the sweltering air, the milky peaches and flowers. Restraining himself from burying his nose into Draco’s hair. But surely that doesn’t count. Right?

Draco’s shampoo lingers in the air still, faint.

“No.” Harry swallows. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“But you’d want to go to bed with me.”

“Stop putting it like that!”

Draco sighs softly. “Harry, when are you going to stop lying to yourself?”

“Not to myself,” Harry mumbles.

Draco grins, brimming with affection. The covers rustle, and a second later Harry is tucked in Draco’s arms again. Heart pounding, Harry looks up. Draco holds his gaze, warm and serious.

“You’re a stubborn git, you know that?” Draco asks, and bends down and kisses Harry.

On the forehead.

“Hey!” Harry complains when he realizes that’s it. “What was that supposed to mean?”

“It means, ‘Harry James Potter, I’d like to take advantage of you,’” Draco says slowly. “And you?”

Harry takes in a breath. “I’d like to take advantage of you, too.”

Draco laughs. “Make up your mind, won’t you?”

Harry pushes himself up and kisses Draco. Draco hums and kisses back, lips soft. Their noses bump, but Harry cannot think of any of it; everything he’s ever wanted fills him to the brim as he opens his mouth, as Draco touches him, fingers gentle on his jaw. He chases Draco’s mouth when Draco pulls back, blinks his eyes open when Draco chuckles.

“Your breath is awful.”

“Shut up.”

Draco smiles faintly and touches Harry’s jaw again. His eyes soften. “It’s taken us quite some time, hasn’t it?”

“Quite some time,” Harry agrees in a murmur. He can’t look away from Draco’s eyes. From Draco’s face, soft and open, like it almost never had before. “I didn’t know—”

“Of course you didn’t know.” Draco caresses his cheek. “You’re so oblivious you never realize how fascinating you are.”

Harry smiles and drops his face into the pillow, close to Draco’s chest. The sheets are tangled between their legs, the mattress soft. The two of them, tangled together also. It feels so natural, as if they have been waking up to a morning like this for twenty years. It feels like they will, for the next twenty years.

“We should stay in bed the whole day,” Harry decides.

Draco chuckles. “Maybe you should go brush your teeth first.”

Harry growls. “Stop ruining the mood.”

“No, but seriously. At least use a spell—”

Harry smashes Draco with a pillow. Draco’s muffled laughter vibrates through, brighter than the morning sun, and Harry laughs, too, heart soaring high.

Draco laughs. He can’t help it anymore, the laughter bubbling up. Harry smashes him with pillows, one after another, their laughter loud and pillows and duvets everywhere.

Harry’s eyes, every time they look at Draco. Green so vibrant and full of life, full of joy. They melt him, along with that stupid grin of Harry’s, make him want to kiss Harry silly like he just did.

Harry jumps onto him and tackles him. Draco yelps, and before he can laugh some more Harry rolls them over and kisses him again. Draco smiles into it, fingers on the curly strands at Harry’s nape.

If he’d fallen asleep on Harry’s shoulder deliberately last night, no one needs to know.

#hp #drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy #my fic #happy birthday draco

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mimymomo · 5 years ago

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Chocolate Flavored Surprises

So, I was still super sick yesterday and while I was bedridden I decided to write this! Plus, I just really missed my Miko-mi (yes, that’s my nickname for him!). Enjoy this belated Christmas/but sike not really Christmas story!

Also, titles are so freaking hard to come up with!

...

It was a cold winter afternoon. Snow rapidly cascaded down from the gray clouds, covering every inch in a soft, powdery white. The wind shook the dead branches in the towering trees, long frozen icicles dangling tightly to their wood. The sky was light and so was the sky, the world glowed in bright white. The winter had anything but a breeze in the past month, yet also utterly beautiful and enticing all the same.

Miko watched the scenic view from his seat by the one window, wrapped snug in an old, knitted blanket. He blew on to the window, the puff of air fogging up the glass, and drew a crude stick figure family- a slender man, a smaller woman with stick hair and a tiny child in between them. Orpheus, Eurydice and himself.

“Miko?”

The boy turned his head to see Orpheus semi-stunned, standing in the doorframe. The front door was wide open and bags of groceries laid at his feet. As he pushed the door closed, Miko grinned and quickly broke free of his blanketed cocoon, and rushed over to Orpheus’ side. Orpheus swiftly scooped the boy into his arms and hugged him close, the small boy's arms wrapping perfectly around his neck.

“Hi, Papa!”

Orpheus smiled serenely, Miko may have been living with the two for months by this point, but the sound of Miko calling him “papa” never failed to send happy jitters all throughout his body. “Hello, you,” he poked his son’s soft stomach causing him to giggle and twitch. “Up and awake huh?”

Miko, face still glowing, nodded, “Mama’s still sleeping though.” That didn’t surprise Orpheus, his wife had to work a full day shifts, opening until closing, the past three days and was without a doubt exhausted. When Orpheus had left for his early morning shift, Eurydice hadn’t woken even a smidge. Not a blink, stir or even groan, she was dead asleep to the world around her. Miko had been fast asleep too when Orpheus had kissed him and his wife goodbye, but he shouldn’t have been surprised to see the boy had awoken in the few hours he’d been absent. “What’s in the bags, Papa?”

“Oh, right!” that’s when Orpheus had remembered his big plan. He wanted to do something special for Eurydice and Miko for a while now. The winter was never a season Eurydice truly enjoyed Orpheus wanted to do something to cheer her up and thought today would be the perfect afternoon to put that idea into action. Sure, Miko being awake wasn’t apart of the initial plan, but to Orpheus, having Miko join him would be even better. “Miko, would you like to help me with something?”

Miko’s eyes widened, and he began squirming with excitement in Orpheus’ arms, “Yes! Yes, I wanna help! Wait, help with what?”

The musician laughed, placing the curious child down on the floor, “it’s a surprise for Mama.”

“For Mama? Okay!” Miko cheered, flapping his arms and doing a little jig, his joy was absolutely infectious. Orpheus chuckled reaching down to grab one of the bags. But before he could lift the other, Miko had already snatched it up, heaving slightly at the weight, and hustled into the kitchen. Orpheus shook his head and followed his son’s hustle. “So Papa, what'd we making?” Miko questioned.

“First, cookies.”

“Cookies!” Miko yelled in childish glee.

Orpheus gently shushed the boy, placing a finger over his mouth, “shh, we don’t want to accidentally wake Eurydice up before her surprise is ready, right?”

“Oh, okay. Quiet, shh” Miko agreed, he copied Orpheus’ ministrations and put his finger up over his mouth as well. Much quieter than before, the two set out and began their baking prep work- pulling out bowls, spoons, and baking trays, laying out the ingredients on any available table and counter space and pre-heating the kitchens relic of an oven. They mixed butter and sugar by hand, Miko desperate to stir first before quickly growing tired and handing the large spoon over to Orpheus. Then came the addition of vanilla. Vanilla was quite expensive but to Orpheus, surprising his overworked wife was worth the splurge. Cracking open the bottle, an invisible cloud of sweetness immediately spread all throughout the already pleasant-smelling kitchen. After pouring a more than necessary amount of vanilla into the bowl, the two boys passed the bottle of dark brown liquid back and forth, taking large whiffs of the aromatic scent each time.

“Vanilla smells so good,” Miko said, passing the bottle to Orpheus.

“It does.”

“Does it taste good too?”

“I-” Orpheus paused, “I really don’t know.”

“Can I try some?” Miko asked.

“Why not?” Orpheus shrugged, passing the bottle back into the child's hands. In all honesty, he was genuinely curious about the taste as well. Miko dipped his finger the tiniest bit into the bottle then stuck his finger in his mouth. He instantly recoiled, face scrunching up in dismay. His teal eyes watery and dyed with utter betrayal, “ack, yucky!”

Orpheus winced, “really bad?”

“Bad. Bad, bad,” Miko exclaimed, his nose crinkled up and mouth in a disappointed pout. “Why vanilla? You smelled so good…” Orpheus patted the young boy on the back, passing him a plastic cup filled with milk to help mask the bitter taste. Miko gulped the drink down with exaggerated vigor, letting out a loud ‘ahhh’ when he pulled the cup back from his lips.

They soon get back to work. With careful precision, Orpheus measured out cups of flour and handed them over to Miko. Miko then, as of handling flour shifted from the gods themselves, would pour them into the bowl. A white puff of flour dust flew into the air as the stirred the mixture, getting all over the counter and themselves. A few minutes later, after adding a large pinch of salt, they wrapped the dough and placed it into the fridge. As they waited for the dough to chill, they started cleaning the kitchen. They wiped down the counters and washed the dirty, used up dishes, Orpheus scrubbed while Miko rinsed. An accidental spray of misdirected water led to an all-out war of soap and water between the two resulting in soaking wet clothes and an even dirtier kitchen. By the time they completed recleaning the kitchen, the dough had finished chilling.

The two rolled out the dough into a semi-thick width. “Now, we got to cut the cookies out into rectangles,” Orpheus said, pulling out a knife from the drawer.

“Ooh, Papa, can I do it?” Miko begged, jumping up and down.

“Don’t tell your Mama, okay?” Miko zipped his mouth shut, locked it and tossed the imaginary key over his shoulder. Orpheus carefully transferred the knife into Miko’s hand, showing him how to grip the sharp utensil safely. He then proceeded to guide Miko’s hand with his own, slicing the dough into about two dozen long rectangular shaped cookies. Once they were done cutting, they placed the unbaked cookies onto a baking sheet and dusted them with more sugar. Finally, the cookies went into the oven.

As the cookies baked, they got started on their next venture: hot chocolate. Orpheus had learned the recipe from Hermes, who used to make the treat for the boy every winter as a child.

First, was the whipped cream, which needed to be refrigerated. They poured heavy cream and sugar into a bowl and took turns briskly stirring until the liquid turned into a fluffy, sweet whipped cream.

Next, they boiled water in a pot and added cocoa powder, sugar and a touch of salt, mixing them together for a few short minutes over the heat. As Miko continued to stir, Orpheus poured in cup after cup of milk and some vanilla, turning off the burner and removing the pan from the dying heat. Orpheus grabbed three mugs from the cabinet with Miko’s input (“the red one is yours, Papa, the yellow flower one is Mama’s and the blue one is mine!”) and divided the hot cocoa evenly between them all. Miko plopped marshmallows into each cup, counting to make sure everyone got an equally copious amount.

“Miko.”

“Hmm?” the young boy glanced up from his task to see Orpheus facing him, mouth wide open. Miko smiled, understandably and began tossing marshmallows into the air in the direction of Orpheus’ mouth. It took a few attempts, but finally one managed to make it into the waiting musician's hungry mouth. “Yes,” Miko clapped.

Just as they were finishing up, the timer on the oven began to blare, meaning the cookies were ready. Declining Miko’s eager offer to help, Orpheus pulled the trays out of the oven and set them on the empty space on the stove, the shortbread a perfect, appetizing light brown color. A sugary scent of warm, buttery vanilla and velvety chocolate wafted throughout the house.

“I thought I smelled something good,” a voice called out from the opposite side of the room, causing Orpheus and Miko to jump. Eurydice stood in the entrance of the kitchen with her arms crossed, a tired, bemused smile plastered to her face. She wore one of Orpheus’ old T-shirts and a nightshirt that reached past her knees. Outlined creases from her pillow marked the sides of her face.

“Mama,” Miko ran straight to Eurydice, burying himself in her legs. He lifted his head and gave her the biggest smile, eyes twinkling with elation, “morning!”

Eurydice ran her fingers lovingly through Miko’s wavy curls and down the side of his face, cupping his cheek, “Good morning baby.”

Orpheus sauntered over to his lover, “Morning ‘Rydice.”

“Good morning to you too, lover boy,” Eurydice smirked. She stepped onto her tiptoes to press a short kiss to Orpheus’ lips, squishing Miko between them in the process. “Or should I say, good afternoon at this point? Gods, how long was I asleep? What time is it?”

“Four o’clock,” Miko answered innocently below her.

Eurydice sighed, “so I slept nearly all of my day off away…”

“You were tired,” Orpheus countered firmly, wiping away streaks of dried, crusty drool from the corners of his wife’s mouth with the pad of his thumb. With a feather-light touch, he lovingly pinched her cheek, “you needed your sleep.”

“Mama,” Miko said, lightly pulling on Eurydice’s old nightshirt. The child teetered up and down on the tips of his feet, bouncing as if he would burst in any second, “Mama, we made you a surprise!”

“You two did now?” Eurydice said, feigning a slightly bloated shocked tone. She glanced up and over at her husband, but Orpheus just smiled in response.

“Yep!” Miko grinned, pulling back from the warm embrace, “come see.” He towed Eurydice into the kitchen to show off their finished surprise. The cookies and hot cocoa were in their same spot on the stove and counter, steam still radiating off the burning hot treats. “Ta-dah!”

“Wow,” Eurydice gasped, truly stunned at the display in front of her. Sure, she had heard all of the commotion from her and Orpheus’ bedroom in her sleepy haze and smelled the saccharine air but she hadn’t known what was actually prepared, and that it was, in fact, for her. “You two made all this?”

“Mhmm,” Miko nodded, actually jumping by this point, “Papa said he wanted to surprise you. He let me help!”

Eurydice turned to Orpheus, the poet scooping generous amounts of white cream onto the warm chocolatey drinks, “this was your idea huh?”

“Maybe,” Orpheus grinned, passing the mug with the yellow cartoon sunflower over to Eurydice’s waiting hands. Next, was Miko’s “here’s yours, Miko, extra whipped cream. Be careful, it’s still really hot.”

“‘Kay, thank you,” Miko said, sparkling eyes glued at the mountain of whipped cream that was piled high on top and cascading down the sides of his mug. “Mama, can we sit by the window?”

“That sounds like a great idea,” Eurydice agreed, letting the hyper boy tug her in the direction of the wide-open window.

Orpheus stacked a numerous amount of cookies onto a plate. And with his mug, he joined his family in their makeshift living room, plopping down right in front of the window next to Eurydice, Miko comfortably sitting in her lap. A cute whipped cream mustache lined his upper lip.

And at that moment, there was peace. There were three bodies close together, two covered in stay traces of dusty flour and dried cream and faintly emitted of vanilla and chocolate, one still wiping sleep from her eyes. Eurydice sat still, breathing in the air, the feeling burning hot chocolate sliding down her throat. She watched as the snow gently fell outside the frosty window. Tomorrow, she would have to brave the chill and icy weather. Tomorrow, she would have to serve round after round drinks to the dizzying crowd at the bar. She thought about how just like the falling snow, the time they all shared together would slowly but surely melt away. But today, today she had her shortbread cookies, her yellow sunflower mug filled to the brim with simmering hot chocolate, and her boys. Her boys who were sweeter than any dessert could ever dream of tasting. Right now, that’s all she needed.

#hadestown #orphydice #orpheus x eurydice #miko centered #orphydice parents #im really proud of this one

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365daysofsasuhina · 5 years ago

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[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Two Hundred Forty-Four: Craving ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Uchiha Shisui ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: A Light Amongst Shadows ] [ AO3 Link ]

When Hinata wakes this morning...she wakes with a craving. It’s not often something hits her right off the bat upon waking up, but this time around, the idea seems to rise with her.

Today...she’s going to make cinnamon buns.

Admittedly...that’s not a very strange occurrence in her household. They are her favorite treat, and she is very fond of baking. More often than not, on her days off from work, Hinata can be found either tending to her garden, or bustling about in her kitchen. Plants and food are what make her happiest.

Well...besides her husband, of course.

He happens to have the same day off, still asleep when Hinata finds herself awake a bit before their typical day-off alarm. While the pair let themselves sleep in somewhat, neither are too keen on wasting the day away in bed on their mornings free from the police force.

...most mornings, anyway. Sometimes, they linger in bed a while after waking, but...not just to lounge about...

But this time, Sasuke is still asleep, mouth slightly ajar and breath light. In truth, Hinata always loves waking up before him. Seeing him sleep is one of the most peaceful things in her life now...and she treasures every glance she gets.

His senses are keen, however, and it’s never long before he wakes under her scrutiny. Dark eye opening, he gives her a quiet glance. “...morning.”

“Morning,” she greets, smiling.

“What’s got you awake so early?”

“I have a craving.”

...he perks a brow. “...for...what, exactly?”

“Cinnamon buns!”

He gives a soft snort, an arm lifting to rest over his brow. “I should have known.”

“Want to make some with me?”

Sasuke blinks. In truth, he’d hoped to do some sparring with Naruto this morning, but...well, that’s not his top priority. “...I suppose I could. Do we have everything we need?”

“I’ll have to check...I guess if not, we can just make a quick grocery trip. We can probably use a few other things regardless, ne?”

Nodding, Sasuke then rises with a grunt, the pair of them abandoning the bed and making to dress, both a bit groggy in the morning hours. As Hinata pokes about in their pantry, Sasuke makes a quick breakfast in the interim to save a bit of time.

“We’re low on eggs, and I’m out of cinnamon,” she later reports as she takes her seat across from him. “So I guess we’ll be going to the market after all.”

“That’s fine. If we need to, we need to.” Besides, part of him always enjoys doing little domestic things with her. He’s still...adjusting a bit, so having some kind of normalcy is comforting. And honestly enjoyable. Even just sitting in silence with his wife is more than he could ever ask for.

Once breakfast is done and cleaned up, they finalize a list, and head out. As usual, Konoha’s shops and stalls are bustling this time of day, and the pair have to navigate decent crowds to get what they need. But otherwise it’s just a typical jaunt through the market, and once the whole of their list is crossed off, they return back to the Uchiha district, bags in tow.

“There!” Hinata chirps, beaming. “That should tide us over for a while!”

“And get your buns made,” Sasuke agrees, managing a soft smile.

“Mhm!”

Sorting their spoils is easy enough, and then Hinata gets to gathering up what she needs for her recipe...which she’s made so many times, she has it completely memorized.

“So, what should I do?”

“Whatever you feel like doing! How about I list off the steps, and you do every other one…?”

“Sure.”

Together, they follow Hinata’s mental list, swapping steps and working together to get the dough going. Taking a little lunch break as the rolls rise, Hinata offers, “Almost done!”

“I think this baking thing is more fun than I gave it credit for.”

“Oh?”

Sasuke nods. “Cooking was always just...a necessity for me. Getting to do it for fun and something more...frivolous is actually pretty relaxing.”

That gets Hinata to smile softly. “That’s a good point...cooking is a skill that everyone should have, of course...but reaching a point where you can do it more for fun than simple necessity is nice. I started baking as a hobby when I was a genin. I’d bring things for my team, and it made me happy to give them something I’d m-made from scratch. It’s why I started making poultices, too. Having the extra time and skill to do something for others - or just for yourself - is so...refreshing.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, chin braced in a hand. “...there’s a lot of things I can appreciate better now. Sometimes my mind still slips back into a survival mode, but...things like this remind me I don’t have to do that anymore. I can just...be normal.”

“I’m glad.”

Once the dough rises, they pop the buns into the oven, the pair watching for a bit through the glass. “Well...time for more waiting!” Hinata laughs.

“I’ll clean up in the meantime.”

“I can do it! It was my idea.”

“So can I.”

Her cheeks puff in a pout as he starts gathering up the tools they used, stubbornly swiping the cloth to wipe up all the spare flour and bits of dough. Sasuke just snorts, knowing there’s little stopping his wife once she’s set her mind on something.

Once the timer goes off half an hour later, Hinata bustles back into the kitchen, donning oven mitts and carefully pulling the pan from the oven.

They’re a perfect golden brown, steaming and soft.

“Okay, time for icing!”

Sasuke mixes the sugar, milk, cream cheese, and butter, Hinata sprinkling in a bit of vanilla as his nose wrinkles. “Won’t this make them too sweet…?”

“They’re supposed to be sweet!”

“...can I leave one without?”

Giggling - Sasuke’s anti-sweet tooth is infamous - she nods. “Of course. You can do more than one if you want.”

“One will be enough. The leftovers we can share with the rest of the clan. You know Itachi won’t pass them up, or Shisui.”

“True - they’ll be all swiped before I can blink!”

Sasuke carefully spreads the frosting across the buns, leaving one in the corner without. Still warm, they make the icing ooze.

“Want them now, or...should we be patient?”

“Up to you - they were your idea,” he insists.

“Hm...well, if you want to fetch everyone else, we can do it now!”

Nodding, Sasuke relies instead on a hawk, remaining to guard his singular frostingless bun.

Shisui, of course, shows up first, giving rather enthusiastic thanks for the treat. Next is Itachi and family, his twins eagerly reaching for the treats from their short stature below the countertop.

Hinata gives them all their dishes, the impromptu get-together a pleasant one, as always. Everyone is all smiles, and she beams. Seems it was a good thing she woke up with this craving!

Quiet as always, Sasuke mostly watches and listens, silently eating his bun (and scowling as Shisui tries to snag some). “There’s more in the pan - leave me alone.”

“Such a sourpuss, little cuz. How come yours is naked?”

“I don’t like sweets.”

“I dunno about that…”

A brow perks.

“I mean, you married one of the sweetest people around. Surely there's a part of you that likes it,” the eldest Uchiha teases, skirting Sasuke’s jabbing elbow at the joke.

Hinata, having missed the exchange, gives her husband a confused glance as she catches the tail end.

“Just...Shisui being Shisui,” he sighs, seeing her lighten in understanding. She knows well how the brothers’ cousin behaves by now.

Still...Sasuke supposes he has at least some kind of point.

Once everyone has their fill (Shisui indulging in a second bun), the rest give their thanks before heading back home. A few buns remain, tucked away as Hinata takes a turn to tidy up. “Well that was fun!” she chirps, washing the dishes as Sasuke moves to dry.

“Always good to get the family together,” he agrees. “Even if it’s just for a bit.”

“True...we’re all pretty busy. Lining things up isn’t easy...I’m surprised such an impromptu get-together worked!”

“Guess that craving of yours knew what it was doing.”

That earns a laugh. “I think you’re right!”

By then, it’s mid afternoon, and the pair pause to consider what to do with the remainder of their day off. “I guess I should mend that shirt of yours,” Hinata muses.

“Still can’t believe that guy got close enough to cut it.”

“At least it was just the shirt, and not you.”

“True.”

As Hinata sits with needle and thread, Sasuke takes to reviewing case reports, sending a few inquiries out by hawk to check on their status while he’s been off today. All in all...the rest of the day passes in quiet productivity before they break for supper.

“Well, not the most exciting day, but a good one nonetheless,” Hinata muses, nibbling at her dinner.

“Quiet days are good days.”

“Mm.”

Hinata indulges in one last bun before bed, crawling in beside her husband later that night with a yawn. She’ll have to see what she wakes up wanting to do tomorrow…!

.oOo.

Yay for some fam jam fluff! Hinata can never resist a rising urge to make some sweets. And Sasuke lends a hand when he can, even if he's not the biggest fan of her sugary concoctions. It's still nice to do something...normal with his little wife. And it's even better when it brings the whole family around! Anyway, I'm GOING TO CATCH UP TODAY. Got some irl things to do, but I'll be back later in the day to do today's prompt. I promise xD But yes, on that note, I better run - thanks for reading!

#sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #uchiha shisui #a light amongst shadows [ canon verse ]#365daysofsasuhina

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elizabeth-234 · 5 years ago

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Five Times She Watched his Final Goodbye

Hi All! Here is chapter two. Hope you enjoy.

Previous Chapter One: Denial

Chapter Two: Anger

Morgan sat staring out the car window. The remnants of the rain held thick in the air outside and the grass was laden with droplets sliding down the stems at each blow of the wind. The droplets congregated together and created pockets of puddles in the lawn. She rolled down the window and smelled the grey and worms floating in the air. All in all, it encapsulated her mood perfectly.

“Are you ready, Morguna?” The voice broke her out of her thoughts and she looked over to see her mom’s hand on the door handle. With a tight nod they exited the car and loaded their arms with boxes. Morgan grabbed one full of clothes. She knew her stuffed mini Gerald was hidden at the bottom. The building rose tall before them and they, avoiding the puddles, watched as other people moved their own stuff in.

A tight knot that formed weeks ago in Morgan’s stomach twisted further. She watched as the people’s laughs echoed up the stairs and boxes of stuff were stacked in every corner of the lobby. Hordes of people stopped unloading and began forming groups inside the ring of boxes. They were already mingling and gossiping about each of the floors they lived on. Her mom nudged her shoulder and motioned to the people but Morgan shook her head.

After stopping for a breather in between stairways they made it the third floor and found her room. The beds were striped and besides a few boxes by one of the beds, the room was empty. She turned to the other bed and plopped her clothes down before sitting down on the bed. Her mom sat beside her.

“Are you sure you want to stay? You could go to a school closer to home or we could get a private tutor?” Her mom said winding her arms around Morgan. Morgan sighed and leaned against her shoulder.

“Mom, I want to come here. I’m just nervous.”

“Right, right. I know that. I’m just going miss you.”

Morgan turned into her mom’s arms and breathed in the scent of vanilla.

“I’ll miss you too, Mom. Always.”

They were sweating and sore by the time they were done moving all her stuff into the room. The two of them moved slow, taking breaks to explore and joke to make light of the situation. It was the first time she would be away from her mom. It would be the time for many firsts but she wasn’t looking forward to their goodbye. It would be nothing but bittersweet.

Pepper stared at her child, her little girl who was not so little anymore, and was reminded of who should have been there to help them move. Morgan’s eyes sparkled with a drive for knowledge and excitement as she showed her around the school. It was a spark that was missing until recently and Pepper was glad she was going to school. That she would be able to experience some normality in her youth.

Unbeknownst to her daughter she was afraid. Afraid that Morgan would hate it. Afraid she would be hurt and most of all Pepper was afraid of being alone. Logically, she knew she wouldn’t be alone, but the quiet house at night and milk going bad because she was the only one drinking it made her stomach clench.

Her daughter moved about the room, putting clothes away and organizing her desk, and Pepper marveled at how much she’d grown over the years. Her dark hair was recently cut short and the curls sprang up, earning to escape her head. Pepper forced a smile onto her face when Morgan looked over. This could be good for her. This was good for her.

Morgan turned around to find her mom staring at her and made herself smile back. She turned back around to fluff the clothes in the drawer so she wouldn’t have to face her again just yet. She ignored the trembling in her hands and pushed the one drawer shut louder than was needed moving onto the next one.

How could she think of leaving her mom? For almost her whole life they had been together. Her mom had always been there for her. In second grade, when she shaved part of her head all jagged, her mom did the same to her own hair. In sixth grade, she decided to perform in the talent show. It was a rendition of I Want to Hold Your Hand and she loved the song with all her heart. Unfortunately, the other students didn’t like it as much and let her know how ridiculous they all thought it was. Her mom was there, helping her practice and cheering her on the big day. Through first crushes and failed try-outs her mom was right alongside her to bolster her.

And now she was leaving. Going far enough away to school that Morgan couldn’t just pop home for the weekends. The knot twisted again. This was going to be fine. A lot of people went to university and all of them were okay. She wasn’t abandoning her mom. It was normal to want to go to school and she should not feel guilty.

Morgan folded the same shirt over again before looking down and seeing it was inside out. She stuffed it back into the drawer without looking and walked away. It would be fine.

The mattress dipped under her weight as she leaned her elbows on the headboard. Her roommate asked if she wanted to go down to the common room to meet other freshmen but she declined. The thought of being around people made her mouth dry. Her hands curled into fists and Morgan could feel her nails digging into the flesh of her palm. She should be out there meeting people. She wanted to meet the people in her building and make friends but something stopped her.

Her mom left bestowing a bushel of hugs and kisses to last her the night. Between them they shed enough tears to shower an alpaca, but it wasn’t enough. Morgan missed the smell of vanilla. Her arms felt oddly bereft of her mom’s. It was a Tuesday and Morgan knew if she were back home the two of them would be curled up on the couch binge watching Brooklyn-99 or their favorite movies.

Instead, she was staring at mostly filled boxes containing the things she would gladly give away to be back in her home. Morgan let the breath she was holding escape and un-wrung her fingers, moving them back and forth to get the blood moving.

Without forethought she jumped off her bed and paced back and forth. Morgan stopped, staring out the thick glass of the window. There were some crowds walking past. A group of people speaking Japanese walked by. Their words traveled up the walls and into Morgan’s room falling into her ears. She couldn’t understand what they were saying but a ghost of a smile crossed her face when they broke out laughing. The smile faded as the people walked behind a corner, leaving an empty courtyard.

Morgan swiped the carpet with her foot and ended up moving her backpack. She looked down and brought it over to where she was sitting before. The zipper gave way under the direction of her hands and she pulled out the red mask. She held the cheeks in her trembling hands and stared into the dark eye sockets. She wasn’t sure why she snuck into his office to take it, only that some part of her couldn’t leave the house without a piece of him. Morgan needed him to be there in some small way today and this was the best she could do.

Her eyes closed against the barrage of memories that threatened to break loose from their holdings. One swept out from under her concentration and the laughter and quiet footsteps of her memory engulfed her.

She saw her young reflection in the silver metal of the refrigerator. Morgan’s hand reached up to open the door. Her fingertips just grasping onto the handle when a larger hand rested on top. The other in the large pair played with the ends of her hair as it had when they tip-toed through the kitchen.

Her mom’s voice floated down from the office on a work call and the dinner already made was waiting on the stovetop. Morgan had been sitting at her small desk next to her dad’s but was bored. She practically finished all her homework and decided that what her dad was doing was more interesting. Settling into his lap she hugged his chest and buried her head into the crook of his arm. His arms came around her tight and secure like they always did. He sat there working and listening to a story she told him about Ms. Casey at pre-school.

It wasn’t until her stomach growled for attention that they got up, ready to hunt for a pre-dinner snack. They crept through the house, rolling on the carpet and hiding behind corners until they came upon the kitchen. The freezer opened sending a puff of cold air into their faces and her dad grabbed some popsicles – always cherry and strawberry for each – out from the top self. He passed the stick into her waiting hands and they went outside to sit on the porch. Alongside each other they sat looking into the forest.

Morgan loved their home in the woods. Sometimes she missed having neighbors, but she loved the quiet best. She looked over to her dad and watched as the tension in his shoulder’s disappeared. A small smile crossed his lips when he asked her to stick out her tongue. She laughed when he made funny faces with his stained tongue sticking out.

The door opened and the two turned around to face her mom, popsicle sticks safely behind their backs. They smiled innocently, Morgan forgetting the evidence was stained into their skin. Pepper tried to maintain a straight face but the looks on her husband and daughter’s faces were so similar and cute.

“You guys better be ready to eat all of the dinner.” She huffed good-naturedly, winking at Tony.

They both clambered up. Morgan fell over her feet and her dad picked her up. He threw her over his shoulder, all while assuring Pepper that there wouldn’t be any leftovers. She remembered kicking and laughing when her dad carried all through the house chasing her mom until they all collapsed on her parent’s bed.

That was a month before he was gone.

Morgan tossed the helmet onto the bed. She didn’t want to think about that time. The knot constricted in her chest a little tighter.

Her eyes closed but snapped open at the sound of a click. The wall glowed and her eyes traced the light back to the helmet laid innocently against her pillow. The once dark eyes glowed bright as she knew they once had in life. Her hands trembled as she picked it up to try and turn it off; to stop what was coming. It was something she’d only watched once and refused to ever see again. The helmet slipped out of her shaking hands and pricks assaulted her eyes. It rolled against the hardwood and stopped with a light thud against the dresser. The projector proceeded and her dad’s face appeared on the wall.

The image was crooked and Morgan would have to turn her head at a 90-degree angle to see it clearly. She didn’t. Her eyes slammed closed and Morgan tried to concentrate on the smooth fibers of her new sheets. Her mind screamed at her to turn it off. To run away, anywhere, but her body was frozen on the bed.

Then the voice she hadn’t heard in twelve years ghosted through the room.

“Everybody wants a happy ending, right?” Her eyes pinched closed tighter, making swirls of black dance across the inside of her eyelids. She didn’t want to hear this. She didn’t want to see this ghostly apparition.

His words filled the room heedless of Morgan’s pleas. She rubbed her hands on the bed sheet before covering her ears with them but it didn’t stop the soothing tone of his voice creeping through her fingers. A wave of despair threated to crash into her, to break her away from reality but she wouldn’t let it. Morgan had spent enough time haunted by the ghosts of her past and she wouldn’t let it consume her here in this new place. She stood up quickly, pushing the mattress against the wall with a thud. Her hands were in fists at her side and her legs shook, weakening in strength until she leaned against the desk. Her hands grasped the edges and she felt the grains in the wood against her fingertips. She looked behind her and saw the helmet against the door.

“A normal vision of the planet has been restored”

Morgan turned around and let her back hit the cold wall as she watched not the projection but the glowing eyes. Her own darted away and she saw the people walking by in the hallway. They were chatting amongst themselves unaware of what was happening. Unaware of how much was lost.

An itching feeling started in her feet and climbed up, infecting the rest of her limbs. Morgan carded her fingers through her hair until the strands were taught against her scalp.

All of the people walking, all of them in the building, and the world didn’t know. They couldn’t realize that something greater than themselves was gone. Her world was lost that day and nobody knew. It wasn’t fair that they were here and he wasn’t.

She stumbled and fell onto her knees. Tears caressed her cheeks as they made their way to the floor. Her dad should have been there to help. He could’ve carried the boxes easily up the three flights of stairs. He knew how to assemble her loft bed, but instead her mom and her labored over it for hours. It wasn’t fair. Her dad missed so much of her life that sometimes it felt like he had never been there in the first place.

“I love you 3000.”

A haze filtered through her eyes but through it she saw his brown eyes, the small quick of his lips, and a smile that knotted the rope so she felt it would never come undone.

He left her all alone.

“I hate you.” She whispered to the room. The projection stopped and the light dimmed, leaving only the shadows of furniture covering Morgan in the darkness. The hallway was quiet and Morgan fell to the side. Her hip dug into the wood but she didn’t move from that spot.

Morgan laid in the silence and wished that it was gone. Wished that his voice would fill the room once more.

Thank you!

Taglist: @verdonafrost @ourjourneysideways

Next: Chapter Three: Bargaining

#Morgan Stark fanfiction #morgan stark #avengers fic #MCU #post avengers endgame #eliza writes #my writing #Five Times Morgan Watched his Final Goodbye #Pepper potts #Tony Stark

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